[closed][backdated to early, early morning]
[ she has been tossing and turning for at least an hour before she admits defeat, and stares at the ceiling in the darkened room. part of her thinks she should be past this by now -- though an equally emphatic part of her (that sounds a lot like Carver) berates her for thinking she could ever be over Quentin's nightmare.
tonight's dream seemed no different from other nights, but maybe it was the girl, yesterday, talking about her family, that makes Hawke feel like she can't lie still. pushing the covers to the floor, she paces the bedroom, raking her hands through her hair and chewing on her bottom lip. Flemeth croons from her perch, and Hawke steps over to pet the little dragon's scaly head.
that's what she needs. someone else to talk to. she pulls on a camisole and a pair of trousers over her smallclothes, and blows a kiss to Flemeth before stepping out of the apartment. the floor is cold beneath her bare feet, but she doesn't have far to go.
she raps her knuckles on Fenris' door, aware of the time, but distinctly uncaring. ]