Hawke's heart relaxes just a fraction as the fury in Fenris' big green eyes is tempered, and he lowers his weapon slowly as the elf falls back. He looks lost, confused, and Hawke just wants to pull him into his arms, aches for it, and you can't blame him really-- it's been several weeks since they'd seen one another, after all, and they'd all been a nightmare.

But first things first. Hawke lets his axe fall to the ground and raises both of his hands, slowly stepping forward.

"You murmur in your sleep," he says softly, in a tone of voice he knows won't startle the skittish elf further. "Little sounds, mostly, but when your breath gets fast I usually put a hand on your back--gently, right where your heart beats-- until it slows again. It's a little trick I learned. Genius, if I do say so myself."

Just a step more, a little closer, like approaching a frightened animal. "The old woolen quilt I used to keep in my chamber made you sneeze, so you made me give it to the dog to sleep on-- it'll keep him from taking up so much space on the bed, you said, and he whined about it for weeks. I still often find you two cuddled up in front of the fire after a long, day, though. Makes me jealous."

A little closer. "You've got a ticklish spot right underneath your ear. You hate most Fereldan food, except for the baked apple recipe I got from mother. You told me it tasted like something you'd forgotten."