Chocolate, Sex and Roses
By R2s Muse
Disclaimer: The Dragon Age setting and its characters belong to Bioware. I'm just borrowing! Set during DA:I, but few spoilers.
A/N: The final(?) sequel to Chocolate and Sex and Sex and Chocolate by Varric Tethras, this story picks up just after the previous installment. It's also my first post-DAI release story, so it was written a bit more in-game than the previous two stories, which were written purely as speculation.
Also, Happy Page 5000 BSN Cullen thread.
Special thanks to my beloved beta, MeanieWeenie, who was particularly helpful in getting back the voice of these characters!
"Are you certain this dinner is a good idea?"
Cullen sat slouched on a stool in the kitchen and rested his elbows on Cook's prep table, which was now strewn with pale lavender petals from the Fereldan wild rose he had just plucked apart.
Cook didn't even look at up him and continued her rapid chopping of the carrot she was preparing for the next day's stew. Her short cropped gray hair was as blunt as her manner, which she applied equally from the lowliest kitchen page to the Inquisition Commander.
Instead of answering his question, she said almost rhetorically, "Why do I waste space in my vegetable garden on those flowers if all you do is destroy them?"
He immediately dropped what remained of the flower and drummed his fingers on the table. "There is no reason for us to eat alone. Perhaps we should eat in the mess hall with the soldiers after all."
Cook slid the chopped carrots off her cutting board into the pot with a practiced flip of her knife, and started on another. "When the others are away, it makes more sense for you two to eat privately than to be drowned out by the rank and file." She finally spared him a quick glance. "Plus, you'll have the Inquisitor's undivided attention."
"I already receive her undivided attention," he insisted sullenly, before adding, "Sometimes."
Cook moved on to cutting the potatoes.
Cullen sighed. "What if we don't have anything to say to each other once we're alone?"
"Then don't speak."
His eyebrows raised in surprise. "Cook! I hope you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting. That's rather scandalous!"
"I am not the one suggesting scandalous thoughts," she said pointedly, shooting him another glance.
He grimaced and looked away, unable to deny it. Of course he had entertained some rather scandalous thoughts about the Inquisitor. More than once.
The notion of something more intimate, however, also filled him with a certain trepidation. She was his superior. They were at war. Besides the fact that it had been some time for him. What if he disappointed her? Or worse, what if he had misread their feeble flirting, and she wasn't interested at all?
"You'll do just fine," Cook said, as if she were reading his mind.
He had to force his fingers not to fidget with the flower stem again. "Do you think this new food experiment of yours is a good idea? Maybe this . . . fondue, or whatever it's called, should wait for a night when everyone is home?"
Cook ignored his question, so he continued grumpily, "I don't know where you got the notion from anyway. Who eats melted chocolate? It sounds very . . ." Exotic? Pretentious? Messy? He settled for, "Complicated."
"Complicated food leads to simplified talk. Every cook knows that."
He drummed his fingers again. "Are you certain this dinner is a good idea?"
She stopped her chopping and pointed her knife at him. "Get out of my kitchen and go get ready," she ordered.
He slowly got up from his stool. "There is no need to be rude," he said in pique. He adjusted his commander's gauntlets, and left to do as he was told.
ooXXoo
A faint mist of steam wafted out of the heavy ceramic bowl sitting in the exact center of the small table. On the side of the bowl, a lyrium blue rune pulsed dully, presumably Dagna's latest invention keeping the bowl's contents warm. Beside the bowl sat a tray with tidy rows of ripe strawberries. On another tray, a row of long, narrow silver forks with fanged tines gleamed enigmatically in the flickering candle light. At the edge of the table was a small glass vase with two lavender Fereldan wild roses, their pale green tendrils entwining them together like a close embrace.
The servants who had delivered the dessert quietly bowed themselves out of the room, and then Cullen and Trev were alone again, each staring uncertainly at the concoction.
The sturdy wooden table where they sat was suitable enough for the meals Cook delivered on busy nights when Cullen forgot to eat, but it was a bit intimate for two. Particularly when the second person was the Inquisitor herself, sitting directly across from him in full view of his usually furtive glances.
He cleared his throat and felt his nerves from the start of the dinner return.
They had both been rather jumpy when Trev had first arrived at his door, hovering on the threshold in a simple red gown that was as becoming as it was unexpected. They didn't normally dress for dinner in the main hall, so he was intrigued at her choice of curve hugging frock over her more usual trousers. A point in favor of dining privately.
Their conversation had limped through awkward pleasantries while the first course was served. It was easier when they shifted back to business, discussing his report on the Hinterlands, and then moving on to the new recruit trainings and some of the rumors out of Val Chevin. This got them through the second course.
It was when the fish entrée arrived that it started to get a bit more personal.
The servant from the kitchen had laid out a large platter bearing a series of small, silver fish Cullen had never seen before. He puzzled at the food, but Trev exclaimed happily, "Oh, skippers!"
Seeing his furrowed brow, she laughed lightly. "They're a local favorite in Ostwick. You don't have skippers in Ferelden?"
Cullen shook his head. "I must confess, I don't know much about fish, despite spending most of my life living in a Circle surrounded by water."
"They're sort of like herring. You smoke them and then eat them whole."
Cullen looked askance at the small fish. "Bones and all?" he asked uncertainly. "That sounds . . . unwise."
She giggled, sounding unexpectedly young and carefree. "Don't worry, you don't really notice the bones because they're so small. Look." Instead of using utensils, she grabbed one in her bare hands and started to demonstrate. "You twist off the head. Twist of the tail. Eat the rest." She popped it in her mouth and her eyes actually rolled in bliss. It was barbaric and yet watching her enjoy this simple pleasure was mesmerizing.
"Perfect!" she said. "Ah, it's been too long. How did Cook know?"
Cullen smirked slightly in amusement, starting to see a bit more method to Cook's madness. "She seems to be full of surprises today." He turned back the fish. "And . . . you use your hands?"
"It's the easiest way."
He frowned down at the fish, wondering how rude he would appear to skip it entirely. But, he found he didn't want to disappoint Trev as she smiled at him expectantly.
He sighed and stripped off his gloves, removing his gauntlets also for good measure and setting them aside on his desk. He lifted up one of the fish by the tip of the tail, peering at it skeptically and turning it to and fro.
"You have to hold it more firmly, Cullen, to take off the head and tail." Trev demonstrated a twisting motion in the air with her hands.
He grasped the fish in two hands, but it was slightly oily and kept sliding out of his fingers on one side or the other.
She giggled again and hopped to her feet, coming around the table to his side. "Here."
She leaned over his shoulder, brushing against him with her hip, and put her hands around his. Her small fingers expertly held his tightly around the slippery thing. She was focused on their hands, but he couldn't take his eyes off her mobile face, just a few inches away. The faint splash of freckles under her tan. The tiny lines at the corner of her lips from too much smiling. The wayward curl at her cheek that had escaped the careful upsweep of her hair. She was close enough that he caught the scent of whatever flowery concoction she'd used on it. Elderflowers?
She gave the fish a couple of brutal twists within his hands, and he felt the bones in the fish crunch distastefully.
She really expects me to eat this?
"There you go." She glanced at him with a smile and caught him watching her. She immediately let go of his hands and jumped back, grinning nervously. He chuckled softly and she flushed at the sound, slinking back to her seat.
"So, now I'm supposed to eat it?"
"Yes," she replied, resuming her playful tone. "It's really quite good. Try it." Completely unaware of the effect it might have on him, she sucked on the tip of one of her oily fingers and for a moment he couldn't breathe as a rush of heat settled in his stomach. She released the tantalizing digit and urged, "Go on. All at once." She switched to the next finger, her eyes dancing, and suddenly he wondered if she was aware after all.
He grimaced and shoved the fish into his mouth in one go. He chewed it only briefly, not enjoying the crunch of the soft bones, and swallowed quickly. Overall, not bad, smoky, fishy, but it was never going to be a favorite.
She studied him for his reaction. "So?"
"It was nice."
"Nice?"
"Good," he offered instead.
"It is probably a bit of an acquired taste," she conceded, nodding sagely and grabbing another.
"They can't always eaten with the hands. But, I am at a loss as to which fork one would use."
"Oh, even in Ostwick you would never serve these at the Keep. But you'd find them everywhere around the docks. They're quick food for sailors shipping in or out." She chuckled evilly while her nimble fingers worked at the fish. "I can just hear my mother now." She adopted a higher pitched, supercilious tone. "Trev, you will not eat that pauper's food while you are out today. You will eat at the banquet like the other noble ladies."
He tilted his head to side. "She calls you Trev?"
"Oh, yes. Everyone does. When you're the youngest of a large clan like mine, there's not much use for you in official affairs. By the time my mother realized that the city guard had all but adopted me, it was too late. The whole city knew me as Young Trev." She grinned. "Now that I'm not so young, it's just Trev."
"But, even your mother called you that? You're all Trevelyans."
She paused and her mouth worked for a moment without answering, making him regret the awkward question. Finally she shrugged. "I suppose it's just part of being in a big family. Before all this," she said, motioning vaguely toward the Inquisition banner hanging on the wall, "I was a nobody. As the least important part of the Trevelyan dynasty, I guess the most important thing I could do is bear the name."
She popped the skipper in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
"That's far from the case now," he offered.
"True. Now I'm just Inquisitor." She smiled in a quick tightening of the lips. "So, aren't you from a big family as well?"
"By some standards, perhaps. I was one of four siblings, as I think I told you." All with names, not functions. Aloud, he said, "There's nothing special about being a Rutherford, however."
"Oh, I don't know about that . . ." she said, darting him a provocative look from under her lashes.
He gave her a slow smile, which she returned bashfully.
Yes, things definitely had been looking up until the dreaded chocolate had arrived.
They both continued to stare at the bowl, no longer speaking or smiling. Trev shifted in her chair and darted a glance at him. He gave her a crooked smile, finding it curious that they were both equally nervous about something as innocuous as food. He chuckled softly at their joint foolishness, but when he caught her eye to share the joke, she was flushed and tense, making him wonder what he'd done wrong.
He cleared his throat. "I suppose we should begin?"
She took a deep breath and shakily let it out. "Yes. Of course. It's only dessert."
"Have you h-had fondue before?" he asked, inwardly cringing at the stutter.
She shook her head. "No. You?" she said in a slightly breathless voice. Her color was definitely heightened now, making her bright eyes stand out alluringly.
He licked his lower lip nervously and could feel her gaze follow the movement. He swallowed and took one of the silver forks.
No time like the present to look the fool in front of a pretty girl.
He skewered one of the strawberries and leaned in to dip it in the chocolate, but the blasted thing immediately slid off the fork and sank into the chocolate. He took one slow breath in and out before stabbing another more firmly. He leaned further over the bowl and as soon as he pointed fork downwards the strawberry fell off again. With a soft plop, it too sank to the bottom of the bowl.
He blinked several times before risking a glance at Trev.
She sat very still, like she was uncertain how to react. At least she wasn't laughing.
He gritted his teeth and decided to fish for one of the strawberries that had fallen in. After a dozen failed attempts, he stabbed one and scooped it out. Molten chocolate poured off the lump at the end of the skewer and even trickled down the handle onto his hand. He slowly maneuvered it closer but a second later it slipped off and back into the chocolate.
"Blast," he muttered inadvertently under his breath.
He shot another glance at Trev and now her lips were pressed into a thin line. He bit back an annoyed growl at the back of his throat and forked yet another strawberry from the tray, skimming it swiftly over the surface of the chocolate and toward his mouth.
A trail of chocolate followed it across the lip of the bowl and over the tabletop. He brought it up and tried to take a polite bite, tilting his head awkwardly to the side, but instead it spilled off the fork, splashed chocolate across his face and bounced a messy, sodden path across the table and down onto the floor.
He glared in disbelief for a beat. "Maker take these things!" he cried, casting the drippy chocolate-covered fork down onto the table before him.
Unable to hold back any longer, Trev broke into a hearty peal of laughter. She tried to muffle the sound with her hand, but she was laughing so hard that she was gasping for air and holding her other hand to her midriff as if she could contain herself.
He wiped the pad of his thumb across his lips and regarded the chocolate that came away with chagrin. A glance at Trev's loss of composure and he gave in as well, grudgingly laughing and sucking the chocolate from his thumb. "It's actually not bad," he deadpanned.
This caused a renewed round of breathless laughter from her and she hid her face against the tabletop, her shoulders shaking and still holding her stomach. "Oh. Oh, Cullen," she gasped, sitting up and wiping tears from her eyes. "At least . . . at least, it's not mahogany." She laughed again and beamed at him.
"Mahogany?" he asked with a puzzled smile. He waited for her to explain the joke, but the laughter slowly fell from her face.
"Um."
"Mahogany . . . like the War Table?"
She paled. "N-no. No. That's not what I meant." She swallowed hard. "Unless . . . that's what you meant."
Now he was intrigued. "I don't think I follow."
"It's nothing. Nevermind. I . . . I was just imagining the dressing down we'd get from Josephine if we treated all our furniture this way." She visibly winced at her words and flushed.
"Trev, what are you talking about?"
Her shoulders drooped in resignation. "You haven't read it," she said in a toneless voice, closing her eyes briefly at the realization. "Of course you haven't read it. Why would you?" She pressed a hand to her flaming cheek.
"Read what?" he demanded.
"It's nothing. Really. Varric has . . . well, one of his recent stories featured, um, chocolate fondue." Her eyes shifted away guiltily. "And the War Table. I thought, for some reason, you knew. I can only assume Cook must have read it as well." He didn't think her cheeks could get any redder, but he was wrong.
"What was it about, exactly?"
"I . . . I can't say," she said in a strangled voice. "In fact, I can't even look at you right now." And truly, she squirmed in her chair like she was trying to sink into it, her eyes darting anywhere but at him.
"Well, I don't know what would move Varric to write a story about our dinner, except perhaps to embarrass us both in exactly this way tonight. I'd rather not let him." He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way, and wet his lower lip, which still tasted of chocolate. The fondue was undeniably ridiculous, but also delicious. "Perhaps, after all the fuss, we should still try it?"
Her eyes suddenly widened and dilated, while her lips parted in a soft exhalation of air that almost sounded like a moan.
Finally, woefully late, it occurred to Cullen exactly what type of story this must have been. A story involving molten chocolate, the War Table, and Varric's purple prose. A story that had flustered her all evening, wondering if he had read it.
And he had just suggested trying it anyway.
"Maker's breath! I didn't mean . . . That is, I meant trying the chocolate, which must have some redeeming quality. But not . . . not that we . . . Maker's breath." He stopped, knowing he was just making it worse.
She hid her face against the table and didn't look at him again.
A charged silence fell over the room. He sat there, dumbfounded, and cast about for something to say that would relieve the tension. It didn't help that his imagination started filling in the gaps she hadn't shared about the story. In spite of himself, he was curious.
After a few very long minutes, he got to his feet and came around the table to her side. She looked up him like she was bracing herself for something unpleasant. He settled on the edge of the table in front of her.
He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "Let us begin again. How do you do? I am Cullen Rutherford." He held out his hand to her, palm up.
After an uncertain pause, she responded gamely, "Agnes Trevelyan." She tentatively placed her hand in his.
"Agnes," he repeated softly, tasting the name. He pressed a chaste kiss to her knuckles and released her hand.
She blushed faintly, giving him a shy but pleased smile. "I like the way it sounds when you say it."
"Agnes? Then I shall endeavor to say it more often." Turning, he took the roses from their vase and held them out to her as a peace offering. "I am very pleased to meet you, Agnes."
"Thank you, kind ser." She held them coquettishly to her nose. "They're lovely. What are they?"
"Fereldan wild roses."
"Do they grow around here?"
"They, um, grow in Cook's vegetable garden," he said, regarding her steadily.
"I see," she said, biting her lip. "Such a romantic, our Cook."
The corner of his mouth curled up smugly. "Indeed."
She pursed her lips like she was planning what to say next and then rose smoothly from her chair. He hadn't realized how close to her he had come until suddenly their eyes were on a level. And she was well within his personal space.
"You know," she started, "maybe we should give the chocolate a try after all." She set the flowers down on the table and then slowly reached out to him, pausing halfway in hesitation. Her fingertips slipped across his cheek while the pad of her thumb rubbed rhythmically back and forth across his chin. He could feel the dried chocolate crumbling off.
He stayed very still under her ministrations, vaguely wondering that he wasn't embarrassed to have her tidying him up. Her thumb ran in hypnotic circles around his goatee and down along his jawline, leaving behind a trail of body heat he could still feel. She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she concentrated on her task.
Her eyes flicked to his and she added, "I think it's just easier to use our hands."
His mouth suddenly went dry.
She leaned past him, teasing him with the scent of elderflower again, to grab a strawberry from the tray. She took it firmly by the stem and dipped it into the still steaming chocolate. She held it up between them for a second before taking the whole thing in her teeth in one bite and dropping the remaining stem on her plate. She swallowed and smirked at him. "Something I picked up from Varric's story." She then stuck the tip of her thumb in her mouth to remove the chocolate and her eyes danced as if daring him to watch this time.
He cocked an eyebrow at her. Not to be outdone, he turned and mimicked her, dipping another strawberry by the stem. He also held it up between them, a wicked smile playing on his lips, and then daringly offered it to her.
Her breast rose and fell as her breathing sped up, but she never broke eye contact as she leaned forward and very delicately bit into the strawberry, her lips brushing his fingers where he held the stem. She straightened and the tip of her tongue darted out to catch the last bit of chocolate.
That was his undoing.
"To the Void with the chocolate," he murmured, taking her face in his hands and pulling her into a ravenous kiss. She tasted of a heady combination of strawberries and chocolate, overlaid with the elderflower fragrance from her hair. A visceral imprint that would forever be uniquely Agnes Trevelyan.
She met him eagerly, leaning into him, and curling her hands around his forearms as he held her. They moved together, tasting, testing, teeth clicking but smiling.
"Agnes," he whispered against her lips, and she made a wordless sound of delight. His mouth slanted over hers again, and then moved along her jaw to nuzzle against the curve of her throat.
She sighed longingly, her eyes fluttering shut, and edged closer, stepping between his knees where he still sat on the edge of the little table. She leaned into him, pressing her hip invitingly against his inner thigh. Then, without warning, the table lurched underneath them, skidding backwards from their combined weight.
Her eyes flew open as the table gave way, and then she was losing her balance and falling into him. He steadied her with an arm around her waist while pushing awkwardly off from table and stumbling to regain his footing.
They grinned at each other in short-lived relief, as simultaneously there was a loud crash behind him, followed by the dull sizzling sound of magic gone awry. The contents of the fondue bowl splashed against their feet.
The heavy ceramic bowl had cracked in half upon hitting the floor, breaking along a jagged line that intersected the blue rune. Blue sparks arced and snapped across the divide and a faint column of blue smoke rose toward the ceiling.
They both stared in dawning horror at the mess. Chocolate was everywhere.
"I thought the table would be sturdier than that," she said in a dull voice. "Dagna is going to kill us."
"No, she won't have the chance," he said grimly. "Cook will kill us first." He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to imagine exactly how he would explain the supreme mess he'd made of the evening.
Trev pressed a hand to her mouth, and after a moment, a muffled snicker escaped. Once she turned her dancing eyes on him, he was lost as well, and then they were both laughing again.
He shook his head ruefully. "I'm sorry dinner has turned into such a disaster, Agnes. Perhaps we should have just dined in the mess hall after all."
"I don't think I'd call it a disaster, exactly."
"I am certain you will once Josephine and the others hear of it." He ran a hand over his face. "Especially if they've all read this thrice-cursed story of Varric's." He sighed, adding lamely, "And it has ruined your lovely dress." He motioned toward her hem, which was now drenched in chocolate splatters, just as his boots were.
She shrugged one shoulder. "I bet it's easier to get out than blood." She gave him a measuring look and clasped her hands behind her back in a pose that would have seemed prim if not for the way it showed off her figure to great advantage. She sidled closer and turned her face up to his, hovering mere inches away. "As long as we're here, and the damage is already done . . ." she said suggestively, widening her eyes and batting her eyelashes in faux innocence.
He smirked with the corner of his mouth and decided she was right. Abruptly, he swiped the rest of their dinner from the table with his forearm, dumping the offending silver forks onto the floor along with the chocolate and strawberries. He then grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her easily onto the table. She gasped in gleeful surprise.
He drew close, moving into the hollow where her dress gathered between her splayed knees. He tilted her chin up. "Now, where were we?"
"Re-enacting Varric's story, it seems," she said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
A slow chuckle rumbled from his chest and she shivered. "Are we now?" he asked teasingly. "So putting our hands to good use again?" He stroked her cheek with one thumb.
"I . . . I never did read the ending." She sounded breathless again.
He quickly pulled her hard up against his chest and her breath hitched. "We will just write our own," he said, his voice rough with desire.
He gave her a fierce, open-mouthed kiss to which she responded in kind, eagerly leaning up to meet him and threading her fingers in his hair. He held her close, his inquisitive hands playing over the intricate lacings on her dress, tracing across the soft skin of her back, tangling in her carefully upswept hair until it loosened to fall down around her face.
He wrapped his arms around her slim frame and let his mouth roam lower, nibbling down her neck to the hollow of her throat. She threw her head back with a deep sigh, leaning back against the strength of his arms and arching into his kisses with a soft moan.
With one hand, he tugged at the complicated lacing on her bodice and the dress slid down her shoulders, freeing an expanse of soft skin much paler than that on her sun-kissed face. He trailed his fingers down her neck and followed the smooth curve of her shoulder, following with his mouth. He nudged the dress down further and growled his appreciation against her bare skin that there was no breastband to contend with.
She writhed under his touch, finally rearing back up to kiss him fiercely and hitching up one knee against him. He slipped a hand under her hem, running his hand up her calf to caress the outside of her thigh. Belatedly, he remembered the chocolate on her dress.
He swept her up in arms and abruptly lifted her off the table. She squeaked in surprise as he set her upon her feet before him. "What—?"
"Trust me," he whispered in her ear.
Within a few moments, the chocolate-splashed dress was crumpled in a pool at her feet and every inch of her was available to his questing hands and mouth.
She was lost in his kisses, leaning into him, eyes fluttered shut, but she made a sound of dismay when she noticed that he was still clothed. She began fumbling distractedly at the complicated buckles on his breastplate, but he stilled her hands with his own.
She pulled back with a questioning look.
He smiled mischievously. "Allow me, my lady."
Holding her gaze, he stepped back and started to shuck his armor and clothes as quickly as he could. She watched him with hot eyes and an appreciative smile that set him on fire and spurred him faster. As soon as the last stitch had hit the ground, he crashed against her, kissing her while he swept her back up on to the edge of the table again.
His tongue tangled with hers as his hands learned her every curve, memorizing the touch of her skin against his. Her hands scrabbled for purchase on his bare chest, his shoulders, his back, searing his skin with the desperation in her touch.
With nothing now separating them, they each strove for a closer connection. She locked her hands behind his neck and wrapped her legs around him. He curled his hand under one of her knees and pulled her even closer, feeling her heat radiate against him.
He looked deeply into her eyes as they came together for the very first time. Eyes widening, stuttered breath mingling, they slowly found their way, adjusting, fitting perfectly. They held still for an exquisite, trembling moment before they started to move again, gradually increasing their pace.
The damnable table slid a few inches beneath them, but he held her securely in his arms. Together, they leaned back until she lay flat upon the table, her knees locked around him as he covered her, not breaking their stride.
She spoke his name, in a litany over and over, almost like a prayer. His own breathing became ragged as they raced to the finish.
"Agnes," he called out in an urgent voice, and then they were shattering into each other, crying out in wordless exaltation.
He curled himself around her, resting some of his weight on the table, while his heart rate returned to normal. Her eyes were closed, her face serene. He traced a fingertip along her bottom lip and it curved up into a smile.
She opened her eyes and sighed contentedly. "See. Hardly a disaster," she murmured, sounding sated.
He chuckled and brushed her damp hair away from her eyes. "It was a good ending . . . um, right? It was good?" he said, suddenly anxious.
She smiled fondly. "Nice."
"Nice?"
She leaned up and kissed him softly. "A perfect ending. Or rather, a perfect start." She gazed up at him, a promise in her eyes.
He grinned and touched his forehead to hers. "And so our story begins."
ooXXoo
It wasn't until noon the next day that Cullen was brave enough to stop into the kitchen. He paused on the threshold and two kitchen pages snickered softly behind their hands until Cook shooed them away. She said nothing as he sat down heavily on his usual stool beside her prep table.
He waited, letting her choose where to begin her admonishments. She was rolling out dough for what seemed like an eternity before she spoke up.
"Quite the job the cleaning staff had this morning."
"Ahem, yes, well, I do regret that I created more work for them." Again he waited, trying not to fidget, while she threw the flattened dough over the top of the apples in her pie shell and started methodically pinching the edges.
"I do hope it was worth it," she said, mimicking him but with an implied question.
"I would like to think so." A blush warmed his cheeks.
Cook grunted in response. "Well, since the Inquisitor didn't leave your tower until this morning, it seems you got her undivided attention after all." She began cutting vents in the top of her pie crust.
"Cook!" he said in a scandalized voice, breaking into a fit of coughing.
"Good," Cook said, frowning. "That woman has turned Skyhold inside out with her chocolate analogies about you. My kitchen can now steer clear of any more Orlesian delicacies." She sniffed in disdain.
"Ch-chocolate analogies?" He blinked.
Cook snorted. "Ask her. I don't think your voice sounds like melted chocolate."
"S-she said that?" A foolish smile spread across his face.
"There will be no more chocolate. Just so we're clear. Everyone's asking for it now," she grumbled.
"Understood." He got to his feet, but paused. Trying to sound casual, he asked, "Will there be, um, apple pie then tonight?"
She pointed her knife at him. "Out of my kitchen."
Fin
A/N2: Thanks for sticking with this series, gentle reader! :) It was harder than I expected coming back to this story, which I started before the game came out. The fact that game!Cullen seems to call the Inquisitor by her first name, noted by his sister Mia in their letters, made me scramble a bit, when *my* Cullen has been calling her Trev. So that's where part of this story came from. The rest... weeeellll, you don't set up a story arc about sex and chocolate and not close the deal. Plus it was fun imagining that tables, well, just became their thing. :) I hope you enjoyed it.