Cassandra stood in the western door of her husband's office, watching him with a faint smile. Cullen's focus was so complete that he hadn't even noticed her arrival, and she was content to simply study him for a time.

Every time they were apart she came back surprised at how changed he was, and how much she'd forgotten. The way his knee bounced when he was thinking, the outlet of lingering battlefield energy that lived inside him. The way he drew his upper lip into his mouth when he thought he was alone, tasting his scar the way she loved to. The deep breath that meant he was irritated, and the release of air that meant he was pushing the irritation away.

All of them were present now. His face was creased into the determined scowl he usually reserved for complicated diplomatic missives, but his hand held a delicate brush instead of a sheaf of papers. The other held a wooden shape, a star that slowly twinkled into new colors as he ran the paint-soaked bristles over its surface. She waited until he seemed to have reached a stopping point before she knocked lightly on the door frame.

His heard jerked up in annoyance until his eyes fell on her. The blend of relief, concern and excitement on his face was enough to soothe many of her own irritations away "You're back," he said with a broad smile. He stood and set his work aside, crossing the room and folding her inside of the circle of his arms. "Oh sweetheart, I've missed you."

Cassandra sighed and settled herself against him. She would never admit it to anyone, particularly Varric with his knowing smiles, but there was something satisfying about his broad shoulders and hard chest that made her feel very feminine. Something safe. And it was only more comforting after a journey that had been harder than it needed to be.

After a minute, Cullen leaned back. "That was your cue to tell me you missed me, too," he said in a teasing voice, underscored as always with that hint of doubt. Sera said she was daft to want a man so convinced she was a half-step from leaving him, while Leliana said it only showed good sense to never let a lover be too sure of his position. Neither of them understood the cords that bound Cullen to her. And her to him. He doubted so she could soothe, and she shivered so he could protect. Their rituals were how they came home.

And even though she was more interested in starting a new kind of ritual, this one was as natural as breathing. She ran a finger down his indifferently shaved jaw. "Of course I did," she said softly. "Why else would I come back early?"

"I assumed you were merely efficient," he said with a smile as he reached up to clasp her hand. "You usually are."

She shook her head. "No. We didn't make it to the last destination. Josephine will send an envoy this afternoon to address my failure."

Another touch of worry on his face, this time for her, and his eyes dipped down her body. She hastened to reassure him as she touched her lightly clothed stomach. "Nothing with the baby. Or the mission itself. I was merely unable to travel any longer," she said.

His face didn't clear, but he did reach his own hand down to brush over the slight swell there. Cassandra smiled against her will. She wondered if he knew that he always waited for her to touch the growing life first, as if he needed permission to intrude. Of all the things he could make her body do for him, and the role he'd taken in creating what she carried, he was still unceasingly deferential to her. He barely passed the butter at breakfast without asking permission first.

Her smile turned to a frown as her stomach twisted lightly. She didn't need to be thinking about breakfast. Or about what he did to her body. Not when he hadn't even kissed her yet.

Cullen was staring at her intently. "What happened?"

"Just illness," she said. "The healer said it was normal, but it made the mornings on the road uncomfortable." To put it mildly. Guards were excellent at guarding, less so at dealing with a nauseated and angry mission commander. One of them had finally been brave enough to risk her wrath with the suggestion of returning early, and his relief at Cassandra's agreement was almost comical.

Almost. If only he'd known that his leader had only submitted because of the desperate heat that was tearing her nights to pieces before the mornings of sickness erased them. Between her stomach and her libido, most of her body was wrestling control away from her in very interfering ways.

"You should rest, then," he said immediately, and she cursed her lack of tactics. It was hardly surprising. When she showed weakness, he always lost any sexual interest in her and became the protector he was in his soul. It was even more pronounced now that she was pregnant.

Usually she enjoyed it, the roaring lion of his fierce love, but she'd been hoping for a more enthusiastic welcome this time. One that had invaded her dreams more frequently the closer she was to returning to him.

Thank the Maker she couldn't become possessed. Desire demons would have made short work of her roiling mind.

While she tried to tamp down her disappointment, Cullen worked his way around the room. He locked two doors, then leaned out of the third to the guard that stood there. "The Lady Cassandra is feeling ill. We will be unavailable for the rest of the day," he said. "Please inform the ambassador."

He didn't wait for a response before closing the door and locking it as well. He spun back around and advanced on her. "Are you well enough to go up the ladder or will you sleep here on the couch?" When she didn't answer, he touched her cheek softly. "Sweetheart?"

"You don't have to stay with me," she said, looking away. Having him in the room not wanting her would be torturous.

"Of course I'm staying," he said. He took her in his arms again. "I won't leave you alone."

He smelled so familiar, that mix of metal and cream that was only him, and she tried to burrow closer. He held her more tightly in response, and when she tilted her head towards him he planted a soft kiss on her mouth. When he pulled back she chased him, parting her lips and gently brushing against his own, trying to bring out the same need she felt. His fingers curled against her back as he breathed out and flicked his tongue tentatively over hers.

Cassandra tried to draw him in as his hands roamed. Please. She needed this.

But he broke off, though she noticed he backed away rather than pushing her off of him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have done that." He looked down at her stomach once more. "Did I make you feel worse?"

She opened her mouth to say no, but her answer was lost in the roll of tears that suddenly ran down her face. Cullen looked even more alarmed, and his hand raised and lowered indecisively above her shoulder. "I did. Oh Maker, what can I do?"

"I don't want to rest," said Cassandra, shoulders shaking. She hated the pathetic note in her voice, not to mention the sob that escaped her throat, but this was another thing that had flown out of her control.

Cullen nodded quickly, hand still hovering over her like a bird. "Okay. What do you want? Just tell me, I'll get it."

"I want to have sex with you."

Silence fell, except for the occasional hitches in her throat. Eventually Cullen said hesitantly, "What kind of illness is this, exactly?"

She flushed and turned away. Far from being alluring, she was just worrying him even more. This isn't me, she wanted to tell him, but the healer had been clear. This confusion was her now, at least until the baby came, and Cassandra felt nothing like the woman Cullen loved so much. She hardly blamed his caution.

"What were you doing?" she asked, trying to find an echo of her usual manner. She gestured to his desk with a steady hand.

He stepped around the desk, touching her lightly as he did. "I was painting," he said, with only his concerned look at her face betraying his true feelings. "It was something my parents did for my siblings and I. They made mobiles for each of us, ones they painted themselves. I painted something when my younger sister was born, and Mia made several of mine. It was a way to welcome each of us to the family. A new part to fit into the whole, my mother said."

She looked at the strewn wooden shapes and the pots of paint. "Did you make the shapes?"

"No, Blackwall did. But I'll paint them myself," he said. He scowled. "If the rest of them stop interrupting me."

Cassandra touched her stomach as tears threatened once more. "They're beautiful, " she said. "Our child will love it, I'm sure. Thank you for doing this."

She picked up an unpainted block in the shape of a crescent moon. It was simple but elegantly done, worthy of Blackwall. Despite its simplicity, she examined it closely, the better to avoid her husband's searching gaze. She'd done enough damage for today. He wouldn't forget his worry. Best to be normal enough so he'd let her leave, or leave himself, and try to live with the frustration.

When he shifted and cleared his throat, she did look up. His expression was thoughtful, and a little amused. "Do you want to paint one?"

"I have never painted things," she said, eyeing the colored pots with suspicion. She turned the small moon over in her hands as she considered. "Neither the Seekers nor Nevarran nobility spent time on art."

"I think you should try," he said. He paused, a flash of worry coming once more. "Unless the smell is too much?"

She shook her head mutely. It might not be what she wanted, but it would at least give her something else to think about.

He smiled as he led her to the couch. He made a few trips to array the supplies on a low table that he pulled flush against the side of the furniture. He settled in behind her, legs splayed to fit her inside of them, and she squawked. This wasn't going to help anything.

"It will be easier to show you how this way," he said mildly, but she heard the wicked smile in his voice. Hope rose as he leaned to grab a brush and light blue pot.

"No. Lilac," she said.

He said nothing, only complied. When he handed her the brush, he folded his hand around hers to guide her movements, and she shivered a little at the feel of his calloused palm gliding over her knuckles. "Now," he said, "dip the brush into the paint and clear off any clumps on the side of the jar."

His tones held no room for argument, so she followed his instructions dutifully. His murmured praise in her ear made her very glad he was the one holding the glass. Cullen had dropped his voice into the rumbling zone of the bedroom, an unfairness that she wasn't going to protest, and the smooth gravel of it was enough to have her ready for him.

He set the pot down on his knee and lightly touched the hand that held the moon. "The rest is simple enough. Long strokes with the brush." His finger trailed down her wrist and to her elbow as he said it, and she focused on not shaking. She couldn't stop the sharp inhale when ran his hand back up her forearm. "Try it," he said.

She brought their hands together and did as he said, pausing when he made a noise of protest. "Slowly," he breathed, so close to her. "Gently. It's not a race. You want the lines to be smooth and clean."

There was an answering tug in her stomach that had nothing to do with illness and everything to do with the increased heat pooling between her legs. Her control was getting shaky, but she needed to keep him calm. Cassandra leaned back a little, just enough to elicit his own quick breath, and she slowed her movements. "Like this?" she asked with only a hint of a quaver in her voice.

"Yes," he said. If anything his voice had lowered to a deeper register, velvety and rough in her ear. "Press hard, then lighten as you move."

His open mouth found her neck, pressing against the now-rapid beat of her pulse. He drifted his tongue along her sensitive skin when he was finished. She moaned lightly, and he smiled against her. "You're not doing it," he whispered.

She didn't trust herself to respond with words, so she suited her action to his. He let his hand follow hers as she went from pot to moon and back again. Each stroke of the brush was accompanied by another kiss across her, a rhythm that narrowed her world to the pinpoint of him.

At some point his hands fell away to run over her body in soothing waves, a gentle, rolling movement that she never wanted to end. He slipped his fingers underneath the hem of her shirt and splayed them across her belly. "See how the bristles spread to touch every part?" he asked. His tones held an urgency that had her biting her lip against her unbearable need. "If you do it right, nothing will be missed."

Truthfully she barely knew if she'd even turned the thing over. When she looked down, it and her fingers, were covered in pale lilac. "I've made a mess," she said, laughing a little breathlessly.

"That means you're definitely doing it right," he growled. The hand on her belly slid across the front of her breeches. Cassandra pressed against it without thought, desperate to feel his touch against her.

When he drew away she whimpered. Maker save her, she'd never wanted like this. "Please, Cullen," she said. "Don't tease me. I can't take it."

But her husband was ruthless when he chose to be, and he knew that she was lying. He always knew. "You missed a spot, sweetheart," he said.

She looked dazedly at the colored moon and turned it, trying to find what he meant, when his free hand brushed lightly over her tender breast. A cry tumbled out into the world before she could stop it, half-pain, and Cullen immediately stopped.

"Okay?" he asked quietly, and she nearly cried at the buried love inside of the question.

This was why she came home.

"Yes," she said. "Oh yes. Don't stop. You can't hurt me. I love you."

And that was a enough. With a speed he rarely displayed outside of the ring, he grabbed the moon from her hand and set it aside, then followed it with the pot of paint. He hooked his fingers into the fabric of her shirt and tugged, sending the brush in her hand flying as he tossed it to the floor. Her breast band quickly followed at her own instigation. "Beautiful," he said once, his head angled towards the curve of her belly, then turned his fingers back to her breasts, keeping his touch light and deliberate in response to her gasps.

She almost exploded under their patient ministrations. Pleas and needy sounds flew out of her, completely uncontrolled, and she knew she'd be embarrassed later at the way she was falling apart for him. He'd be terribly smug about it for too long.

But maybe he deserved a little self-satisfaction. "I really have missed you so much," he said in a low voice. "How do I always forget how good you sound?" He cupped a breast and stroked his other hand across the front of her breeches once more.

Cassandra keened, hating her desperation and craving him all at the same time. "I love you," she said again, twisting her head around to capture his mouth in a sloppy, desperate kiss. He growled and pushed his tongue inside of her, pressing with his questing fingers at the same time and wringing another muffled moan out of her.

Lines of pleasure radiated out from her core, tingling along every nerve ending. She'd imagined him a thousand times before they first found the bed together, but she'd never guessed at the delicate pleasure that lived inside those scarred and dangerous hands. Or the enjoyment he'd take in using them against her. Her dreams were full of them now, new and beautiful.

But she'd always known about his voice. She pulled her mouth away and leaned back against his chest once more. Control was still possible. "Keep talking," she ordered, much more breathily than she'd intended.

"Hmmm," he murmured, the vibration against her bare back wild and arousing. "What about? Troop movements? Diplomatic intricacies? Antivan festivals?"

She moved slowly and deliberately, putting one hand on the hard muscle of his thigh and reaching behind her to wind the other into the curls of his hair. Her back arched to accommodate the movement, and a strangled sound escaped him. "Did you think about me while I was gone?"

"Every minute of every day," he said. The delectable Fereldan accents of his voice grew more pronounced as she inched her hand up his leg. "Do you know how many places there are in Skyhold I could have you? How many dark and and hidden corners there are? How many not so hidden corners where I could give myself to you? I know. I found every one of them, saw them all, dreamt of every single one."

He kissed the shell of her ear and whispered dangerously, "Do you remember when we were in your old rooms over the armory, and you told me how often you'd touched yourself there, thinking of me? I went there to remember. I wanted you there to tell me again, only this time I'd make you do it, right there in the bed with the workers below, and I'd watch you. Your beautiful face, aching as you touched yourself for me. And right at the end, you'd go over the edge with me in your ear, just like this. Telling you to come for me. Cassandra. Beautiful, lovely Cassandra."

She'd almost reached the top of his leg, almost touched the hard length of him that she knew she'd find, when he grasped her wrist gently. "No. This is for you. What you need."

"You need pleasure, too," she protested, but she didn't fight him as he drew her arm around in front of her again.

He reached down to the tie of her breeches and unlaced them deftly. "This is my only pleasure," he said. His hand caressed the bump of her stomach protective before it found her core again. This time only her smallclothes were in the way, and he pushed them down forcefully before curving his fingers inside of her. "This. You wet and mine. You are mine, aren't you?"

Maker, there was no way she could be more his at this minute. "As long as you wish it."

"Forever, then," he said. He continued as though they'd never moved to a tangent. "The kitchens were full of ideas, too. So many delicious things I could spread over you. Lick you clean for hours as you squirmed. I love it when you beg, you know."

And he was particularly good at getting her to do it. She craved way his jaw worked as he used his tongue, fluttering and dancing pressure that was always too much but never quite enough. He could keep her on the edge of madness as long as he wanted, his ever-present stubble scraping against the soft skin of her inner thigh to remind her of his maleness, the brute strength of him a counter to the gentle love he carried. That maleness was intoxicating, and as though he heard her thoughts he dragged his jaw along her well-kissed neck.

"Do you want me to beg now?" she asked after a deep breath. She was at his mercy, completely and utterly, and she would do anything he wanted.

"No," he said. "Just say my name."

"Cullen," she answered immediately. "Cullen, oh Maker, Cullen."

He fastened his mouth on her skin once more, sucking and biting down her as she repeated his name. He shoved another finger inside of her, pumping more quickly while his thumb circled above, and she lost all sense of herself.

A small part of her realized he was talking again, his words boring directly into her soul.

"I wanted you over the War Table, on my desk, in the stairs outside of Josephine's office. Quick and rough and knowing we might be found and not caring at all. I wanted my name echoing through the Hall in that voice while I had you on the throne. Your taste on my lips every morning, your scent filling me. I couldn't sleep. I woke up aroused and spent my days aching. And now you're here and so strong. You're carrying our child and I love you. I need you. Be with me. Come. Now, sweetheart, just for me."

She screamed, tears falling from her tightly closed eyes as he took her over the edge. Each muscle tensed at once while she rode a wave of desire, his voice wrapping around her and affirming everything she felt for him. She felt him grunt as her fingers clenched in his hair and pulled, and she cried a wordless apology that he answered with a sweet kiss to the back of her neck.

When she came back to herself she found herself lying on the couch, Cullen's lined, beautiful face leaning over her. The tension in his eyes caught her attention even as her body was relaxing into the first true peace she'd had in days.

"May I?" he asked quietly, still loving. Still protecting her. Always making sure she was okay.

She nodded slowly, exhausted but certain. "You're my pleasure," she said. Her voice was hoarse, and he looked doubtful, so she used the last of her energy to draw his lips to hers briefly. "I want you."

Her consciousness floated through the room as he entered her, flexing and moving so gently she felt only the fullness of taking him, the comforting girth that stretched and completed her. The change in his breathing told her he was close, and when the time was right she drifted her hands to the curve of his ass and pulled him against her sharply. He shuddered once and whispered her name in turn before he tensed and emptied inside of her.

Cassandra forced her eyes open to watch his face as he came, memorizing the look of joy that rose on it. The years fell away in his pleasure, and it squeezed her heart in a painful fist. She couldn't remember a time she hadn't loved this man. His honeyed voice, his determined expressions, his steadfast heart, and his utter lack of awareness of his power over her.

And he'd done this. He'd pushed aside her behavior, his fear, and been exactly what she'd asked. He loved her even when she wasn't at all her, cared for her by giving her what she needed, and there could be nothing better than that.

When he curled around the outside of her body, keeping her cocooned and safe against the back of the sofa, she smiled. It was only a foot down to the floor, but even that small danger lived at the back of his mind.

"Do you feel better now?" Cullen asked sleepily against her shoulder.

"I'm with you," she said, drawing his hands across her belly. The gold band he wore on his finger was a reassuring coolness on her skin. "I could never feel anything but perfect."

He chuckled. "Good. That will encourage you to keep coming back to me," he said. "Did you like your painting lesson?"

It was her turn to laugh. "You're a very thorough instructor. But I'm not sure we can put my effort on a mobile. Its creation was not suitable for a child."

"Nonsense," he said, drawing her closer. "It's a necessary component. I never want our children to doubt how desperately I love their mother."

She twisted to level a gaze at him. He sighed. "Fine. It will just have to live on my nighttable, reminding me of you on your next trip."

"I won't have another one," she said. "Not without you. The healer said my… cravings would only get stronger. I can't put the men through that again."

Cullen smiled. "Oh really?"

She smiled back even as she rolled her eyes. "Yes. So you may want to make a list of those Skyhold locations," she said. He paled a little, but his eyes glittered. She kissed him before settling back down to sleep. "I want to start in Josephine's stairwell."

The last thing she heard as she drifted away in the circle of her husbands arms was a soft murmur. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm always happy to take care of you."