Varric finally put his quill down, and used his left hand to massage the cramps in his right wrist and arm. He sighed. The writing wasn't coming along quite as well as he would've liked, but then again, anyone would've had a hard time working in his present conditions.

He had decided to work in his room—their room—this evening, because any time he worked in the Great Hall, though the writing itself would go tolerably well, he'd invariably wake her up as he walked in, and then he'd have to put up with her tossing and turning, and her little irritated noises that were just loud enough to let him know how very displeased she was with him, but just soft enough she could feign ignorance if he called her on them.

Tonight, the writing had gone poorly for a few hours, as he could hear her constantly moving, trying to find a comfortable position as she slept in the bed behind him, and just when she had been silent for a while, and he had thought to relax, to get into the rhythm of writing, she had starting moving again, and it was beyond distracting. Not to mention the two times she had gotten up to go to the bathroom, shooting him dark looks that he had chosen to ignore. But she had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, and he had gotten a bit of productive writing done.

He couldn't wait for this to be over. She might be miserable, but he wasn't very happy either. Just another few weeks, he kept telling himself. Of course, after that he might have other distractions from his writing…but one thing at a time.

He quietly put all his supplies away, and tiptoed as noiselessly as he could over to the bed, silently lifting the covers up, inch by inch, and slowly, slowly, putting his weight gently on the bed, as he slid carefully under the covers, and he was almost there, and—

"Varric?" she said softly. He could see her eyes open in the semi-darkness.

Damn.

"Were you hoping for someone else?" he asked breezily, reaching over to cup her cheek and give her a quick kiss.

"I'm sorry," she said, biting her lip. "I just…cannot sleep."

"She keeping you awake again?" he asked, reaching out a hand and placing it on her abdomen, on top of his spare tunic that she had taken to wearing to bed when her shirts no longer fit.

"Yes, he's keeping me awake, he's been kicking all night, and I can't get comfortable, and even when I do, I have to wake up to use the bathroom and I'm just so frustrated I could…" her hands vaguely gestured in the air as she searched for a word, before she settled on, "So frustrated I wish I could hit something."

"Or someone?" He chuckled.

"I will admit you are not on the list of my fav—oof." She reached down and massaged her stomach, her hand next to his. "There, you felt that?" she asked.

He nodded, suppressing a grin. His girl packed quite the punch. Like her mother. But now, he knew, would not be the best time to tell Cassandra that.

"That is what he has been doing all night. All night," she emphasized.

Varric wondered what she wanted him to do. Not that he didn't feel bad, of course. He felt awful. But she seemed to be blaming him for an event that, to the best of his recollection, they had both enjoyed. In fact, he seemed to recall the words Oh Maker, Varric, don't stop, don't stop being uttered more than once, when he had paused during their drunken tumble, his slow-working brain screaming at him that perhaps it wasn't the best idea to do this with the Seeker, but her entreaties, and her long legs wrapped around him …well, it would've taken a better man than him to resist.

And besides, what was really the worst that could happen, he had reasoned with himself the next morning? A bit of embarrassment?

Well, he found out a few short months later just what the worst that could happen was. Not that he hadn't known with a small part of his mind that it was a possibility. But a remote, distant one. With chances so long, it really wasn't worth considering. How many half-dwarven children were there? Not many.

He figured the odds were somewhere between zero and his chance of being physically sent to the Fade. Which, unfortunately, had happened.

And so had this. Which he and she had dealt with. Or rather, were dealing with. Not always happily, but they were adults, and now there was a child to consider, and…perhaps they could make it so it wasn't the worst thing ever. Granted, if a miracle were to happen in his life, he would've preferred it to be something not involving a woman who had taken him prisoner, and tried to stab him in the crotch. But, if he didn't have the weirdest fucking luck, he'd have no luck at all, so…he decided to roll with it.

And really, Cassandra wasn't so bad when she wasn't yelling at him. And everything had been going well—surprisingly well, really, and he had begun to think that maybe, just maybe, things, or at least this thing, had happened for a reason.

There was a sense of humor underneath the Seeker's bluster, and her laughter, when he teased it out of her, was beautiful, and there was a tender gentleness beneath her hard exterior, and he was beginning to think that perhaps he was falling in love with her, and maybe, just maybe, she cared for him and for the child, and he had hope that something that had begun so inauspiciously could turn out well. His happiness and hopes had risen…until recently. Her stomach had seemed to balloon overnight, and with it, her bad temper, and restlessness. And her hatred of him.

He had given her space, which was difficult, given that they now shared quarters and he had grown…surprisingly attached to their comfortable evenings, and the nights they would make love, and feeling the bump that would grow to be his child…their child. But she had begun snapping at him, yelling at him, and…he had hoped she would calm down if he just left her alone. But she only seemed to have gotten worse in the last month.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

"No," she said with a downturn to her lips, and she turned over, away from him. Her voice came again, a minute or so later, when he had given himself over to rejection for another night. "Not unless you can stop this from ever happening to begin with."

"Is that what you want?" he demanded, rolling over himself, placing his front on her back, placing his hand again on her abdomen. "For…this…never to have happened?"

He waited for a time in silence, as his hand, and no doubt her body, felt the few kicks the child made, and for some reason, he hoped against hope for her answer to be anything other than the resounding yes he knew was coming, and he steeled himself for it, steeled himself not to be hurt.

But the silent moment stretched and filled into silent minutes, and somehow even a "Maker, yes!" would have been better than that awful silence that spoke to him of unwelcome tagalongs, younger brothers, casteless dwarves, and unfaithful lovers.

He felt the silence piercing him, and it was finally too much to bear. "Say something," he demanded, half-growl, half-plea.

"Varric," she started, and he could hear the tears in her voice,"I'm sorry. I truly am. I know how hard you've been trying—"

He cut her off. He knew how the rest of this went, and he had no desire to let her finish. I know how hard you've been trying, but it's just not enough.

"It's nothing," he said, his throat aching around the ridiculous tightness there, his eyes stinging, but his voice normal, thank the Maker for small victories. "I know how it is."

"I know you do," she said, her voice frustrated. "But it's not enough—"

It's not enough, Varric. There's nothing else you can do.

"Of course," he said with a small, almost realistic-sounding chuckle. "You don't need to say anything else. I understand."

"Varric," she said, squeezing his hand where it still lay on her stomach, "You might not need to hear it, but I need to say it."

He remembered echoes of another conversation like this.

Varric, I need to explain, I need to say it. I'm sorry, so sorry. If things were different—but they're not. I wish I could be with you. Varric, I'll always love you, but—but—

He had thought that conversation had permanently numbed his heart, and it almost did, but he hadn't realized—until now—how imperceptibly it had unfrozen again, how much this was going to hurt.

She sighed. "I'm sorry, Varric. This is—" and there was a long pause in the darkness, a pause Varric didn't fill as he waited for the sword to fall.

"This is hard for me. I'm not used to being…" another long pause, before she settled on a phrase, "out of control. I've spent years—almost my whole life—training. So I could hit the same mark ten times out of ten, so I could react to a sword thrust without thinking, so I could continue to march past the point of tiredness and exhaustion, so I could do...whatever I wanted to do." She gave a heaving sigh that sounded close to a sob.

He lay still, hoping against hope.

"But now I can't. I can't do…anything!" Her voice gathered momentum as she starting listing her litany of complaints. "I'm tired all the time, out of breath, I can't get comfortable, and I'm huge," and here her voice rose to a near-wail, "and I can't see my feet!"

He felt the tension, the crushing vise that had been squeezing his chest, slowly release itself.

This? This is what had been bothering her? Andraste's fucking ass. He had thought it was him. But this? This he could deal with. This he could take care of.

"But," she continued, "I've been taking it out on you. And I'm sorry."

She moved out of his embrace, rolled over to face him, reached out to lay her palm against his cheek, her calloused fingers lightly grazing the stubble there. "I have been…difficult."

"Difficult? You?" he said, managing a tease.

"All right—impossible," she conceded.

"Just impossible?"

"Varric!" Her tone was sharp, but her fingers were still light as they stroked his cheek.

He pushed himself up on his elbow and leaned over her, and gently cupped her chin and captured her lips in his. It was a kiss of thankfulness, and of relief, and soon, as their breath mingled and his joy bubbled over, of passion.

And later, much later, when he held her again in his arms, and they were both drowsy, and their child was quiet underneath his hand, he took the chance to whisper against her ear, "I'm not sorry," and he hoped she knew what he meant.

And she shifted underneath his hand and grumbled, "I won't be either..as soon as I can see my feet."

"I'll look at 'em for you, Seeker," he offered, grinning against the curve of her neck.

"Ass," she grunted in reply.

But she put her hand on top of his, and threaded their fingers together as they both drifted off to sleep.