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“I'm going to need to go back, you realise.”
Dorian speaks the words softly, one gentling hand against the base of his horns. Bull can only mutter denial into the skin at Dorian's hip. Is it not enough, yet? He knows what it is to give yourself, piece by piece, to a battle you cannot win.
When it becomes clear he's not going to make any further protest, Dorian continues. “Sooner is better. There's political capital to be made from fresh battle wounds and a suitably dramatic entrance, and you do know how I love one of those.”
Battle wounds, he says, to torture endured. Political gains from the necklace of red about his neck. Calculations and machinations in the face of near-death.
He knows that Dorian hates the concept of Hissrad. The Iron Bull really hates Magister Pavus. He could be Dorian, if he liked. If he would simply walk away. If he was a lesser man.
He cannot hold so tight. Literally, for Dorian's bruises are still tender. Bull can tell, because of the way he's neglecting to complain about them. His mangled fingers clutch at nothing. That is the frustration. There is so little he can do. Hissrad would have had connections, known spies across the breadth of Tevinter. Hissrad could have done something about this.
The Iron Bull got lucky. Once. Hit a few things with a big weapon-- about all you can be expected to do, isn't it, Tal-Vashoth? About as much help as you can expect to be.
Dorian's fingers drift from the base of one horn to the other. “My hair is a mess. Would you wash it for me?”
A duty, offered. Stitches says it will be a couple of days before he can ride without opening any wounds, and Dorian is trying to comfort him. He seizes the opportunity, gladly. A focus. Something solid. “You're growing it out. New fashion in Tevinter?”
“Only among the Soperati,” Dorian responds, clear amusement in his voice. “Mother looked like I'd slapped her in the face the first time she saw it. I might as well have greeted her by spitting on the floor.”
Trust Dorian to find a hairstyle that's also a political statement. “Don't think we have much fancy hair stuff, but I can get hot water.”
“Just a basin will do. Tell your archer not to overexert herself.”
Two basins, one to wash and one to rinse, Dalish says, holding his gaze as she reminds him she's not a mage, heat shimmering under her hands. A bottle of something unexpectedly pleasant smelling, from Grim, who makes a motion to his head and grunts encouragingly.
The rhythm of his fingers against Dorian's scalp. Dorian's soft laughter when he apologises, that his hands aren't the best for this sort of work. “I like knowing it's you, Amatus. No apologies.”
Dorian's head in his hands, Dorian's trust in his hands. It's enough, for now. It will have to be.
Breathe in, breathe out.
“The water is getting cold.” Dorian says softly.
Bull opens his hands, and lets Magister Pavus go.