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1.
So the thing is done. In days gone past this would probably be the time that Hissrad would look for a letter from a friend, suggesting how nice the weather was in Orlais or how good the hunting in the Free Marches or whatever in wherever, and amble casually in the exact direction of where the Qun wanted him placed.
Hissrad is a thing of the past now, and there's no letter, no command, to tell The Iron Bull where to go. He's free to take himself anywhere he likes.
Just about anywhere, at least.
Since he's no particular preference, he has offered the choice to the Chargers in a free vote, which has meant he's gotten to witness two days of campaigning for various options and a lot of arguments about the quality of the booze in various corners of Thedas.
That is, when Dorian's not keeping him occupied. It's not just the sex, either, although hot damn, the sex. They drink together, they reminisce about their shared battles, and they very definitely do not talk about Dorian's plans, the ones that have him leaving the Inquisition and going back to Tevinter to take his father's place.
He gets it, he does. Not in the sense that he understands it, or likes it, or thinks it's a very good idea, but that's not his call to make. Not his question to ask. Not even tonight, when Dorian straddles his lap and murmurs, “I do have to ride tomorrow” in the general direction of his cheek, as if Bull might have somehow forgotten his impending departure.
“You want me to be gentle?”
“Don't put words into my mouth.” Dorian says, but not as sharp as he might, so Bull abandons his initial plans, which hadn't really involved anything outside of gentle except perhaps leaving a few marks, and perhaps earning a few in return, and kisses him.
Dorian answers it by laying a hand on his cheek, soft as if he were some breakable thing, and kissing him back.
They stay like that, for a long while. A few bits of clothing get chucked somewhere in the process, the ones that are in the way, but there's really no reason to move, when they could stay like this, breath to breath, so that the only thing that exists is the space between them.
This is why the Qun told him love was a sort of madness.
In the aftermath, Dorian leans against him, idly nuzzling into his neck. “You stink,” he says, fondly. “I'll miss it. Everything in Tevinter is perfumed until your eyes water. Covers up the rot, I suppose. What a fantastic metaphor for the state of my country.”
He's always preferred a good honest stink, himself, but he doesn't feel like Dorian's actually fishing for his opinion on perfumes. “You should stay.” he says, and hurries to clarify when he feels Dorian's body stiffen. It's not his call to make, and he doesn't want to argue about it when he's got such a short time left. “The night, I mean. You don't have to be up that early, right?”
“I suppose there's no harm.” Dorian responds, although in his voice there's something like-- disappointment? His face is hidden, tucked against Bull's neck like that, so it's hard to tell.
It doesn't matter. One more night, one more morning, one more hour, one more moment. He'll take as much as he can get.
2.
In a villa along the border between Nevarra and Tevinter, The Iron Bull takes the time to relearn his Kadan's skin. There are a few scars he doesn't recall seeing before, and he's lost a little weight, but as far as Bull can tell, his time in Tevinter hasn't done him too much damage. Dorian shrugs off the marks and claims anything else is due to “the cuisine in Minrathous lacking that food group the Southerners refer to as stodge.”
Scars he doesn't mind, but he doesn't like the idea that Dorian is working too hard. All he can do, though, is provide as much distraction as he can, in the time that they have, and tell himself there'll be another chance, soon enough. That doesn't make it any easier to know that Dorian has to head back in the morning. “Sure I can't tempt you to stay another day or two?”
“As pleasant as my current surroundings are, alas, no. I will have to debauch you on the remaining items of furniture at some later date. At least we have established that the bed is sufficiently sturdy.” Dorian says. “Also the bathtub, and a good proportion of the walls, and that terrible chair that I was going to get rid of before you got here.”
“I like the chair. The chair's comfy.”
“Hmph.” Dorian says to that, managing to put a significant amount of disdain into the single syllable. Probably at comfy, although he'd been much more supportive of the chair an hour or two earlier, when he'd been getting his cock sucked in it. “Pity about the kitchen table. I'll order a replacement.”
“At least it didn't get set on fire.” Well, some bits of it did end up in the wood box, but that doesn't exactly count.
He knows it's predictable of him before he says it, but so is Dorian's response. “How many years must I wait for you to forget about the drapes?”
“I was thinking forever,” he replies jokingly, “if that's fine by you.”
He doesn't mean it as a confession, exactly, except for the part where once it's out he doesn't want to take it back. Wants to promise that they'll still be arguing about handkerchiefs and curtains and his trousers until at least the next time somebody tries to tear down the sky, and hopefully much longer than that.
Still is not sure how much Dorian would be willing to promise back.
“You have approximately fourteen hours left to try and make me set something on fire.” Dorian says, which is sort of an answer in itself. “Do your worst, amatus.”
Well, damn.
3.
Not the villa, this time. Another place, quiet, anonymous, defendable, safe, or at least Skinner says so, shut the fuck up, Chief, let me do my job.
If only Dorian would let Bull stay long enough by his side to do his.
What does it say, that the longest time he's spent in Dorian's company in years is because he nearly died and didn't have any choice but to stay bedridden for days? He's not sure, but he doesn't like it.
Likes it less that practically as soon as Dorian was able to be up, he was making preparations to go back.
“And now you're sulking.” Dorian says, as he looks over what little he has left to pack. His back turned. From this angle, Bull can see the angry line of what will be a scar. What could have been a killing blow.
He is not sulking. He just feels like maybe Dorian could wait longer. Heal more. For his own sake. “I don't want you to go.”
“Then ask me to stay.” Dorian says, still not facing him. His tone is soft. The words are like thunder.
“I wouldn't do that to you.” Can't, even now. Better the waiting and the fear and the brief joyous moments in between them than to imagine Dorian slowly coming to hate him for taking him away from the battlefield of his choosing.
No matter how much he wants it. No matter how many times it feels like having his heart torn out, to watch his Kadan walk away. Every time.
It's not his call to make.
It's not his call to make.
It's not his call to make.
Dorian doesn't reply to that, only mutters angrily at some item or other that won't fit into his hastily borrowed pack, and Bull feels the weight of the tooth around his neck, sharp and cold.
4.
Bull heads into the bedroom to be greeted by one familiar and welcome sight, which is Dorian with his outer clothing shucked in preparation for bed, and one familiar and unwelcome sight: Dorian's travelling case, open in the corner, half-filled.
“Packing so soon? I thought we had a few days yet.”
Dorian sits on the bed and plucks the rings delicately from his hands, a little glimmering pile on the bedside table. Doesn't look at him. “I should have told you earlier that this might happen. I've had word from Minrathous. It is imperative that I am back in time for Wintersend.”
Disappointment is a familiar bitterness in the back of his throat, swallowed down. Dorian does Great Things, and also has never in all the time Bull has known him been able to walk away from a fight. This is the price they pay for that. He's used to it by now, or he should be. “The usual?”
Dorian turns to face him. “Something like that, yes. It turns out there is a ridiculous amount of protocol involved in retiring from the Magisterium. Speeches, toasts, people pretending they haven't been attempting to assassinate me for years, that sort of thing. Probably no actual assassination attempts, that would be somewhat gauche.”
The words bubble over him. The meaning takes a moment longer. “Kadan...”
“Yes, I suppose you're quite right, I shouldn't rely on my enemies having manners.” A half-smile. “Occasionally I manage to earn the ire of somebody who isn't entirely useless. For example, Magister Jura had a superb eye for matters of etiquette. Less so after that whole Pride Abomination debacle, sadly.”
“Dorian.”
He stops, then. Hesitation on his parted lips. “Would you believe I merely thought it time to let a few of my fool apprentices do the hard work for once?”
“That's your reason?”
“Of course it's not my reason.” Dorian snaps, as if it's Bull's fault he's talking in circles. “My reason has to do with feeling like I'm fighting a dozen blighted Sloth demons every time I have to leave you behind, you idiot-- don't make me attempt to put it in more saccharine terms, you know I have no talent for sweet words.”
He might claim that. They're sweet enough as far as Bull is concerned. “You wrote me poetry that one time.”
“I thought we agreed to never mention that again.” Dorian says, and then takes one of Bull's hands in his own, fingertips gentle over scars. “The Iron Bull. Amatus. I would have this be our last parting, if you would have me.”
“Dirty,” he can't resist saying, and then, across Dorian's bright laughter, “Yes.”