Chapter Text
“Lady Seeker, a moment.”
The hair on the back of Cassandra’s neck prickled up at the cultured, lightly accented voice. She lowered her practice sword and whirled around, leveling her best scowl at Dorian.
He was blatantly unimpressed.
This—this was why Cassandra did not like the Tevinter mage—well, aside from the fact that he was both a Tevinter and a mage. He had no respect for anyone, except perhaps the Inquisitor, and him only on rare occasions.
“What do you want?” Cassandra demanded.
Dorian smiled at her, unfazed by her gruff attitude. She had no idea why the Inquisitor adored him as much as he did. Rhys had a concerning lack of common sense. It was the only reason Cassandra could think why he surrounded himself with a Tevinter mage, an admitted Ben-Hassrath agent, and a Maker damned demon.
“I was wondering if you could assist me with a—private matter.”
Cassandra exhaled a disgusted sound through her nose. She hadn't thought Dorian was interested in her—or any other woman, for that matter—but she had apparently misjudged. “Not interested.”
Dorian’s kohl-darkened eyes widened slightly, and then it was his turn to snort. “Not that you aren't a perfectly lovely specimen, but you aren't exactly my—type.” He’d started out strong but by the end he’d faltered and his eyes had drifted to the side, like it hurt him to admit it.
“I did not think so,” Cassandra said, gentling her tone.
“You knew?”
He sounded terrified, but there was an unexpected note of—hope? Relief? Cassandra’s shoulders relaxed further. “I had suspected.”
“You did?” Dorian looked panicked for a moment. “Is it that obvious? Am I—”
“No,” she lied.
Dorian sucked in a breath. His shoulders sagged on the exhale. Despite what a certain red haired dwarf liked to claim, Cassandra was not unkind. “What can I help you with?”
Dorian cleared his throat, pinching one end of his mustache. Cassandra smirked. He looked kind of like the villain from Swords and Shields when he did that.
“Because of my—interests—I am not very experienced in the art of courtship,” said Dorian, haltingly. “Rather, I'm more in the habit of ah—discreet touches. Tactful looks. Hidden rooms.” His hand slid up and away from his mouth to rub at the back of his neck, reminding Cassandra of the commander. “I am interested in exploring different opportunities.”
Cassandra’s eyebrows flew up. “Are you asking me for love advice?”
“Well, you read those books,” said Dorian defensively, waving one hand as if to encompass Varric’s incredibl—y terrible books.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Cassandra spluttered.
“You know, the trash that makes Varric buckets of money.”
“So then ask Varric,” said Cassandra, lifting her sword again.
“You must be joking,” said Dorian, flatly.
Cassandra considered their dwarven ally and conceded the point. He would laugh him all the way back to Tevinter. “Nevertheless, I am—not the best person to be helping you with this.” She fiddled with a loose thread on her sword’s hilt. “I have not—that is to say.”
“Ah,” Dorian said, understanding.
She scowled at him, pointing the practice sword at his throat. For all that it was wood, she could still do a considerable amount of damage with it. “Don't you dare tell anyone. Especially not the dwarf.”
Dorian put up his hands in supplication. “There is nothing to tell, for nothing was said.”
He smiled at her. Cassandra thought Dorian could be kind, too. She lowered the sword and leaned against it. Her cheeks still felt warm, but Dorian didn't tease her. It was possible she could grow to like the Tevinter, though probably not.
“Surely there’s some sort of, I don't know, procedure you've picked up from the book?”
Dorian must be desperate if he wanted to use Sword and Shields as a courtship guideline. He clearly had a misguided understanding of exactly what kind of books these were.
“Well,” said Cassandra, hesitantly. “You could try flowers?”
The look Dorian shot her was as dry as the Hissing Wastes.
“Or not.” She thought flowers were a wonderful gift, though she supposed whoever Dorian was courting probably wouldn't be interested. “Who are you intending to court, anyway? The commander?”
Dorian chuckled. “Cullen? He’s certainly a catch, if you like dashing golden boys with a past. While normally I enjoy a good challenge, I'm not interested.”
“Why not?”
“He's not interested in what’s in my britches.”
Cassandra coughed into her fist, glaring slightly at Dorian. “Your eloquence does you credit.”
Dorian smirked at her.
“The Inquisitor?”
Dorian stared at her for a moment, expression unreadable. The corner of his mouth curled up in a smirk. “No.”
Cassandra folded her arms over her chest. It was just like Dorian to be so dismissive. “And why not? Is he not good enough for you?”
Dorian chuckled, waving a hand. “No, no, it's definitely not that.” He shook his head, still grinning like he was in on some joke.
“Then what?”
“It's not my place to tell.”
Cassandra wanted to push it, but somehow she knew he wouldn't spill. She huffed a sigh through her nose, then said, “Blackwall?”
He snorted in derision. “That bag of fleas? Thank you, no.”
“You can't be interested in Solas.”
Words were not needed to express what Dorian thought of that suggestion.
“Dorian,” Cassandra said, slowly. An idea had just occurred to her, but it couldn't be. “Do you intend to woo the Iron Bull?”
Dorian said nothing, suddenly distracted by a small smudge on one of the many ridiculous buckles on his outfit.
Well. That was unexpected. Cassandra always thought the two of them could barely stand each other. The few times she'd seen them conversing, they'd bypassed all pretense of formality and had gone straight for the underbelly. What had changed?
“I wasn't aware you even liked the Iron Bull,” said Cassandra.
“Trust me, it took me by surprise as well,” Dorian said, his lips twisting into a wry smile. “But there you have it.”
Privately, she thought it was redundant to court someone like the Iron Bull, since he was always ready to proposition the next person to look at him for too long. Perhaps Dorian was worried the Iron Bull would be unable to look past Dorian’s nationality.
“Well, if you wish to court him, perhaps you could buy a gift?” she said, thinking back to the flowers. It was the same concept, at least.
“What do you get someone like the Iron Bull?” said Dorian, face scrunching in thought.
Cassandra could think of several things the Bull would like, though she bit the corner of her lip and instead said, “He seems partial to dragons?”
Herald’s Rest was a din of noise. The Inquisitor had somehow managed to drag everyone from the inner circle in for a round of ale. Even Vivienne was there, sitting as regal as a tamassaran, frowning down her nose at her mug. Rhys was dragging him, Cassandra, and Dorian to the Hinterlands—again—to chase down some Venatori on Dorian’s claims that they may have information on Corypheus, but in reality felt more like a revenge killing. Bull couldn't blame Dorian. He’d killed his share of Tal Vashoth, after all.
Tal Va-fucking-shoth.
Bull huffed into his drink, turning the small black figurine between his fingers. Well, there was no point in regretting the past.
The Inquisitor was couched between Cassandra and Dorian, laughing at the reddening Dorian. Bull wondered what Rhys had said to make the Vint blush like that. There was nothing to indicate there was anything between the Inquisitor and Dorian, but maybe he hoped there was. Bull just wasn't yet sure which ‘he’ would ‘hope.’
Then Cassandra laid a companionable hand on Rhys’s shoulder and leaned over him to say something to Dorian, and Rhys went even redder than the ‘Vint.
At least that answered his question.
“Whatcha got there, chief?” Krem asked, thunking a full tankard in front of Bull. The ale sloshed over the rim and Bull quickly lifted the figurine out of danger.
“Don't know,” Bull said, handing over the carving. It was a fierce little dragon, wings spread and head thrown back, glimmering gold in the flickering torchlight.
“Pretty little thing,” Krem said, examining the bottom.
“Let me see that,” said Varric, stretching an arm over the table and nearly knocking over Bull’s drink. He’d started early and was already a couple sheets to the wind. Krem dutifully handed it over. “This is Dwarven. Where’d you get this?”
He ran a finger across one intricate wing. “This looks like one of Kasch’s. Clay, probably from Arden's Aruba.”
It was the wistful note to his voice as he carefully examined the intricate designs that made Bull blurt out, unthinkingly, “You can have it.”
Varric’s eyes glinted hopefully when he said, “You mean it?”
“Sure,” Bull said, shrugging easily. “Not mine. Though someone might have forgotten it here. Might want to ask around first.”
Varric beamed at him, cradling the small figurine to his chest. “Thanks, Bull.”
There was something moving in his periphery and Bull looked up in time to see Dorian push himself to his feet. He was turned away, but Bull could see that his ear was red, like he was embarrassed about something. Maybe Rhys pushed him too far—it wouldn't be the first time the tetchy ‘Vint stormed off in a huff for some imagined offense.
“What bug crawled up his ass?” Krem asked.
“No idea.” Bull shrugged, taking a long pull from his drink.
“Well, that was a spectacular failure,” Dorian huffed.
Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Perhaps you should have given him the gift instead of leaving it wherever and hoping he’d stumble over it.”
“I—can't do that,” said Dorian.
“Fine,” said Cassandra. It came out harsher than she intended, but no one accused her of being a gentle woman. Dorian didn't look offended, at least, but she exhaled a calming breath and said, in a more modulated tone, “Perhaps you can try to get to know him?”
“You mean, bed him?” Dorian asked. “I told you, I’m looking to court him, not for a tumble—”
Cassandra smacked his arm. He shot her a hilariously offended look, which she ignored. She hadn't hit him that hard. “I mean talk to him, Dorian.”
“Oh,” said Dorian.
The thing about Rhys Trevelyan was that he had a horrible sense of direction. Even when Cullen patiently explained where he had to go, drawing an exact path on a map and giving him landmarks—“If you pass the rock that looks like a mabari you’ve gone too far”—the Inquisitor inevitably got distracted, led his motley crew into a cave to bash some spiders over the head, and then bounded off to the next adventure, in the wrong direction.
It wasn't that Bull was antisocial. He was the first to buy a round of drinks and the last to leave the tavern at night. It was just that he was also self-aware enough to recognize when someone didn't like him, and the ‘Vint very much did not like him.
Except instead of taking the tree stump Bull had graciously left for him just outside the fire, Dorian sat next to him.
There was a hiccup in the incredibly awkward conversation Rhys and Cassandra were having, before Rhys started up again, louder, shooting glances at Dorian and Bull that he probably thought were discreet. Dorian ignored him. Actually, he ignored everyone, dragging his bread through the thick druffalo stew they were having for dinner.
“So,” said Bull, dragging out the word, feeling a little lame. “How are you holding up? Are your footsies frozen?”
Dorian didn't deign to respond, merely grunted in a way that would make Cassandra proud. There was another beat of silence from the opposite side of the fire. Bull sighed. At least they were providing the others with entertainment. Not the kind he would usually choose, but he was used to being a part of the gossip mill.
“Right,” Bull said. “Has anyone told you how strange you are?”
That, at least, earned a hot glare, but Dorian dropped his eyes quickly, biting his lower lip. It was a really appealing look on him. When he tilted his face back up, his expression was of polite civility.
“It occurs to me, the Iron Bull, that we are not well acquainted.”
He sounded like he was addressing some guest at a formal dinner. Bull leaned back on his hands, purposefully splaying his knees wide.
“My door’s always open if you ever want to rectify that,” said Bull, throwing a roguish wink.
Dorian’s face fell into horrified incredulity. His lips parted and a pretty blush flooded his cheeks. Bull admired the view.
“That’s not what I—ugh!” Dorian leapt back to his feet, nearly toppled his bowl, and stomped off to his tent.
Bull frowned after him. He’d always enjoyed their back-and-forth, but something was different. This wasn't Dorian’s usual disgusted huff; rather, it felt more like Bull had disappointed Dorian.
Well, shit.
Rhys and Cassandra had completely given up on pretending to chat and were now glaring at Bull from across the fire. If he wasn't already feeling guilty, he would be now.
“What? I thought that was where we were going.”
“Bull,” Rhys said, reprovingly.
“Right right right,” said Bull. “Stop glaring at me. I'll make it up to him.”
That got a disgusted noise from Cassandra—whose mind was much dirtier than he realized, nice—but at least Rhys understood what he meant and nodded his approval.
“What are you and Dorian up to, anyway?” the Inquisitor asked as the Iron Bull carefully levered himself up. He was favoring his left leg; probably his bad knee was bothering him. The Inquisitor poked at the fire with a twig, and the wood crackled and hissed like an angry Varghest.
“Nothing,” Cassandra said quickly. Perhaps too quickly. Rhys lifted a dark eyebrow at her.
Truly the most annoying trait about the Inquisitor was how perceptive he was. When you spoke with him, he focused all his intense concentration on your face, picking up every little nervous tic. Cassandra was not prone to blushing, but even she found herself looking away, neck prickling with embarrassment.
“Are you and he—” the Inquisitor started, then cut himself off.
Cassandra stared blankly at him.
Rhys sighed. “Never mind.”
Dorian hated the Venatori.
He hated how they were the representatives of Tevinter in the south. He really hated how the Venatori fought, with blood magic and tethered slaves. He did not feel remorse for killing them; rather, he was fiercely glad to. He supposed that said something about him.
Rhys and Cassandra fought together with an ease of dancing lovers; she charged into the Venatori with her shield, he spotted her with explosive arrows. Bull was in the center of the fight, slinging his warhammer around in a dizzying circle. As effective as that move was—brutally flattening unsuspecting victims—it usually left Bull drained and disoriented. Dorian, stationed at the top of a small hill a distance from the battle, tsked and replenished his shield.
“Dorian!”
There was a quiet explosion as the Venatori Cassandra was fighting spiraled into jagged black smoke. Dorian lifted his staff and cursed under his breath. Of course he's had to drain himself to protect Bull. What a ridiculous oversight.
The Venatori—a dark haired man young enough to have been in school with Dorian—triggered the fire glyph Dorian had been standing behind. The Venatori shouted in pain, staggering back. A moment later, Cassandra’s shield cut through the air and slammed into the back of the Venatori’s head.
The silence after a fight always unnerved Dorian. His shoulders heaved as he sucked in breath after gulping breath, staring down at the fallen Venatori. From this angle, the back of the Venatori’s head looked like he could have been Aemilus. Or possibly Camillo.
“That’s the last one,” said Rhys, jogging up the hill to cheerfully loot the Venatori’s pockets. Dorian turned away.
Bull stomped up the hill toward them, warhammer resting on his shoulder. “What the hell were you waiting for, a written invitation? Why didn’t you kill the bastard?” he demanded, hard eye glaring up at Dorian. It was strange to look down at him from his place at the top of the hill.
Far from being offended by Bull’s gruff attitude, Dorian preened. Concern, he had to believe, was a good sign. “Why, Bull, I didn’t know you cared.”
Of course it was impossible to fluster the Iron Bull. He grinned at Dorian, but his eye glittered strangely. “Couldn’t bear the thought of something so pretty damaged,” he said, probably because he couldn’t help himself.
Dorian turned away before that keen eye could pick up his flash disappointment. Behind him, Cassandra let out her usual disgusted grunt. Dorian found himself agreeing with the sentiment completely.
There wasn't much opportunity on the road to have a private conversation. The last leg of the journey to Skyhold was proving difficult; there had been a blizzard recently, and the humans of the party were up to their waist in snow. At one point the ‘Vint got frustrated enough to melt the trail away with a showy burst of flame from his staff, which was a brilliant idea, except then, of course, the melted snow immediately froze into an icy death trap. Dorian had sighed and covered it again with a small, sulky blizzard.
The one time Bull turned to Dorian to apologize (though he wasn't certain about what he was apologizing for), Dorian was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't even respond when Bull tried calling to him.
It wasn't that Bull was oblivious, former Ben-Hessrath and all. He knew Dorian was up to something. He just wasn't sure if it was a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ something. But he felt—dissatisfied at how things went down the night before, and then again after the fight with the Venatori. The hell of it was, he had been concerned for Dorian, but instinct had got the better of him and he’d dropped a line before he thought better of it.
He fell into step beside Dorian, folding his arms behind his head. Dorian didn't even look irritated when he shot a quick glance up at Bull, just considering, which was another thing to mull over.
“You know how I became a Ben-Hessrath?” asked Bull. Dorian cocked his head towards Bull, though he didn't lift his eyes from where he was carefully navigating through the deep snow. “It was because I didn't eat my vegetables.”
That got Dorian’s attention. Bull put out a hand, steadying him when he nearly stumbled in a deep patch of snow.
“What are you talking about?”
So Bull told him about how his Tama refused to let him up from the table until he finished two more items from his plate and how he’d placed two pieces of meat he'd snuck into his pocket onto the plate before eating them.
“—so Tama decided I'd be better suited as a Ben-Hessrath instead of a soldier,” Bull admitted. “Because I was a liar.”
Dorian’s teeth flashed under his mustache in a grin. It was fleeting, but it warmed his eyes. “That's adorable.” His voice was warm with laughter, and something in Bull’s chest warmed in response.
“I saw you chatting with the Iron Bull on the walk back,” Cassandra said, taking the seat next to Dorian.
Dorian snapped a look at the small crowd against the far wall, but Bull was too busy laughing with the Chargers to listen in on Cassandra and Dorian’s conversation. “Yes,” Dorian said, his voice low.
Cassandra tried to wave down Cabot, but he was busy with a knight at the end of the bar. Dorian offered her his drink, which she took only after a moment’s hesitation. “You sound disappointed. Shouldn't you be happy? It is progress.”
“Right, but—is it enough? Does he truly understand what I want?” Dorian twisted the ring on his middle finger, sneaking a glance back at Bull. Bull had his head thrown back, booming a laugh about something Krem said. The corners of his eyes tightened wistfully.
Cassandra offered the tankard.
He took it, drained half the offensive beer in one cringing gulp, and set it down with a hard thunk.
“So, what next?” asked Cassandra, a little excited. She wouldn’t dare to admit it, but helping Dorian woo the Iron Bull was just the sort of romantic plot she loved.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” sighed Dorian, picking up the tankard again.
Cassandra searched the tavern for inspiration. “You could—cast yourself upon his chest?” she said, a trifle dubiously. It seemed to work for the women in Swords and Shields.
Dorian’s head shot up. “I will not—” he gasped, loud enough to catch Krem’s attention. Blushing slightly, he lowered his voice and said, “No.”
“It works in the books,” said Cassandra, smirking a little.
“No.”
She tucked away the idea for desperate times, frowning at his tankard. “Buy him a drink?”
For a second, Dorian looked like he was going to protest again, but then his expression became thoughtful. He handed the tankard back to her, got to his feet, and set about trying to get Cabot’s attention. She watched, with interest, as he pointed at Bull, words washed away in the din of voices. Then his eyes widened in comical panic when he noticed Krem watching him curiously, and he broadened his movement so that his hand swept around the entire tavern. Cassandra pressed her lips together, feeling a laugh bubbling up in her chest.
“That was well done,” said Cassandra seriously, when Dorian dropped back into his chair.
Dorian sank his head into his hands. “Oh, shut up.”