Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dorian checked the text conversation, foot tapping anxiously. It was exactly the same. His long apology, last night, when he had to stay late at work. His shorter apology, this morning. “Read: 10:32.”

Aveline gave him a disapproving look, and he forced himself to put his phone down and sit still.

He picked it back up and texted Sera. What’s the best way to apologize?

It buzzed a minute later, making everyone in the room look at him. He had to wait until Josephine turned back to her presentation before he touched it again. for dumb shit or like actually say ur sorry?

Genuine apology. For missing a date.

like a boyfriend date? defintely sex Aveline cleared her throat pointedly. Josephine talked about the latest development in the trade agreements between Kirkwall and Rivain.

Dorian sighed. He hadn’t wanted to go into detail, but Sera did have a way of forcing it out of him. Not boyfriend. I missed a second date.

Sera responded with a keysmash and a mostly incomprehensible string of emojis that Dorian took to mean she was laughing at him. After a minute she added, accept ur a fuckup & wont ever see him again. who cares abt 2nd date guy???

I should clarify; I missed a second date with Vivienne’s dear friend, to whom she recommended me highly.

Sera took a long time to respond, possibly because she was doing some actual work, but most likely because she was laughing at him. lololololol u fucked up. u fucked up. Ummm flowrs, i guess?? theres a good shop called whoopsie daisies on 9th

That’s so cliche.

YOUR cliche

Dorian sighed loudly enough for Josephine to give him a sharp look. Sera had a point.

--

Whoopsie Daisy’s was, on first glance, an aggressively charming place. A cheerful green door flanked by windows of colorful bouquets and potted plants, along with the obligatory holiday wreaths and poinsettias. Just looking in the window made Dorian feel warmer than he had in the past month.

A spinning stand of ornaments, covered in glitter, was the first thing he saw when he stepped in, but the rest of the shop seemed generally untouched by excessive holiday cheer. The air was pleasantly warm, a merciful contrast to the freezing wind outside. There was no one at the counter.

Dorian wandered cautiously further into the small room, carefully avoiding the fragile looking plants bedecking every surface. “Hello?”

“Oh hey,” a deep voice responded. Dorian turned to see an enormous pair of horns poking out of a doorway to the side of the shop. “Sorry, everyone’s a bit busy at the moment, but I can probably help you out. Come through here.”

The horns disappeared. Dorian supposed he didn’t really have much of a choice.

Following the voice through the door, Dorian was immediately struck by the temperature difference. It was not the freezing Fereldan cold he might have expected, but instead a temperate, breezy day. It reminded him a bit of autumns back in Tevinter, or perhaps a warm Fereldan spring. It reminded him also of an Orlesian pleasure garden, gravel paths winding between beds of flowers growing everything from mosses to morning glories on ten-foot trellises, delicate wrought-iron tables and chairs dotting the spaces between covered hothouses. The one closest to him was labeled “Poison Gardens of Halamshiral, 9:30 Dragon.”

The horns were attached to a person, which made sense, but he was apparently in the middle of a children’s story about enchanted doorways to magical worlds, so he felt within his rights to be suspicious. The person was a mountain of a man in a neat teal button-down, over which he was tying a florist’s apron as Dorian approached him.

“Merrill’s running some flowers over to the hospital. Her usual delivery driver is sick, but tell me what you’re looking for and we’ll see what we can do.”

“Um, well, I...” Dorian swallowed, trying not to look as though he was staring and failing to remember how to speak in the process.

The Qunari smiled encouragingly at him, waiting patiently for Doiran to regain his wits. “I’m, um, looking for...flowers.” Dorian finished lamely.

The man’s smile broadened into a slow grin that Dorian was tempted to think of as flirtatious. “I think I can definitely help you out with that, big guy. What kind of flowers are we looking for, here? Sexy flowers? First date flowers? Flowers for your mom?”

“Flowers for an apology? I missed a second date.” Dorian risked a glance at the man’s apron-covered chest, but couldn’t find a nametag. He dragged his eyes back to the clerk’s... eye. Well that was fascinating. “It was because of an emergency at work, I’m not an asshole--”

The smile was abruptly no longer flirty, but just as bright and the perfect expression for a salesperson. “You came to the right place,” he told Dorian conspiratorially. “Legend has it that the first bouquet Merrill ever sold was for an apology, and the name has stuck ever since.”

“Legend?” Dorian inquired.

“A place like this needs a legend, don’t you think?” He started walking down one of the gravel paths. “First time I came here, it was like walking into a fairy tale.”

“It does give off that feeling, yes.” The smell of nearby honeysuckle wafted to Dorian on the breeze as he spoke. It was distractingly perfect.

Along the wall, behind a bed of towering rose bushes, was a long table lined with vases, ribbons, wires, and colored paper. A pair of massive flower coolers, packed to bursting with a riot of colors, beside it. The bottom two shelves of the left-hand cooler was filled with blue and yellow flowers, and that was the door Dorian’s guide opened.

“Potted or cut?” he asked as he set up. “Cut bouquets don’t last as long but are easier. Less commitment.”

Dorian huffed. “That’s a low blow, coming from someone I’ve just met.”

Flowerman fumbled the daffodils he was retrieving from the bottom shelf. “On their part, I mean. Not everyone wants to be given something to be responsible for. What if they have to leave town a lot? Or just don’t have a green thumb?”

It was a good point.

“Are they a big gardener?”

Dorian thought about it. “I don’t… think so. We’ve only met once before.”

“Right, you did say second date.” He placed a pair of trimming shears on the table beside his flowers. “Bouquet then?”

Dorian nodded.

“Right.” He rolled up his sleeves, which was rude, and took a breath. “Daffodils are the kind of the big thing in this arrangement. They represent new beginnings, and they’re cute.” He wrapped a thin piece of wire around a solid handful of stems, then carefully turned the flowers so they all face outward.

“Flowers have meanings?” Dorian asked.

“Oh tons. It was a whole thing a few ages ago, especially in courts. You could send a whole secret message in a bouquet by choosing the right flowers. It’s kind of an academic interest of mine.” Flowerman surveyed his daffodils and nodded to himself. “I like to put the greenery in next, around the outside, to make a base, and then add the accents. Merrill goes from the top down.”

Dorian nodded, uncomprehending of the particulars.

“The purple hyacinths go in the middle-- three to five stalks, or it looks really phallic. They’re the ones that actually mean “I’m sorry.” And then bluebells dotted through the daffodils, which stand for humility.”

Dorian watched as for the next ten minutes, a man with biceps the size of his waist, a roguish grin and an eyepatch, fussed over the placement of individual bluebells and the height of the different hyacinth stalks. It was a little surreal, to be sure, but that fit the strange half-enchanted air of this place.

“And that’s the Whoopsie Daisy. It means, “I’m really sorry, I was an idiot, can we start over?” He handed it across the table to Dorian with another one of his bright smiles. Dorian missed the flirty one.

“You’re very good at your job,” he said.

Flowerman laughed and tucked a business card between the hyacinths. “You can leave a review on the website, if you want. I’m sure Merrill would love to hear what you have to say.”

Dorian smiled with him. “I’ll be sure to mention you by name. Which you never told me, by the way.”

“The Iron Bull.”

Dorian took that in. “I certainly won’t forget that. I’m Dorian.”

“That’s the idea,” The Iron Bull replied, giving him something Dorian assumed to be a one-eyed wink. “Come back soon, Dorian.”

“I will.” He would find a reason, he was sure of it.

Chapter Text

With the Vint gone, Bull took off the spare store apron he privately thought of as his and went back to the garden. His tea, sitting next to his papers on his favorite table, had gone cold, but he didn’t mind. That was one of the hazards of grading his students’ work here. He took it guiltily to the microwave in the breakroom. He was totally alone; the only other person in the shop was Skinner, and she was in the office doing something mysterious to the computer system, so theoretically, his Tama would never find out unless he said something himself.

He still double checked the room before he hit the button. Merrill’s wrath at abused tea was almost as terrible as his Tama’s.

And then, tea steaming and honey pot fussed with, he couldn’t put it off any longer. Bio 101. Not the worst group he’d ever had. No true, genuine assholes, but not the most attentive set of kids either. Bull took out his red pen and started at the top, immediately putting it back down, because Damien had written “orgasm” instead of “organism.” Again.

He worked his way slowly through the quizzes, and was immensely relieved to hear the buzzer go off at the back door. Merrill trudged in, unpeeling layers of scarves and tugging off her gloves.

“Did anything happen while I was gone?” she asked. “I had to take a different way back because there was an accident on the bridge and then I thought I saw a viscaria on the side of the highway so I pulled over to take a clipping from it, and then when I got back to my truck I had lost my bearings. So I went the wrong way for a while. But it was a lovely drive!”

Bull shrugged. “One guy came in for a Whoopsie Daisy, but that’s all.”

She tied on her apron and put her hair up. “You know you can always call Skinner to do those. Technically, that’s what she’s being paid to do.”

He laughed. “She’s better with the computers and I’m better with the people. And I don’t mind the break from my actual job,” he gestured to the heap of bio quizzes. He still had his entire second section left to grade.

Merrill grinned and offered him a trowel. “The succulents in the Hissing Wastes room need to be replanted, if you want to keep helping.”

The quizzes on the table were just not as appealing as real plants. “Just point me in the right direction, Boss.”

A nice distraction could have been all there was to it, but the hot Whoopsie Daisy guy came back a day later. Bull caught a glance of him through the front window, his hair an artful mess and his glasses just a bit askew. Rumpled academic was a look Bull had seen more than his fair share of, but this guy--Dorian, he remembered--really pulled it off.

He gave himself a second to appreciate it, because it was clearly intentional, and then went back to arranging the plants he and Krem had brought up to the front. It was rude to stare at people who had probably made up with the guy they’d gone on at least one date with.

Dorian loitered conspicuously just inside the street entrance to Whoopsie Daisy’s until Krem, whose customer service was lightyears ahead of Skinner’s, materialized and welcomed him into the larger greenhouse/cafe area. Bull was pretty sure there was a moment of hesitation from Dorian that was more than his own wishful thinking.

“I need flowers,” Dorian told Krem. “But nothing over the top, and not too cliche.”

“Well,” said Krem, with the fakest smile Bull had ever seen on his face, “you’ve come to the right place!”

Bull quietly threw his apron on.

“Do you have something that’s-- a flower that’s not romantic. Something you give a friend.”

Krem nodded along, smile fixed, as he steered Dorian towards the pre-arranged bouquets.

“A birthday flower. There has to be some of those.” Dorian pondered. “Something small? Potted, maybe? No, a bouquet.”

It was time for him to step in. “I can get this one for you, Krempuff.”

Krem gave Bull a look that said he knew exactly what Bull was doing, and that Bull was going to be razzed mercilessly for it the next time they went out for drinks, but all he verbalized was, “Thanks, I’d better go check on that bridal arrangement in the back, anyways.” Krem was, in Bull’s estimation, the finest of all friends.

“Hey,” Bull said, “Dorian, right?” He reminded himself again that just because Dorian was in the shop for platonic flowers didn’t mean he hadn’t patched things up with Second Date Guy. Or that Bull’s advances would be welcome even if it hadn’t worked out.

“The Iron Bull, yes,” Dorian replied with a smile that came on shier than Bull expected, “I’m just... just wondering if you could help me with some flowers.”

“Anytime. What are you trying to say?”

“It’s my best friend’s birthday. I was wondering if i could get her a bouquet that would say something along the lines of ‘I’m so glad we’re both gay.’”

Bull laughed. “I think I can hook you up with that.”

“She’s definitely not interested in looking after more living plants, so I think a bouquet is right this time as well.”

Bull opened the door to the back, enjoying, as always, the warm heat of the air around the greenhouses.

“I’d quit my job just to come work in this room,” Dorian commented. “Is it always the same temperature?”

“It’s nice, isn’t it? Merrill enchanted the whole room to the average temperature of the greenhouses. It took some getting used to, but I’d hate to give it up now.” Bull headed towards the herbal greenhouse in the back. “Best place to be in the winter, really.”

Dorian smiled up at him, for just a second. “I agree wholeheartedly.”

Bull cleared his throat. “So, for whatever reason, purple and green are the gayest colors, in terms of associations. Lavender, of course, and then violets are associated with lesbians specifically, and I think they look nice with grass as a filler, which also has gay connotations. And then I think throwing in some green carnations is always fun.”

Dorian didn’t seem to mind his sudden ramble. “That certainly sounds unique. Sera usually goes for yellows and reds, but variety is the spice of life.”

“Risky. I like it,” Bull said, wandering towards the Orleisan greenhouse to pull the carnations and lavender.

It was an arrangement he’d made before, but not with such good company. He regaled Dorian with the history of the green carnation and leaves of grass as symbols of queer love. Dorian listened, interjecting his own opinions at times. Bull could see where his perspective was tinged by a Tevinter upbringing, but it wasn’t like he didn’t have his own crap. And he laughed at Bull’s puns, which made up for a lot.

Centuries of oppression wasn’t exactly flirtatious banter material, but the conversation flowed better than any Bull had in a long time. If he were being honest with himself, Bull thought as he trimmed and arranged the long marsh grasses for greenery, he really hadn’t had many conversations outside his botany students, Krem, and Merrill in a long time.

When Bull had primped and tweaked the bouquet past the point of believable alteration, he wrapped it in lilac colored tissue paper and tied it off with a fistful of rainbow ribbon for good measure. It wasn’t subtle, and sort of overpowered the color scheme, but from Dorian’s description Bull thought Sera might be the type to appreciate it.

Dorian looked positively elated. “This is the perfect amount of garish, thank you.”

Bull laughed. “If you think this qualifies as garish, you should see my favorite bathrobe.”

Dorian flashed him a sly grin. “I’m certain it looks terrible on you.”

“Maybe, but I have it on good authority I look pretty good without it.” Bull winked, then retreated to the safety of the back room without remembering to ring Dorian up. Krem texted him a couple minutes later, with the most judgmental frowny face Bull had ever seen.

Chapter Text

Maybe Dorian’s apology would have gone over better if he had delivered the flowers in person, instead of having the receptionist send them to Second Date Guy’s desk in the middle of the workday. It wasn’t his fault that he’d run out of time in the morning, or that his lunch break was barely long enough to get to Second Date Guy’s office and back to his own.

It still seemed a little cold of Second Date Guy to leave a message on Dorian’s work phone, saying that it wasn’t working out and he hoped that Dorian found someone who was just as dedicated to their job as he was. On second thought, Second Date Guy did have the flair for the dramatic Vivienne had promised him, and at least Dorian wouldn’t have to employ subterfuge to figure out his name before a third date.

He listened to the message all the way through, schooling his expression so that his coworkers wouldn’t get suspicious.

“Bad news, Tevinter?” asked his cubicle mate, since he was failing at every basic task today.

He shrugged. “I suppose. But not unexpected.” There were about twenty unread emails in his inbox, and that frankly made him feel a lot worse than Second Date Guy’s annoyance.

Dalish smiled knowingly and tapped the side of the vallaslin decorating her nose. “Boy troubles.”

“We’re professionals, Dalish, please. It’s a romantic dilemma.” Some of the emails were junk. Three were from Aveline, about the Kirkwall/Rivain summit the next week.

“Is it really a dilemma if he’s already dumped you? Seems like the decision been made to me.” She crossed her heels and leaned back in her chair with a smirk.

“You snooped!”

She spread her hands eloquently. “We work at an intelligence agency, what did you expect?”

Dorian sighed. “Basically this. Perhaps a slightly thicker veneer of professionalism, but that’s mostly wishful thinking on my part.”

“Are you going to tell me about your boy troubles or am I going to have to research him myself?” Dalish took a long sip of her coffee and raised an eyebrow.

Dorian flopped backwards in his desk chair. “Don’t bother. He’s one of Madame de Fer’s dear young friends and I think he only agreed to a date at all because he was so happy she asked him to do something.”

Dalish made a theatrical gagging noise.

“My sentiments exactly.” He opened the first email from Aveline. From his first day at Justinia Analytics she’d struck him as a bit of an overplanner, and that impression had only ever proven itself more true. The emails contained a lot of detail about surveillance on an upcoming charity gala Vivienne was coordinating. There was a to-scale map of the ballroom (square, with a few tables), notes on the cooperation of the event staff (full), and a list of concerns regarding possible microphone interference from the bugs near the orchestra and magical interference from centerpiece enchantments. None of it seemed like anything that was really Dorian’s job to fix.

Vivenne should probably avoid seating any of the Rivaini Matriarchs next to the Viscount’s seneschal, though. Bran had a shockingly poor poker face for someone in politics. He hadn’t even tried to laugh at Dorian’s jokes. Varric’s romantic advice had not been heeded since.

“So,” Dalish said, after a period of silence that was, for the two of them, uncharacteristic and a little impressive, ”Are you, like, looking for a guy to date or do people just keep recommending them to you? Because I thought that you were going to get drinks with Dierdre’s brother?”

“A little of column A, a little of column B, I suppose. It does seem to be turning out to a whole lot of work, though.”

“They say that about relationships, yeah.” She took another long sip of her coffee..

Dorian sighed. “Maybe that’s my answer, then. I already have this full-time debacle, and approximately sixty-five percent of my dates over the past four months have cited my job as a major factor in their decision to not continue seeing me.”

“You do exit interviews with your failed dates?” she laughed.

“No. You know Dagna in R&D?”

“‘Course.”

“Her new pet side project is systemically quantifying my romantic failures.”

Dalish nodded sagely. Then again, if she did know Dagna, it probably made perfect sense to her. “So. Have you been out with anyone you’ve actually liked recently? You don’t exactly seem torn up over Ma’am’s Dear Young Friend.”

“No one I’ve been on a date with, no,” Dorian answered, acutely aware that Dalish had extensive training in reading microexpressions.

She leaned forward over her keyboard, eyes gleaming. “Who is it, then? Is it someone at work? Are you going to have to file an R-7291?”

“I don’t even know what that form is, Dalish.”

“Intimate relations and personal connections waiver, duh.” She shook her head at him. “Everyone knows about the R-files. They’re the best source of inter-office gossip in the building.”

“First off, no. Second, we really need to make our private personnel files a little harder to break into.”

“No fun,” Dalish pouted. “Now, are you going to tell me who he is? Because if not, I’m setting you up with a botany professor Skinner knows.”

Botany. Dorian shuddered. “I’ll pass. He um... I met him at a flower shop.”

“Ooh, was he there buying flowers for his husband? Is yours a secret and lonely love? Are you going to pine for him?” Dalish was sliding further and further away from her desk with each grand gesture.

Dorian put a foot out to stop her chair from rolling right into him. “No. He was working there, and he was nice, and he made the apology bouquet I sent to Madame de Fer’s young friend, so I can never go back and talk to him ever again.”

“Except,” said Dalish, “that you already did. How else did Sera get those flowers she texted to everybody?”

“Fine, I did go back. But I didn’t tell him I was single. When is that going to come up in casual conversation?”

“When you ask him out, maybe?”

Dorian huffed. For a spy, Dalish had no real sense of subtlety.

--

Whoopsie Daisy’s was, as always, blessedly warm. With Satinalia over, the sparkling ornament stand had come down, replaced by a small rack of wall calendars depicting different flowers for every month of the new year. Dorian tucked one under his arm. If Dalish was going to make fun of him anyways, he might as well brighten up their cubicle while she did it.

He ducked through the vines that sheltered the entrance to the larger area, trying to look around for Bull covertly. Not that he had minded the strapping Tevinter fellow that greeted him last time, just… he and Bull had developed a rapport.

“Dorian, hi!” Bull emerged from a greenhouse labeled Hissing Wastes--Rare Specimens, dusting sand from the knees of his jeans. The sleeves of his blue oxford shirt were rolled past his elbows, and his apron was absent today.

Dorian nodded. The Hissing Wastes seemed to have taken up residence in his throat as well.

“Are you a Woopsie Daisy’s regular now?” Bull looked pleased. “It’s great to see you again.”

Dorian nodded a second time.

“Are you looking for something specific, or were you just stopping by? The cafe here is a great place to get out of the cold, if I do say so myself.”

In a brilliant display of depth, Dorian shook his head. “I’m on a rather tight schedule, unfortunately.”

Bull looked unphased. “No problem. I’m sure I can help you find what you’re looking for.”

“I’m looking for-- flowers. A thank-you bouquet.”

“Those are some of my favorites.” Bull grinned at him. “Flowers have been used as expressions of gratitude for ages, and the history is fascinating.”

Dorian smiled back. “Is there anything that’s just a flower? Or does everything have double meanings?”

“Not many. Some new breeds that weren’t around in the Coal Age when floriography was most popular dont have special meanings attached, and a few that are too rare to ever be included in arrangements of the period. But flowers almost always have a lot going on under the surface.”

Dorian, after trying and failing to think of something properly erudite to say to that, carried on: “So, the concept is ‘good job,’ ‘thank you for your hard work,’ and ‘please take a break.’ If there’s anything that’s about keeping secrets or being discreet, that’s good too.” Dorian thought for a minute. “Also marigolds.”

Bull, who had been nodding along thoughtfully, blanched. “Marigolds?”

“They’re her favorite.”

Bull rubbed his chin. “It won’t have the meaning you’re talking about, since marigolds meant despair and cruelty, but I can put it with some dark pink roses and solomon’s seal, make it look nice.”

“That’s fine,” Dorian said quickly. “Not because the meaning doesn’t matter, but-- I mean, I don’t think she’s the type to know flowers the way you do.”

“Alright. Is this for a coworker or...?”

“Yes,” Dorian responded too quickly. “Aveline. She’s spent a lot of time organizing an... uh. Well, she’s doing some work for an event. Meeting. Thing.”

“Oh cool,” Bull led him to a greenhouse and produced a bucket of marigolds, placing a fair fistful into a hammered copper vase. “So, discretion, huh? What do you guys do?”

“That’s, um.” Dorian, in a spectacular display of why he was an analyst and not any sort of field agent, began to panic. “That’s classified.”

Bull gave him a long look. “Right.”

Dorian made an inarticulate gesture with his hands.

Bull returned the marigolds to their shelf and spent a minute deliberating between colors of chrysanthemums. “Mums are cheerful flowers,” he said, as if Dorian hadn’t done any of what he just did, “and they stand for rest and friendship, too. They’re homey. Do you like the red or the white better? I don’t think we need much more orange.”

“White, I suppose?”

Bull slipped a few into the vase, then squinted at it. “Two others, I think. Pink roses, for thankfulness, and Solomon’s seal, for discretion. That good?” he turned to Dorian with that same smile.

Dorian cleared his throat. “You’re the expert.”

“Just trying to make sure you like the end result.”

“Really,” Dorian said. “The last two bouquets you made for me were amazing. Educational, as well.”

Bull laughed, and Dorian found himself leaning towards the sound. “Glad you think so, big guy. Let me know how your coworker likes it, unless that’s classified too.”

“You might have to sign a waiver or two,” Dorian said. “But I’m sure she will. Thank you, Bull.”

Bull rubbed the base of his horns. “Any time.”

Chapter Text

“For someone called a prodigy as often as you were, you’re really quite dumb.”

“Felix, you’re getting your third doctorate. You’re not smart either.” This was Dorian’s idea of a perfect night in-- calling Felix to complain about his life and watching bad romcoms until he fell asleep. Now if only he could get that poor stray cat to come in off his fire escape and stay with him where it was warm.

“Have you at least given him your number yet? You should give him a way to reach you that isn’t just showing up unannounced at his place of business. Eventually, it’ll be a day he’s not working or he’ll be busy with another customer.”

“That’s fine!” Dorian said. “I go there to buy flowers, not to see him.”

The silence on the other end of the phone had the distinct air of one of Felix’s looks. “Three times in two weeks, when I asked you if you thought I should give Cameron roses when I proposed, and you called it trite.”

“Roses are trite,” Dorian insisted. “And I’ll get Bull to back me up on that.”

--

“You know what you should get for Bastien?” Bull said as he and Merrill loaded Vivienne’s arrangements into her car. “Roses.”

“Roses?” Vivienne sounded dismayed. “Bull, darling don’t you think that may be a bit...done?”

Bull shook his head. “They’re classic. And I’m not saying hand him a single rosebud and call it a day, I’m saying that done tastefully, a bouquet could highlight exactly the qualities that made roses a symbol of romance in the first place.”

Merrill squinted at him. “You’re not usually in favor of roses.”

“Well, We can’t have ma’am just throwing him a fistful of honeysuckle or something. It’s got to have opulence. Style.”

“That’s true,” Vivienne chuckled. She waved to the driver to pull away from the curb. “Perhaps I will consider it if you tell me who has you feeling so romantic. Maybe I know them.”

“I don’t need you arranging any meetings for me, Ma’am.”

“Arranging introductions is my profession, dear, not my hobby.” Vivienne allowed Merrill to steer her inside, where there was less snow and more hot tea. “Are you calling me a matchmaker?”

Merrill giggled.

“I think you have a romantic streak,” Bull said.

“That,” said Vivienne, “I will freely admit to, in proper company.”

The store was getting a little busier, with Wintersend coming up. Skinner had set up the new website, complete with preorders for their bigger bouquets, which Merrill started early and preserved with magic, but most of Woopsie Daisy’s customers came for the ambiance almost as much as the product. Bull had started out the same way, really, just looking for a warm place to grade papers that his students probably wouldn’t go to on their own.

And then Merrill had needed help repotting some arbor grace, and the rest was history.

“So who is it?” Merrill asked, when the new kid in the cafe had brought them their drinks. Tea for Ma’am, cocoa for him and Merrill, with lots of marshmallows. “I bet it’s that guy in the history department you play chess with.”

Bull laughed. “No. Hard pass on him, I’m afraid.”

Vivienne looked thoughtful. “Is there a reason you haven’t yet pursued them with your particular charms?”

“Well…” He considered brushing it off. But he’d never seen anyone lie to Vivienne, even by omission, and get away with it. “I met him because he came here to get a Woopsie Daisy Special-- because he missed a date. Not a great start. I’ll get over it.”

Vivienne’s silver fingernails tapped thoughtfully on her teacup. “Because he is careless, or because you are not confident in your ability to steal him?”

“Vivienne!” Merrill exclaimed. She looked scandalized and delighted.

“I’d have to know both he and his boyfriend were open to it before I felt comfortable hitting on him,” Bull told them. “I’m not a fan of being someone’s dirty little secret.”

“Nor should you be,” Vivienne agreed. “But I do not know his boyfriend at all, and I’m the first to admit I’m biased. You should give him your number the next time you see him. Give him a chance to make the right choice.”

Bull sighed. He was never going to win an argument with Vivienne de Fer.

--

Strictly speaking, Dorian did not need a plant on his desk. He’d tried a couple years ago, when Leliana first hired him, and had either underwatered or overwatered it quite terribly. But he’d grown, since then. He’d matured. Surely, if he were to buy a plant for his desk now, and perhaps if someone who knew plants very well were to give him some advice, he’d keep it alive for more than two weeks.

He’d looked online and found plenty of conflicting information, so that seemed as good a reason as any to seek expert guidance.

He nodded to the Tevinter cashier who’d helped him before, and stepped into the back. He felt like he knew what he was doing, like a regular. Cactuses seemed like a good place to start, so he went to the Hissing Wastes greenhouse that Bull had been in the last time he’d come in.

It was not nearly as simple as he’d hoped. There were a dizzying array of cacti, each breed of which had a sign with care instructions in front of its display. The font was tiny and cramped, and included a massive quantity of detail on best light levels, soil types, fertilization schedules, water needs, and notes to refer to the rack of care pamphlets for “more detailed instructions.”

“I didn’t expect to see you in here,” said someone behind him.

It was Bull, thankfully. “I’m looking for an easy desk plant,” Dorian said, too startled to remember any manners. Bull wasn’t wearing any of his usual button-ups, just a flimsy piece of fabric that didn’t deserve to be called a shirt. It didn’t even cover his arms.

“Well, you’ve come to the wrong place, my friend,” Bull told him with an easy smile.

“I noticed,” Dorian said “I thought cactuses were supposed to be simple plants.”

“No such thing,” Bull said. “Never has been.”

“Ah,” said Dorian. “I suppose I should just...”

“There are plants with simple maintenance needs,” Bull told him quickly. “But there’s a lot going on inside any plant.”

Dorian thought about that. “If you say so.”

“I do say so. And I teach people about plants for a living.”

“I’ve certainly learned quite a bit so far,” Dorian replied. “About the meanings, if not the science.”

“The science is really cool too.” Bull’s eye lit up with the excitement of a genuine nerd. Dorian knew the look well. For a terrifying moment, he thought Bull might be about to teach him introductory botany right then and there, but Bull simply said. “If there’s a plant in here you want to know a little more about, I can probably tell you about it. In the meantime, let’s get you to a more beginner-friendly greenhouse.”

He guided Dorian out, pausing briefly to brush a finger longingly over the needles of a pale, pinkish cactus that sat on its own plinth in the corner.

The greenhouse Bull took him to wasn’t empty. There was an elf there, humming quietly to herself as she stuck a finger into the soil of each of the planters. She looked up with a smile when they came in. “Bull! You’ve brought me a friend.”

“Yep.” Bull matched her cheerful tone. “Merrill, this is Dorian. He’s looking for a resilient desk plant. Dorian, this is Merrill. Everything you see here, she made herself.”

“Not all of it, Bull. I ordered lots of glass panes and girders and things. All I did was put them together and enchant everything and put the seeds in the planters. The plants grow themselves.”

“Yeah, not that big a deal now that you mention it,” Bull said dryly.

“I’m impressed,” Dorian added.

“What sort of plant are you looking for?” Merrill asked.

“Anything in a small pot I won’t kill straight away,” said Dorian, “I haven’t done terribly well with plants in the past.”

“Don’t kill my plants.” She frowned severely at him and then turned to Bull. “Groundcover only. I have to figure out why these loriope are misbehaving, so this is on you.”

“You got it, Boss.” Bull ushered Dorian further into the greenhouse.

“Only groundcover,” she called after them.

“That makes things easier, really.” Bull stopped in front of a tall set of shelves full of leafy green plants. “Let’s start here and see what we find. Do you want something that flowers?”

Dorian looked helplessly at the array of similar looking plants. “Surprise me.”

“Brave words,” Bull lifted a pot down off the top shelf. “The rune here on the rim will glow when the soil gets dry,” he said, pointing. “Whatever I get you I’ll repot in here.”

“That’s brilliant,” Dorian said. “Those should come standard on everything.”

“Merrill’s idea,” Bull deflected. “It helps keep people from over or under watering their plants. I’m not much of a magic person myself, but anything that keeps innocent plants out of office trash cans is fine by me. If you have trash cans in your office. You don’t have to tell me, if that’s classified information.”

Dorian groaned. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Nope.” Bull grinned. “But if you want to keep people from prying into your personal life, you should choose a line that’s less intriguing.”

“I can’t help that I’m dashing and mysterious,” Dorian told him, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

“Gotta be tough sometimes, being so fascinating and enigmatic.” Bull looked at a plant and put it back on the shelf with a shake of his head. “Speaking of fascinating, did your date like the flowers?”

Dorian cleared his throat guiltily. “Not really. That’s my fault though, not any reflection on the quality of your arrangement.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Bull said. He sounded genuine.

“It’s not the first time.” Dorian shrugged. “My job isn’t really that mysterious, just demanding. It doesn’t seem to lend itself well to dating.”

“I have friends who’d say that’s not just the job’s fault.” That could have been insulting, but Bull’s smile softened it. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right person.”

Dorian laughed. “Not for lack of trying. I’m not sure if my coworkers have any cousins, gay step-brothers, or friends left to foist me off on during company holiday parties.”

“So you’re choosy. That’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Bull disappeared behind a wall of foliage, but his voice carried back to Dorian.

“And yet,” Dorian muttered to himself. “And yet.”

“It sounds like your friends want you to be happy. Maybe a little too much, even, if they’re throwing all those people at you.”

“They’re all just busybodies. It comes with the territory.”

“The secret, classified territory.”

Dorian dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t know why I said that. My job itself isn’t classified, I just have to have a security clearance to do it. Do you know Justinia Analytics?”

Bull’s head popped out from behind the plants. “Yes.”

“I’m one of the analysts. I analyze.”

“Oh,” said Bull. “Thanks. I understand so much more now.”

Dorian rolled his eyes at Bull, who smiled innocently at him between layers of potted jade plants. “I mean-- I just mean it’s a hard job to explain fully, and it’s a hard job to date with.”

“What makes it so difficult?” Bull asked. “Seems to me like you just... find someone that makes you happy, that’s willing to put up with the time commitments.”

“You say that like it’s so easy to find what you’re looking for.”

Bull returned, presenting Dorian with a square temporary pot of what appeared to be ordinary, if particularly lush, clover. “Sometimes it really is staring right back at you, big guy.”

Chapter Text

“Nice plant,” said Dalish, a few days after she noticed it. What the benefit of concealing it had been, Dorian couldn’t possibly guess. “Where’d you get it?”

Dorian was neck-deep in transcriptions of a phone call that Charter had “just happened to overhear” between a Magister and an Orlesian diplomat, who were were being quite affectionate, despite calling each other all sorts of names in public. “A florist.”

“Hmm.” Dalish squinted at him for a long while. “The one you got Sera’s flowers from?”

“Yes.” He flipped the page back over. That couldn’t be right. Aventus couldn’t possibly be stupid enough to support a coup to overturn the membership of the Council of Heralds out of lust. There had to be money involved as well. Somehow.

“Has the pot got one of those little runes for idiots that tells you if you’ve forgotten to water it for fifty years because you can’t remember to feed yourself some days, never mind care for a living thing that depends on you for survival?”

If there wasn’t money involved, then there must be magic. An artifact of some sort, potentially powerful, probably not. Dorian had met Aventus a few times. He couldn’t imagine the man ever calling anyone clementine. On that note, who was this Orleaisan and what did she want, that she would put up with that? “Merrill knows her clientele.”

“So you have a terrible and hopeless crush on Krem?”

Dorian remembered, with a horrible sinking feeling, that Dalish had mentioned her wife doing the web design for a flower shop recently. He put down his printout. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Krem,” Dalish said, like Dorian was the one not making sense. “the guy who works at Whoopsie Daisy’s. Human dude, Vint, looks like he could benchpress half our department? Is that the flowerguy?”

He stared at her. “The flowerguy is not Krem. Don’t try to figure out who the flowerguy is.”

“Hm,” said Dalish. “No, I think I’m gonna.”

Dorian picked his printout back up, determined to ignore her.

--

Bull was a firm believer in office hours. He encouraged all of his students, not just his grad kids, to come to him with questions. He’d started out of obligation, but it had quickly become one of his favorite parts of teaching. It was easier to engage students one on one than it was to lecture from the front of a classroom.

His fourth year of teaching undergrad intro classes at eight in the morning, he’d moved his office hours out of his office and into a nearby coffee shop, and then students actually started showing up. When he found Whoopsie Daisies during a winter semester, the trickle of students had become a flood.

Today, though, it was just him, Asha, and the potted asters Merrill had either left them as a table decoration or simply forgotten about. His grad student twiddled with the glowing runes on her heavy bracelets as they discussed their fast-approaching research trip to Kont-Aar. “I really want to see if there are any intact cart tracks to measure axle length from,” she informed him. “I think it could really help us extrapolate the real purpose of those weird looking plow blade things they found last year in Vindaar."

“We’ll look into it,” he promised her, “but remember, the main goal is to see if we can determine crop rotation schedules. We’re looking for potential locations for seed storage in the ruins, first and foremost.”

“Of course, Doctor Ashkari, but I still think there’s academic merit in figuring out how wide a Black Age Qabala’s ass is.”

Bull laughed. “I guess. Not sure they put you in the archaeology hall of fame for it, though.”

She tossed her pink braids and smirked at him. “Oh, I’m definitely in this job for the fame. Rockstar, actor, Archon, archeological botanist.”

“I’m just saying, if you want to change your thesis, that’s your prerogative, but my research is still focusing on non-magical seed preservation methods and the post-Qun agricultural revolution.” He took a sip of his cocoa. “So hopefully, that’s what my assistant will be helping me with.”

“Yeah, but you’re a giant softy, so you’re going to give me at least a whole day to myself every week, so I’ll have plenty of time to to run over and measure what needs to be measured. Recreationally.”

“Right, but you can’t change your thesis until you actually submit one that’s a declarative statement with no sentence fragments, dangling participles, or profanity.”

“Fuck you, Doctor Ashkari.”

Merrill walked by with an arm full of cactus, and Bull turned to watch the Par Vollen Mihanovichii pass. “She looks beautiful, Merrill.”

“You can’t have her, Bull,” Merrill warned, casting a protective barrier over the pot.

“Hi Merrill,” Asha said. Her voice came out a little scratchy. “How are the-- are the spidergrasses doing okay today?”

“Oh, hello, Asha!” Merrill put the Mihanovichii on the table for a moment. Bull stroked the pot gently and she swatted his hand. “They’re doing much better! I checked the ph of the water like you suggested, and that wasn’t the problem, but while I was looking for my extra chemical test strips, I noticed that the fertilizer I’d been using had a touch of fungus! So I’ve got Krem repotting them.”

Bull chuckled. “You can help if you want, Bull,” Merrill told him.

“I can,” said Asha.

Merrill smiled. “That’s sweet, Asha. You’re interested in parasitic fungi in subtropical environments, right? Do you want a sample before I hunt every spore down with fire spells?”

“Uh. Yes, I fungus.” said Asha. “Sounds great. Thanks, Meriill.”

“Wonderful! I left the jar in storage, just a minute.” She swept the Mihanovichii back up, glared at Bull, and vanished between the greenhouses.

“Yes, I fungus,” Bull repeated when Merrill was out of earshot.

“Look,” said Asha. “I--she’s so---she remembered what I told her about my thesis!”

Bull laughed. “Congratulations.”

Asha blushed, but she was still smiling.

Bull heard the door to Merrill’s cold room open and shut as she returned, holding a jar marked “BAD DIRT.” She didn’t drop it in Asha’s lap, but it was a close call.

“Thank you for taking this,” she said. “Please do terrible experiments on it and make it a huge fungus monster so I can fight it to death.”

“Totally.” Asha nodded vigorously. “I will do that.”

“Not in my lab you won’t,” Bull warned.

Merrill looked up. “Dorian! You’re back!”

Bull and Asha looked over as well, just in time to see the door close behind him.

“Oh well, I guess he didn’t need flowers today.” Merrill didn’t seem too put out. She looked Asha straight in the eyes. Bull could almost see Asha’s heart skip a beat. “Remember. Fungus monster. I kill it. All fungus dies.”

Chapter Text

Dorian could have kicked himself. Of course someone like Bull already had a partner, and of course she looked vivacious and interesting and not like she made her money as a glorified eavesdropper. She probably knew all about plants had given him a rosebush last Satinalia and she probably never said stupid thing like “that’s classified” just because someone hot asked her a question she wasn’t expecting.

He couldn’t even call anyone to complain about this. Sera would laugh at him, Felix would give him good advice, and Cassandra would just tell that him he was being unreasonable and to get over himself.

She would have been right.

He poked moodily at the boxed salad he’d bought at the agency cafeteria. What he needed was to stop meeting strangers in the hopes that something magical would click and fill the empty spot next to him that society insisted should be occupied. He needed to stop relying on his friends and coworkers to find something they thought would like him, and suffering through awkward small-talk with men he nothing in common with beyond a mutual acquaintance.

What he needed to do was take stock of the men he already knew and was friends with, and see if there were any deeper connections to be cultivated. Like Bull had said, maybe it was staring right at him and he hadn’t noticed.

It couldn’t be any of his coworkers, or diplomats or foreign assets. Offices romances seemed dangerous in general, even without the potential for international political complications if something blew up in his face.

He grabbed his phone and texted Dagna. Is it too late to say I’d love to come to your Wintersfriends party on Saturday? Additionally: Will Tevin be there?

Plan set in motion, he took a bite of his salad. It really wasn’t that bad.

His phone pinged just as he was heading back to his desk. he said no last week but he just changed his mind when I said you asked about him :3 are you gonna make a move? you know I think you guys would be super cute!!

Maybe. He smiled at his phone. Don’t tell Sera.

too late arsewipe!!! Widdle’s driving right now so uve been texting me the entire goddam time!!!

Dorian sighed.

as ur biffle i have to tell you tevins an artsy douche but you like artsy douche butts so thats okay

“What are you grinning at?” Dalish asked, materializing in the hallway in front of him. “Are you texting flowerguy?”

“It’s Sera,” he told her, and she deflated. “And there’s no point in trying to figure out who flowerguy was. I’m moving on.”

Dalish chuckled. “Sure you are, Tevinter.”

Despite his friends, or perhaps to spite them, Dorian spent the rest of the day feeling strangely optimistic.

--

The feeling did not last until Saturday evening. He arrived at Dagna’s house feeling both under- and over-dressed, unsure that his plan to finally go on a third date would survive this first, not-really-a-date meeting, and generally unenthused about being around so many people.

It was loud when he opened the door, and he headed for where it was loudest. Sera was standing on a couch in the living room, trying to organize a beer pong tournament. He waved her down.

“No one’s telling me their team names!” she shouted.

“Get one of Dagna’s whiteboards out of her office,” he suggested. “They can write them down. Or just draw dicks.”

“Good idea!”

He hoped Dagna didn’t have too many important things written on whichever whiteboard Sera chose.

Danga herself was in the kitchen, rationing out drinks and organizing the food. Tevin was with her.

There’d always been some family resemblance between them. Dorian doubted that Tevin was a natural blonde, but he couldn’t imagine him with Dagna’s red hair instead. Tevin was a bit shorter, but both Smythe cousins had the same cheerful grin. Dagna’s just didn’t have any undertones. She genuinely was that happy.

“Dorian.” Tevin nodded cordially at him. He was more stocky than muscular, and thanks to one drunken conversation close to a year ago, Dorian knew his beard was really quite soft. He could see this working.

“Tevin.” Dorian accepted the drink Dagna handed him. It was very blue. “How’s your film going?” Dorian had no idea whether it was the same film as last time they’d talked, but it hardly made a difference.

Tevin sighed. “Terribly. The lighting team is having a huge amount trouble capturing the exact tone we need.”

“Isn’t the lighting team Jaimie and his laptop?” asked Dagna.

“Yes. You see the problem,” Tevin told Dorian.

“Very clearly,” Dorian agreed.

“Hey,” said someone behind him. “You guys are blocking the drinks.”

Dorian followed Tevin to a moderately calmer area of the house. He could hear Sera’s tournament picking up steam a room away. “Aside from that film, how are you?”

“Well enough.” Tevin sat on the loveseat along the wall. After a moment, Dorian elected to join him. “The studio’s last piece didn’t really get the attention we were hoping for, but the reviews that did get written were all pretty positive.”

“I’m sure it’s only a matter of time,” Dorian assured him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “The screening Dagna brought me to last year, Terebor’s Thaig? I was impressed. And I can only imagine that you’re coming more into your own as time goes on.”

Tevin preened a little, which Dorian counted as a success. He took a sip of Dagna’s blue concoction. It was surprisingly smooth.

“I was proud of that one,” Tevin said. He glanced sidelong at Dorian. “Would you be interested in a private showing?”

Chapter Text

The Wintersend wedding season ended about a week after the actual annum, and the whole staff of Whoopsie Daisy’s (including honorary members Bull and Asha) breathed a collective sigh of relief as the final arrangement left the store.

Bull was happy to have the store back to normal. Wedding parties seemed to just carry tension with them, and he always felt bad taking up a table with his work when there were paying customers who might want it. Not that he didn’t try to be a paying customer, Merrill just wouldn’t let him be.

He didn’t even have any quizzes to grade, just a lesson plan for an upper level class on the history of Ferelden agrarian methods, which was really more of a lecture course than a lab one. Setting himself up at his favorite table near the espresso bar, Bull got to work.

It was slow going.

“Excuse me, young man?” He looked up from his laptop. The elderly dwarf in front of him looked apologetic. “Sorry to bother you. Could you point me in the direction of the potting soil? I’m a bit lost, I’m afraid.”

Bull stood up. “That’s all right, I can show you. Are your plants native to Ferelden or do you need something more suited to northern flowers?”

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t even think of that. Native, I believe. My grandson brought it to me yesterday. It was a sweet gesture but it needs a bigger pot.”

“We’ll get you what you need,” he promised, and spent the next ten minutes doing exactly that while learning all about her grandson.

When he’d brought the bag of potting soil out to her car, he got waylaid by a couple looking for advice on an easy plant for their new apartment. He sent them on their way with a couple philodendron and one of Merrill’s smaller ficus trees. On his way back to his lesson plan, Krem pulled him into the cold room.

“I need your help,” he said seriously. “Lace’s mom is having us over for dinner and I don’t know what to give her. I brought wine last time so I can’t do that again.”

Bull sat on a stack of pallets. “How long have you guys been dating? A year?”

Krem started pacing. “Yeah, and she has us over once a month and I’m running out of gifts.”

“Maybe it’s time to accept that your presence is gift enough?” Krem glared at him. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Last month she talked about how gray the winter is. Should I get her a painting?”

“Easy, Krempuff. That’s probably a bit over the top. Have you considered flowers?”

“Flowers.” Krem stopped in his tracks.

Bull gestured at the arrangements on the tables around them. “They’re colorful.”

“I can’t get her something from the place I work, chief,” Krem said slowly. “That’s so lazy.”

He shrugged. “Maybe if it were any other florist shop. But I bet Merrill would enchant something to a sing a song for you if you wanted.”

Krem turned over a bucket and sat down in front of Bull. “I’m so desperate I’ll consider it. What flowers?”

Bull turned it over in his mind. “Sunflowers are always cheerful. Maybe in a bouquet with something orange? Or purple, for more drama.”

“She has these crazy purple curtains in her living room,” Krem said thoughtfully. “Maybe we’ve got something that would match them.”

“There you go!” Bull stoop up and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got to get working, but come show me the finished product if you want an opinion.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Krem grabbed his arm. “First you’ve got to tell me about this mystery guy Merrill says you’ve got a thing for.”

Bull shifted a little uneasily. He really did have to go and work on his lesson plan. “Not much to tell. He’s been to the shop a couple times, laughs at my jokes, has a boyfriend.”

“Oh, so exactly your type then,” Krem said. “Friendly enough to be an idiot over, but still tragically unattainable so you don’t actually have to commit.”

Krem was the worst. He wouldn’t be Bull’s best friend if he weren’t. Bull patted him on the cheek and left the cold room.

“Hey,” said somebody as he closed the door behind him. “You’re an employee, right?”

Bull looked at the sign on the cold room door that said “Employees Only” and shrugged. “I can get the boss for you if you want.”

“Nah, that’s not necessary.” The blond dwarf held up two of the small ready-made bouquets from the front. “I just need a second opinion. Would the roses be coming on too strong? There’s other stuff in there, but people say all sorts of stuff about what red roses mean.”

“That’s true.” Bull considered the two arrangements. Both were perfectly nice, though not especially inspired. Merrill had been training a new hire, he was pretty sure. “If you don’t want any possible confusion, the tulips are probably a safer bet.”

The roses got dropped on the table next to them. Bull picked them up. “Would a different color be better? Maybe white’s a little… virginal.”

Bull had gotten really good at not sighing at Merrill’s customers over the years. “There’s red tulips too, and purple’s pretty popular.”

“What colors do people usually not get?” asked the dwarf.

“Yellow?” Bull suggested. “That one’s got a meaning too, actually. When people talk about flower language, yellow usually means jealousy.”

The dwarf looked at the flowers in his hands again. Bull liked the arrangement, though it was a little simple. The yellow tulips were nestled in between bunches white acacia blossoms, which wouldn’t usually work because the stems were such different lengths, but this was clearly an exercise in wire wrapping.

“Tulips in general represent passion, maybe because of the name,” Bull continued. “Put your two lips on mine, that sort of thing.”

The dwarf snorted. “You know what, that sounds like exactly the thing Dorian would think was funny. Thanks, man.” He turned and walked away, leaving Bull with a bouquet of roses in his hands and a ball of lead in the pit of his stomach.

Chapter Text

Tevin knocked on Dorian’s door at 7:34, and those four additional minutes were plenty of time for Dorian to second-guess everything about his outfit, Riviani food as a good dinner choice, and the entire concept of dates. Letting someone into your home? Going into public together? Terrifying.

He took a moment to breathe deeply before opening the door. It really didn’t help.

Tevin looked the same as he ever did, which was to say just a bit too slick to be hipster, though he’d made concessions to the cold weather in the form of a red knit scarf and beret.

He gave Dorian an appreciative once-over and presented him with a bouquet of yellow and white flowers. “Thank you,” Dorian said, and banished the thought of the Iron Bull from his mind.

“Sure,” said Tevin. Then, “Is that what you’re wearing?”

Dorian looked down at the pale green shirt and plum blazer he had started thinking of as his first date ensemble--Sera said it made him look “like that guy from Clue, but hot if you’re into that”--and back at Tevin. “Is this too formal?”

Tevin adjusted his beret. “No, no, not at all. I only meant, ah, that you’re a very handsome man. I look forward to being seen with you.”

“Thank you,” said Dorian, but he didn’t feel quite mollified.

“So,” Tevin said when they were piled into Dorian’s car, “Consumed any good media lately?”

“Recently I’ve been reading a lot about the rise and fall of the Qun,” Dorian answered, looking around for the landmarks Tevin had mentioned when giving directions to the indie theater downtown (he didn’t believe in using GPS, Dorian was informed, because it kept one from fully experiencing the world). “So well intentioned at the start, yet so poorly executed. It has a fascinating history that provides a mirror to Tevinter’s own follies.”

“Hmm,” Tevin nodded sagely. “We can gain great wisdom from the tragedies of the past.”

Dorian wasn’t sure what part of the history he was studying qualified as a “tragedy,” but he nodded sagely as well rather than ask. “What about you? Have you, er, consumed anything lately?”

“I have been dining on The Marquess’s Stables,” Tevin declared.

“I haven’t heard of it. What’s it about?”

“It’s really a masterclass in light theory,” Tevin informed him, “and the symbolism of the gestalt in the later half of the production is just--” He sighed in satisfaction and stared dreamily out the car window.

“Is it a TV show?” Dorian asked, noting a particularly weathered cafe sign and hoping this was the left turn at the old diner Tevin had meant him to take.

Tevin described The Marquess’s Stables enthusiastically several more times without providing Dorian any concrete answers on its plot, characters, setting, or media format. He supposed he could always look it up when he got home.

When they finally found the theatre (it turned out Dorian had driven past the correct old cafe while telling Tevin about the history of mages under the Qun), they were already a few minutes late for the documentary they were meant to be seeing.

Tevin had chosen the movie. It was meant to be some sort of examination of how one goes about finding a fulfilling life, Dorian was fairly certain. He found it quite heartwarming, even if the old Nevarran couple featured towards the end made him feel lonelier in his singleness than ever.

“Trite, but not terrible,” Tevin evaluated it over dinner.

Dorian could say the same.

--

“Thanks for doing this, Merrill,” Bull said, opening both sides of his van’s doors. “I know I could hire a sitter, but you’re the only one they really like.”

“It’s no problem, really,” Merrill said, “I’ve got the room. Might as well put someone up in it for a few months. Plus, it’ll give me practice creating subiomes in the same room before I do that big flowers of the world thing the Federated Dales wants me to do for their Mythalday parade later in the summer.” She pulled on her gloves and hefted the largest of the many potted plants out of the bucket seat.

“Still, I appreciate you looking after them.” Bull touched a finger to the petals of his pulsatilla, stubbornly blooming even before the last frost.

“Oh, that fellow’s a bit early, isn’t he?” Merrill asked. “I mean I know they’re hardy little things but I can’t help but worry for him.”

Bull shrugged. “I suppose.”

Merrill’s brow furrowed. “What’s on your mind, Bull? You’re usually so excited to go on research trips. I thought Rivain was your favorite. You don’t have to worry for your pulsatilla, I’ll make sure it stays out of the cold.”

“I know you will, Merrill. It’s not that.” He sighed. “I’ve just had a few more things going on here than I usually do when I pack up and leave for a month or two.”

“Well, you’re taking Asha with you. I’m certain she’ll be great company. She’s always eager to help out around here.”

Bull rubbed the base of his horns. “I know. I just...”

“Oh, this is about Dorian.”

“What about Dorian?” Bull asked too quickly.

“You know exactly what about Dorian,” Merrill answered, snatching the pulsatilla away from him and balancing it precariously on the edge of the large potted Citron sapling she was already carrying. “Now, for your own health I’m taking these somewhere where you can’t moon over them until you talk to Dorian properly. The worst that can happen is the same tragically star-crossed nonsense you two are already inflicting on my flower shop.”

Merrill gave him a firm nod and marched all of four steps away before saying, “actually, if you could help me carry these? It felt very symbolic in the moment but I’m worried the top one might fall off.”

--

Dorian called Tevin three days after their date, because Dagna had told him Tevin hardly ever answered his texts. He thought real time conversations were essential to interpersonal understanding or something, and while Dorian hadn’t found the conversations they’d had so far to be entirely electrifying, he was willing to put in the effort. He talked to Felix at least twice a week, if Dorian wanted a boyfriend, he could talk to him too.

Naturally, Tevin didn’t answer, and Dorian was put in the strange position of leaving a voicemail. He hadn’t done that in years, not even for work.

The tone sounded. “Er, hello, Tevin, it’s Dorian.” He cleared his throat.

“I just wanted to thank you again, for the flowers. And um. Also the date. It was...illuminating, and I’d be happy to...do it again? If you’d like to, that is. Anyways, ah, this was Dorian. Thanks. Bye.”

He had a very strong urge to throw his phone across the room. He made himself a cup of tea, instead, because phones were expensive and he was theoretically an adult.

Tevin was nice. He was smart and attractive, and interested in things that Dorian was far from an expert in, so there was always something new to talk about. Dagna thought they were cute together. He understood what it was like to have a busy schedule for a job you were dedicated to. He hadn’t said no when Dorian asked him out.

Really, Dorian couldn’t see what he had to be so picky about. Tevin was perfectly nice, and he could be perfectly happy if he just stopped mooning over unattainable men and appreciated what he had.

His phone rang.

Chapter Text

“Hello?” Dorian was relieved that he hadn’t thrown his phone after all.

“Hey, Dorian, listen,” Tevin began, “It was nice of you to call.”

A sense of inevitability washed over him. It wasn’t quite as dramatic or agonizing as he had hoped it would be. Dorian resisted sighing into the phone.

Neither of them said anything for a long, awkward forty-two seconds.

“I think we both know what’s really going on here,” said Tevin.

“Look,” said Dorian, “I know that we’re not--”

“You know my career’s about to take off, and you want to see that, you want to support that. And that’s really nice of you. That’s great, but...” Tevin let out a performative exhale. “You’re just not cool, Dorian. You’re a really nice guy, but you just don’t have that je ne se quoi.”

Once upon a time, Dorian had been the star of Tevinter’s actual social scene, the one behind the stifling pageantry of altus society. He had been the one who knew the back ways into all the best parties, all the front ways out of the worst. He’d been at the first show in the Arena Subterra. They'd named a cocktail after him. And he’d had a front row seat to the implosion of that whole affair just before the implosion of his own.

He’d been cool. He’d been sought-after and parodied and toasted in every gay bar in the country, and he’d been publicly derided as an expression of all the secret ills of polite society. When the opportunity had presented itself to come be a no-name analyst in a Fereldan backwater, leveraging his contacts for an extra-governmental agency rather than his own personal gain, he’d jumped at the chance. It still stung a little, though.

“Not cool. Right.” Dorian hung up before Tevin could.

Honestly, this was about as well as any of his other attempts at dating had gone. At this point, he wasn’t even surprised, just a little disappointed, and mostly on Dagna’s behalf.

It was a spring day--early summer, really-- warm enough for even Dorian to venture out without a coat, and so he satisfied himself with snatching up the keys to his Honda in a suitably dramatic fashion and pushing his glasses firmly up the bride of his nose before stomping out.

He’d show Tevin who the cool one was.

--

Kont-aar really was one of the best places to visit. It was always warmer than Fereldan, and the food was always better. Bull liked the spring, when the rains were just starting, though of course the winter was the best season for digs. But the air in the spring reminded him of home, and the scents that wafted through the city streets from food carts and the spice market in the historic district were so much like Par Vollen.

It was great to see Asha in the city, too, running from stall to stall like a kid in a candy shop. They had an hour before their bus left for the dig site, so he just sat at one of the outdoor cafes and drank his coffee, watching her zip around the market.

She stopped by the table and dropped off part of her haul-- spices, of course, the kinds that were hard to find in Ferelden, packaged in tins and little plastic baggies. They’d have a hell of a time getting those back across the border, he thought. She’d also scored a little pocket field guide to the native plants off of one of the kids selling souvenirs to tourists.

“It’s for Merrill,” she said, not meeting his eye.

“I’ll take good care of it,” he told her, and she darted back out into the growing morning crowd. He sat back and watched the people around him. A storefront across the plaza from him was doing brisk business selling pastries and coffee to locals moving through on their way to work.

People flowed in and out of the two open doors at a pace very different from his own breakfast, passing in front of large planters full of multi colored zinnias. He could just see a team of three people behind the counter, dashing back and forth to keep up with the demand. At the table next to him, a couple ordered their third round of mimosas.

He liked that contrast, seeing how people lived their everyday lives right next to people on an exciting adventure. It was part of the reason he liked spending so much time at Whoopsie Daisy’s, watching the staff share their knowledge with people totally new to the world of flowers.

He liked sharing his own knowledge too, and learning about the people who came into the shop. People like Dorian were especially interesting. A little attraction, a little mystery, and even if nothing ever came of it, Bull had a great time figuring out what made people tick.

He turned the little field guide over in his hands, wondering if Dorian might like one too.

--

Walking into Whoopsie Daisy’s in the late spring was a strange experience, only because the weather inside felt normal. Dorian’s umbrage carried him straight through the vines that Merrill was allowing to slowly consume the doorway, past the espresso bar and its accompanying little round tables, and on into the difficult cactus greenhouse. It was only then that he realized he had no plan, either for locating Bull or for the encounter that would ensue.

He mostly had just been thinking about how Bull didn’t seem to have any criteria one had to meet to hang out with him. He was just as happy digging in the dirt for hours with Merrill, by all accounts a unique individual, as he was talking flower symbolism and politics with Dorian. He had no pretensions as far as Dorian could tell, and didn’t require his friends to have any either. What profession was more honest than gardening? Certainly it was far more genuine than filmmaking.

Dorian took a deep breath and resolved himself to walk out the door and casually purchase some sort of friend for his desk clover. Perhaps some lavender, or another sort of plant that he had seen normal, rational people buy before. He could be rational. Perhaps he would have an enchanted moment with a new, different flower shop boy, who would also think he was cool. Perhaps his meet cute would occur just as he walked back out the greenhouse door, looking suave and confident. Perhaps he would meet someone else who interested him as much as Bull did.

Full of new certainty that life was going to work out, Dorian threw open the greenhouse door to greet the new day. The new day greeted him with a resounding crack and a shower of what tasted to Dorian like a mixture of sand and potting soil. It, along with the multicolored scrubby little flowers that had been in the pot, sprayed all over both Dorian and the young man left holding the remaining chunks of terra cotta.

“Whoops!” said Dorian’s assailant. He cracked a crooked grin. “Um, whoopsie daisy?”

Dorian bushed some of the dirt off his sweater, nonplussed.

“You know, like the name of the shop?”

“Oh, right, yes. Sorry.” Dorian smiled back a little too late, but the tension in the man’s broad shoulders eased nonetheless.

“I’m Alistair,” the man told him, bending over to dust dirt and stray petals from his hair. “I figure I should introduce myself before Merrill murders me for hurting her zinnias. Someone should know how to identify the remains.”

“Dorian,” said Dorian. “Charmed.” And he was.

“Sorry about the flowers,” said Alistair. “And the dirt. That’s a nice sweater. I’ll pay if it needs dry cleaning.”

“No need,” Dorian told him. “I throw it in the wash all the time.”

“Oh!” Alistair looked from Dorian to the pot in his hands and back. “You’re probably looking for some flowers! I’m still sort of new, but if you know what you want, I can help you find it.”

“Actually,” said Dorian, “maybe you can. I’m not here for flowers today, I’m actually looking for someone. Do you know Bull? He works here most Wednesdays, I think.”

Alistair frowned. “I don’t think so.”

“Vashoth, wide horns, one eye, about this tall?” Dorian held his hand above his head.

“Okay, so, when I said I was still sort of new, I meant, ‘this is my first day.’ And ah, I spent most of it learning corporate policies about things like how we’ll get fired if we tell other people personal information about employee schedules.” He flushed. “Not that I think you’re a stalker or anything, probably. Unless you are, but. The point is, you seem nice, I don’t know him, and I couldn’t tell you anything if I did. Can I get you like a potted geranium or something? I know where those are.”

“No, no. I suppose I do sound a bit like I’m stalking him, now that you’ve said it like that. Probably for the best you stick to your principles on that one. I’ll just, ah, come back later and speak to him directly, I suppose.”

Alistair nodded. “All right. You’re sure you don’t want some zinnias? They seem to like you.”

Dorian shook his head. “I’m sure. Thanks for your time.”

Since it seemed like his entire day was going to be just a series of anticlimactic failures, Dorian went to see if Sera felt like watching bad romcoms and getting drunk.

Chapter Text

Having been properly chastised by his encounter with Alistair, and then having gotten properly drunk with Sera after, Dorian elected to do the mature thing: he waited a full week before going back to Whoopsie Daisy’s so he wouldn’t seem creepy.

He arrived to find Alistair relegated to manning the cash register, and exchanged a pleasant nod. It seemed he wasn’t the suspicious type. Dorian ducked behind the vine curtain, which had begun to sprout white, star-shaped blossoms in the summer warmth, and entered the greenhouse area. The tea tables were bustling today, little pockets of people out enjoying iced coffees and summer fruit concoctions. None of them were Bull.

Bull was also not in the difficult cactus greenhouse, though the pink cactus he kept telling Dorian about was looking quite at home on its little plinth. Dorian also checked the table where Bull had constructed his bouquets. There were three people behind it, each with a line of customers waiting for arrangements. He didn’t see anyone he recognized, not even Krem or Merrill.

Dorian wandered around, trying to look like he was interested in the flowers while keeping an eye out for familiar faces. Finally, he shrugged and pulled open the door to the poison garden greenhouse. At least he would learn something.

Bull wasn’t there, either, but he did manage to startle Merrill, who appeared to be doing something very delicate with a trellis plant covered in what looked like small tomatoes.

“Dorian!” she said, wiping off the shears. “I didn’t expect to see you here! Not that it’s bad or anything, I mean. It’s always nice to see you. I just didn't think you’d be visiting today.”

Dorian wracked his brain for a plausible, non-murder reason he could be shopping for poisonous plants and finally said, “It’s lovely to see you too, Merrill. Is Bull around by any chance?”

“Oh, he didn’t tell you?” Merrill asked, frowning.

“Didn’t tell me what?”

“He and Asha are in Rivain right now. He won’t be back for another month.”

“Oh,” said Dorian. “Is Asha the one who-- the elf with the pink hair?”

“Yep!” Merrill did something to the plant. “She’s lovely. She’s experimenting on some mold for me.”

“That’s nice of her?” Dorian asked. Of course she was some sort of cool plant researcher. And Merrill would approve of her, wouldn’t she?

“She’s always so helpful. She’s gotten so much less shy over the past year or so too. For a couple months I thought she was only ever going to talk to Bull. She’s really warmed up to me, though. Bull says she was just intimidated, but I don’t see how anyone could be.” She clacked her pruning shears thoughtfully. “Anyways, that’s where Bull and Asha are. Can I find you a plant? You didn’t kill that clover Bull gave you, did you?”

“Not yet,” Dorian said.”The, ah, the reminder rune helps.”

“Good,” Merrill said, still holding the enormous shears. “Perhaps by the time Bull gets back from his trip I’ll let you have an aloe plant.”

Dorian was pretty sure that wasn’t how most retailer-customer relationships worked, but he wasn’t about the argue with Merrill in the middle of her poison greenhouse. Corpses probably made great fertilizer. And besides, he didn’t want to mess up his chances for the aloe plant.

Merrill turned back to the plant, considering it carefully before snipping off a single leaf. “Dorian, what was the first bouquet you came here for?”

“The eponymous Whoopsie Daisy, of course.” He chuckled. “A last-ditch attempt to save a relationship that was over before it’d begun, really. Why?”

“Just wondering.” She smiled in a way that made him suspicious, though he had no idea what of. “I’ll tell Bull you stopped by.”

Dorian blanched. “No, please don’t. I mean-- that’s not necessary, you don’t need to bother him while he’s on vacation.”

“I think he’d be happy to hear it, but all right.” Before he could even start to figure out what that meant, the door opened behind him.

“Er, Merrill.” It was Alistair. “There’s a bit of an issue at the cash register, and I texted Skinner like you said, but I think she’s on break. It keeps blinking this red light on the card reader but it’s not giving me any prompts on the screen, so do you think you could help? Somehow?”

Merrill slipped her pruning shears into a pocket of her apron and followed Alistair out of the greenhouse. Dorian glanced around at the plants, which seemed suddenly menacing, and left as well.

--

For no reason in particular, Dorian decided that for the next month or two, it would be best to focus his attentions more fully on work. The Tevinter social season, with its many bribable waitstaff and buggable pleasure boats, was coming into full swing, and Dorian had more analysis and fewer boyfriends than he knew what to do with.

This very practical line of thinking meant it just so happened he had not visited Whoopsie Daisy’s anytime recently. Which was fine, and normal, and it really was a bit strange to spend all one’s time in a flower shop anyways. It wasn’t something he thought about doing often, of course. In fact, flowers, their history, and anyone who might or might not work with them very rarely crossed Dorian’s mind at all. Or so he had told Felix a good half dozen times.

With all the time he had to focus on work, Dorian had been delving more deeply into the ongoing “clementine” nonsense with Magister Aventus and his pet Orlesian. After positively ascertaining that money was not involved, Dorian decided he likely needed a more thorough understanding of what magical artifacts might possibly be on offer for the Magister if he did support a coup.

Thus, Dorian found himself on a trip to the local university library, in search of some very old Circle records kept on Maker-forsaken microphice. He was expecting a dull time in a room full of dust mites that would most certainly aggravate his allergies. He was not expecting the landscaping of the library to be on fire. He was most certainly not expecting to encounter The Iron Bull holding a small flamethrower.

“Fuck yes!” Bull yelled, sort of pouring some more fire over the base of some tangled vines that looked similar to what Merrill had been pruning the other day, though without greenhouse magic these were berryless. “Take that you invasive bastards!”

Asha was a few dozen feet further down the wall, burning more vines with magic, and a small huddle of students, all wearing safety goggles, were watching intently and taking notes. But aside from Dorian himself, no one seemed particularly concerned by this display. A student with their arms full of books shouldered past Dorian as he stood in the middle of the path.

“Doctor Ashkaari,” said one of the gaggle, “What should we do about the fumes in areas with heavy traffic, like this? This has got be classified as an eye irritant, at least.” Dorian looked around, trying to figure out who the girl was speaking to.

Bull put the flamethrower thing down with clear reluctance. “Asha’s taken care of that for us this time, but that’s a great question. It’s runes, right, Asha?”

“Yes, Doctor Ashkaari.” Asha was wearing a leather jacket and seemed even less inclined to stop throwing fire to discuss minutiae than Bull.

“Keep in mind also that this is not exactly what you’d call a proportional response,” Bull told them. “Normally controlled burns are only really done in forest settings, away from populated areas. You can get rid of woody nightshade like this with regular old weed killer, but I wanted to give you guys a chance to look at magical and nonmagical burn techniques somewhere besides deep in the woods, where mistakes can be catastrophic. There’s tons of magic and shit keeping this library from accidentally burning down. Not so much in the Kocari Wilds.”

“Plus,” Asha added casually, “Fire.” She punctuated her statement with a fireball that even Dorian found a bit showy.

The students all murmured and scribbled in their notebooks. Dorian distinctly heard one of them sigh wistfully.

The class continued for another fifteen minutes, during which Dorian barely moved. In that time, he discovered that he was witnessing some sort of advanced forestry class, that forestry was an interest of Bull’s, but not technically his official academic area, and that every single female undergraduate in the ten person course had a noticeable crush on Asha.

An interminable amount of detailed plant talk and fire throwing later, Bull called wrap up. Asha drew a few glyphs that Dorian recognized as her releasing whatever fume capture she had been maintaining, and Bull assigned an essay to a chorus of groans.

Just as Dorian was starting to wonder if perhaps his slackjawed staring was noticeable, or worse, uncool, Bull started towards him. “Dorian! Didn’t expect to see you here.” He was smiling. Dorian wondered if he could evaporate like the plant fumes.

Asha glanced from her own notebook with a look of keen interest.

“I… must say I didn’t expect to see you here either,” Dorian stammered, not sure how to convey that his entire impression of Bull’s career had just been uprooted entirely.

Bull grasped him in something that could have been considered a handshake, but took both hands and lasted far too long for the term to be appropriately applied. “Oh, hey, you still haven’t met Asha.”

Asha walked over. She was even more muscular and friendly looking up close.

“Dorian, this is my grad student Asha, Asha, this is my friend Dorian.” Bull looked extremely pleased to introduce them.

“Grad student?” Dorian parroted, then got a hold of himself. “Charmed.”

“Yeah,” said Asha, “I’ll bet you are.”

Chapter Text

“Don’t you have another class, Asha?” Bull asked.

“Not really,” Asha told him, looking far more gleeful than any grad student had a right to be.

“Good, then you have time to swing by Doctor Rainer’s lab and help him with those lead level titrations.”

“Whoops, no, I forgot, I totally have a uh...plant. Lab. Class. Thing. Bye.” Asha scurried in the direction of the science center parking structure.

Bull watched her go, then stop and look over her shoulder to check if he was still paying attention. He waved, and she scurried off for real. “She’s a good kid.”

“Seems that way,” Dorian said. He shifted, looking slightly uncomfortable. “I was just, um, visiting your library for-- well, actually, I think this time it really is a bit classified.”

Bull didn’t mind. He’d just spent thirty minutes setting invasive plants on fire, and Dorian looked good in real sunlight.

“Is it urgent?” he asked. “Because the student center here has shockingly good apple pie.”

Dorian looked at the library, then back at Bull. “I’ve never tried that before.”

Was he joking? Bull stared at him. He wasn’t.

“But I really should see if I can find this particular record--”

“No,” said Bull. “This is a matter of national security. Unless the world will end in thirty minutes, we’re getting you some pie.”

“Trust me, the matter I’m researching is nowhere near important enough to bring about the apocalypse.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Bull told him.

The student union was significantly too dirty and brightly lit to qualify as a romantic location, so it was fine that the only spot they could find to sit was on a couch that was only barely too big to be called a loveseat, and that Bull had paid for both of their slices. It made sense, he got five percent off since he was faculty.

He dug right in, but Dorian hesitated, legs tucked under him. He poked at the pie with his plastic fork.

“It’s good, I promise.”

Dorian smiled, just for a moment, and Bull tried desperately to be unaware of where Dorian’s unavailable thigh was touching his own. “We don’t have apples in Tevinter, you know. Well, I mean, we do, but they’re all imported and mushy.”

Bull did, in fact, know that, but had not applied the knowledge to Dorian’s likely experiences with apples in the past. “It was the same in Par Vollen,” he told him. “Coming to Ferelden and having an apple is like eating a whole different fruit. I couldn’t believe it the first time I had one fresh here. And the best way to eat it is definitely in pie form.”

Dorian raised a tentative bite to his lips, pausing to make sure he had exactly equal amounts of crumb topping, bottom crust, and actual filling. Bull really was sunk if he found even that endearing.

Bull tried to avoid creepily watching Dorian eat as he took a long, slow moment to chew the bite and swallow. He took a second bite almost instantly.

“‘S good,” Dorian told him around his mouthful. “Tastes like Satinalia.” He was grinning with crumbs in his mustache. Bull was going to die.

“I think I owe you an apology,” said Dorian when he had eaten a bit more.

Bull paused with his fork partway in his mouth. “What for?”

Dorian looked uncomfortable. “I assumed you worked at Whoopsie Daisy’s.”

“Well, I did sell you a bouquet of flowers.” Bull thought about it. “Actually, I think I sold you flowers pretty much every time I saw you there. It was a reasonable assumption.”

“That’s worse,” Dorian said. “You didn’t need to do any of that, I’m sure you’re busy. You’re a professor! Right? You have classes to teach.”

Bull laughed “I don’t mind. It’s like a hobby.”

Dorian’s expression was as suspicious as Merrill finding a cold room door ajar.

“Really. I like helping people, figuring out what they want, what they’re looking for. And Merrill’s place is just awesome. It’s just a great place to be.” He smiled at Dorian. “You know what I mean. Merrill said you stopped by once or twice while I was gone.”

Dorian blushed, which was a fascinating thing to watch. It spread across his nose and onto his ears. “I’d hoped she wouldn’t tell you. I wasn’t trying to be weird, by going to your job or-- or something..”

“It’s not,” Bull assured him. “I don’t even work there.”

It was fun to watch Dorian try not to laugh.

“Hey Dorian.”

“Yes?” Dorian looked up from his pie.

“Why do potatoes make good detectives?”

Dorian raised a single eyebrow.

Bull grinned. “They keep their eyes peeled!”

Dorian coughed into his hand, but he couldn’t disguise the snort. Bull felt very proud of himself.

“So,” Dorian asked, “Do you have any actual hobbies? A bowling league at an alley you pretend to run perhaps, or do you cook at a restaurant you just went to, one time?"

“Just plants,” Bull said happily. “I started out just grading papers there, but Merrill needed help one day with some of her more finicky heirlooms, and the rest is history I guess. Plus, if I help out enough, maybe she’ll let me plant-sit her mihanovichii sometime.”

“It’s good to have goals,” Dorian told him. “I don’t understand yours at all, but it’s certainly good to have some.”

Bull resisted the temptation to lean into the smile Dorian was giving him. Instead, he said the first thing that popped into his head. “What’s one goal you’ve got that no one else would understand?”

Dorian sighed thoughtfully, scraping up the last of his pie with the edge of his fork. “I always wanted to learn street magic. You know, card tricks and making scarves appear from people’s ears, that sort of thing.”

Bull couldn’t entirely suppress his surprised laugh. “But you’re a mage, aren’t you?”

“Exactly,” Dorian said. He was blushing again. “So I never learned how to do that. I just...It’s silly, but I’ve always felt there was something a bit more exciting about magic you have to earn.”

Bull was fully aware of the years of study it took to become a competent mage, but didn’t think now was the time to bring that up with Dorian. “Do you need an assistant?” He asked instead, “I look pretty good in a top hat.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” Dorian said. “You asked. I answered.”

“I’m serious,” Bull said. “This is my new life goal. You have to learn magic now, so that you can help me achieve my new but very real dream of being fake sawed in half while wearing fishnets and a spangly vest.”

“If I go down this road,” Dorian warned, “You’re coming down with me.”

“Sure,” Bull said. “I’m fine with that.”

Chapter Text

It had been a day of revelations. The Iron Bull had not gone to Rivian for a romantic getaway with a mysterious young woman. The Iron Bull did not work at Whoopsie Daisy’s. The Iron Bull had a doctorate in paleobiology. The Iron Bull had no romantic interest in Dorian.

Also: Dorian had not succeeded in getting over the Iron Bull.

Bull walked him back to the library, and right up to the door, too caught up in the story he was telling Dorian about the Roble de Sabana seedlings he’d brought back from Rivain to care. After listening Bull talk about them for a few minutes, he was reasonably certain that it was a species of tree.

“It’s all about soil acidity,” Bull told him. “Acidity and humus content makes all the difference.”

“Naturally,” Dorian agreed, stepping through the door as Bull held it open. He had never heard of humus before. The student worker at the desk glanced up at them for a scant moment before returning her attention to her book.

Bull rubbed the base of his horns. “I guess I should let you look up your records now. I’d offer to help you find what you’re looking for, but I wouldn’t want to learn anything I shouldn't. It’d kinda ruin my day if you had to kill me for knowing something.”

“Mine too,” Dorian chuckled. “And it’s been so nice. It would really be a shame.”

Bull grinned at him. “All right. Don’t be a stranger, Dorian.”

Dorian watched the door close behind him and sighed a little bit before he turned to the circulation desk.

“Are you Doctor Ashkaari’s boyfriend?” asked the student behind the desk. “Can you ask him to stop doing his fire stuff so close to the library? Like, everything’s enchanted, but it freaks out my supervisor.”

“No,” said Dorian. “Can you tell me where the university’s microfiche records are kept?”

“No to the request, or no to the boyfriend?”

“Er... yes?”

The look the student worker fixed him with seeped Dorian with disdain, but she did guide him to the archives. Once alone again, Dorian did the mature thing and immediately ignored his work in favor of texting.

u havent had apple pie before???? was Sera’s first coherent response to his update on his sad lack of romantic advancement. how r u ALIVE??

And then, he finished, he didn’t even ask me out.

wtf??????????????????????

My sentiments exactly.

--

Bull’s office was a formality. It would have been a cozy space for a human or elven tenant, but he often found himself knocking his horns against the light fixture and banging his elbow on the windowsill. He couldn’t even keep potted plants inside because he kept knocking them over.

He had trouble focusing in there on the best of days. This day, while objectively a good one, was even worse. He caught himself staring out the window five times in half an hour before he gave up and went to Whoopsie Daisy’s.

The arbor blessing was in full bloom and the line at the register was moving briskly when he got there. Krem nodded at him as he went by, then went back to helping a stressed-looking man choose ribbon colors for his camellias.

The air in the Hissing Wastes rare specimens room was as hot and dry as ever, and the contrast from the spring humidity outside was refreshing.

The Par Vollen Mihanovichii was on the stand under the UV bulb, looking as pink and mysterious as ever, and Bull spared a moment to sigh over it. It wasn’t Dorian’s fault he was unattainable, Bull reasoned, nor was it his boyfriend’s fault that Bull had taken an instant dislike to him, even before knowing he was Dorian’s boyfriend. Bull let out a slow breath and went to find something that needed repotting.

The dwarf hadn’t been worth of one of his best Whoopsie Daisy’s Apology Specials though. That much was clear, Bull thought, grabbing a trowel. He had obviously gone straight for the basic bouquets at the door, and only come into the greenhouses because he’d waited until ten minutes before closing to buy his flowers. Who even did that? Picking flowers took time.

“Bull,” Bull froze at the sound of Merrill’s sternest tone, “are you repotting my plants while you’re upset again?”

“Uh... I feel like ‘yes’ is the wrong answer here.”

“I’ve told you not to do that,” Merrill reprimanded him, snatching the flat of little nipple cactuses away. “You’ll frighten my plants.”

“You can’t scare a plant, Merrill, I have a PhD in plant stuff.”

“I have seven awards from the Fereldan and Orlesian gardening associations, and I say you’re scaring them. Now tell me what’s wrong before you give them all root rot or something.”

“It’s not important,” he muttered.

She scowled at him. “It’s important to you.”

“There’s nothing to be done about it, though.” Bull tried to accept the words as he said them. He chanced a look at Merrill, who was carefully nestling the little nipples back under their heat lamp to be repotted another day.

“That doesn’t mean it won’t feel good to talk about it.” She didn’t look up from the cactuses, and Bull was grateful for that. “You’ve listened to me talk about so many things that I couldn’t do anything about, but it helped a lot to have someone hear me say it.”

“But that was all stuff about you and your life and your feelings. I’m just bummed because some guy has a boyfriend who isn’t me.”

“Bull,” said Merrill, “I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what feelings are. You’re experiencing some right now.”

“Huh,” said Bull, “feelings suck.”

Merrill wrapped her arms around his shoulder. “Yeah. They do. You know what helps more than scaring my plants?”

“Drinks?” Bull asked.

“Drinks,” she agreed.

Chapter Text

The bar Merrill chose for them was, unsurprisingly, full of lesbians. She seemed to know most of them somehow, and insisted on introducing each one of them to Bull in turn. All this was fine, but they were all short, and Bull felt his back begin to ache from stooping far earlier in the evening than he had originally intended.

There was a birthday party in part of the bar, already pretty loud, so Merrill guided him to a table in a back corner. He felt a bit out of place, not because he was vashoth, or even a dude, but because everyone else in the room seemed to be having a great time.

Merrill bought him some nachos, which helped.

“So this boy,” she said when they’d finished half the chips, “he’s the same one you were talking about before you went on your trip?”

“Yeah,” Bull sighed. “It feels dumb. I only see him when he comes to the store, really.”

“But he keeps coming to the store,” Merrill pointed out.

“And so did his boyfriend.”

She leaned forward. “Really? How do you know?”

“Because this guy came in to get flowers, and he said they were for Dorian.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty of people with that name in Denerim,” said Merrill. “It’s a big city. Almost twenty thousand people, if you count the college students.”

Bull gave her a look. “Long story short, today is the first time I’ve seen Dorian outside Whoopsie Daisy’s. He thought I worked for you, actually. I know basically nothing about him besides the fact the he works at Justinia Analytics, is allergic to stripweed, and has a boyfriend.”

“And that you like him,” she chirped.

Behind her, the door swung open, admitting yet another blonde dwarf in flannel, though Bull couldn’t make out any features from his current distance.

“Yeah,” said Bull, “but that’s not really relevant to him.”

“It could be, if you told him.”

“Excuse me, do you have any Slavering Mabari on tap?” asked a voice Bull recognized instantly.

“Never heard of it,” the bartender told Dorian’s boyfriend.

He gave a theatrical sigh. “Then I suppose I’ll have a cider.”

Bull turned in time to see the bartender glance, expressionless, at the cider menu before reaching into a cooler and handing the guy a bottle. This was not the ideal way to spend his night. He forced his attention back to Merrill, but it seemed he had covered the moment too late.

“Bull? You zoned out.”

“Yeah, I, uh--sorry.”

“Are you feeling ill? I never see you lose focus like that.”

Bull leaned over the table. “You see the guy at the bar?”

In a classic display of subtlety, Merrill turned around in her chair to look. “The blond dwarf with the cider?”

“Yes, the only other dude in the bar right now. Him.” Bull whispered.

“What about him?” She was still speaking at normal volume. Bull was dying inside.

“That’s Dorian’s boyfriend.”

She around again to look at him, then back at Bull. “Personally, I think you’re much more attractive.”

Bull sighed. “Thanks, Merrill.”

“I mean, who wears a scarf like that indoors?” She squinted in the low light of the bar. “Are you sure this is worth your time? Because maybe Dorian just has really bad taste, or something.”

“He doesn’t have bad taste,” Bull defended, “he just, uh..” As Bull spoke, he watched the boyfriend request, and eventually receive, ice cubes and a rocks glass for his bottle of cider. Bull found himself trailing off.

Merrill looked a third time, and grimaced. “You were just telling me something, Bull?”

“Look, it’s none of my business.”

“You could make it your business.”

“You sound like Ma’am.”

“You can’t get a job like Vivienne’s without being right about a lot of things, you know,” Merrill told him, biting down primly on her orange slice. “Now, I need to tell you about what my latanas have been doing, because they are not behaving, and I really think you were right about the light source, but I’m not certain what to do instead. I suppose I could leave them on timers, but they’d have to be moved to the artificial grow lights in a different greenhouse for that, and I doubt they’d react well to the new temperature.”

Bull tried to devote his attention fully to Merrill’s issue, but he couldn’t help but watch Dorian’s boyfriend out of the corner of his eye. The dwarf joined the birthday party on the other side of the room. They seemed happy to see him, because they got briefly louder.

Merrill got pulled into a conversation with a friend of hers a few minutes later, leaving Bull at loose ends. He excused himself to go to the bathroom, receiving an absent wave in return. When he crossed behind the girl she was talking to, he gave Merrill a thumbs up, just to mess with her, and was feeling very pleased with himself when he nearly walked into Dorian’s boyfriend.

“Sorry!” he narrowly avoided kneeing the guy in the gut.

“It’s fine,” said Dorian’s boyfriend. “Don’t I know you?”

Bull rubbed the base of his horns. “Yeah, you bought some flowers from me one time. Did your date like them?” he asked, because he hated himself, apparently.

Dorian’s boyfriend shrugged. “I didn’t give them to him. They didn’t feel… authentic.”

“Oh,” said Bull. “That’s fine.”

The bar door opened again and, as if summoned by Bull’s own anxieties, Dorian materialized in a swirl of leaves. Bull became abruptly aware that he was talking to Dorian’s boyfriend and there was no escape from what he would surely experience next.

Sure enough, Dorian looked around and then made a beeline for the two of them. “Bull!” Dorian greeted warmly. Then, far less warmly, “Tevin.”

“Dorian,” Tevin said, shifting from one foot to the other. “It’s... nice to see you.”

“How’s your film? Playing well with the cool crowd?” Bull could practically see icicles dangling from Dorian’s words. He had clearly critically misjudged the situation here.

“Commercial success isn’t really an accurate measure of the value of art,” Tevin told him, looking like he was about to deliver a full lecture on the topic.

“So...no.” Dorian looked smug.

“I have to go, uh, get...nuts.” Bull said dumbly, grabbing the bowl of nuts nearest him on the bar and making an expeditious retreat. The bus stop wasn’t far. Merrill could drive herself home, or get the girl she was still talking to to do it.

--

“Wow,” said Tevin, watching Bull go. “He’s just gonna take their nuts and leave?”

The door swung shut behind Bull. Dorian swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Apparently.”

“Now that’s a statement.”

Chapter Text

Bull thought that returning the nut bowl to Merrill’s favorite bar would be the most intensely awkward interaction he had this year, but that was before Ma’am invited him to the opera.

It started out normal enough-- Vivienne called him, exchanged brief pleasantries, and then said, “Bull, I am so looking forward to your presence at the Performing Arts Center’s production of Ariadne auf Naxos this evening.” It was, Bull thought privately, as close as Vivienne could bring herself to saying, Bastien is busy tonight. Want to hang out? Bull appreciated the effort.

It did mean digging through the back of his closet to find his only suit, though; aside from fine arts adventures with ma’am, his only real formal events called for him to wear doctoral robes. He liked his robes, and the little octagonal tam that went with them. They made him feel medieval and dramatic, and he always had a great time horrifying his department head by wearing colors underneath his robes that clashed terribly with their cerulean fabric and gold science trim.

But going to the opera with Ma’am meant wearing nice clothes, and buffing the scratch out of his best dress shoes, and shaving. He hated shaving, but trying to style his beard was always worse, so he took it all off instead.

His reflection looked naked when he was done. The eyepatch-- a dull black one that was about as subtle as an eyepatch on an eight-foot vashoth could be-- seemed more lopsided than usual.

He sighed. On campus or at Whoopsie Daisy’s, in his normal life, he embraced the way he looked. He liked turning heads and filling the space. But at formal events, in places that skewed rich, human, and conservative, the attention was always negative.

Vivienne couldn’t go to the opera alone, though. The gossips would have a field day speculating about her relationship with Bastien, and she’d be swamped by people trying to score the empty seat in her private box. She always gave him a nice bottle of wine the next day as well.

One good thing about dressing up was jewelry. Digging around in the dirt all day didn’t lend itself well to shiny accessories. He switched out his basic gold earrings for glittery silver to match the shimmer on his tie. He didn’t have a fraction of Vivienne’s closet space, but greyscale and glitter was always a safe bet as a compliment to her outfit. A bit of eyeshadow and his best horn balm topped it off. He’d look...acceptable.

She texted him when her car pulled up, and he tried to move quickly, but Wynne was already outside, gossiping with Vivienne through the window. He shooed her away as politely as possible and slid into the back seat.

“So this opera’s about Ariadne getting rescued from the labyrinth and then immediately abandoned on an island, by her dick boyfriend, right? Just want to make sure I know who I’m rooting for.”

Vivienne chuckled. “In part. It’s Nevarran, though, so it can’t have just one narrative at a time. Think of it as a play within a play. Or a farce within a farce, really.”

“So this is one of the ones where I block your face from the press at critical moments so no one knows you laugh at dick jokes,” Bull said, settling into his seat.

“If you would be so kind.” She patted his face. “I like the clean-shaven look on you, you know. It makes you look less like a scruffy professor and more like a dangerous socialite.”

Bull grimaced. “If you say so, ma’am.”

The lobby of the opera was packed. Bull had to move very carefully to avoid bumping into anyone, even considering the swathe Vivienne cut through the crowd. He kept a hand on the small of her back, less to guide her and more to keep from being separated. Few things seemed less appealing than being adrift in this crowd alone.

“Horns up, darling. We’re here to be seen, not keep people from noticing us.” Vivienne’s voice was pitched to a murmur, an encouragement rather than a reprimand.

That made him want to slouch more, but he straightened his back and winked at the woman staring at him from the stairs. She blushed as pink as the magnolia flowers in the vase next to her and turned back to her companion. Bull sighed.

When they finally reached Vivienne’s box, it was a massive relief. The lights in the house were still up, practically putting them on display, but the distance made it better. Sort of like the difference between being a cat in a room full of people and a fish in a tiny bowl. He couldn’t get out or hide under a chair, but at least no one would try to touch him.

Vivienne placed herself happily in the chair closest to the balcony, leaning forward a little to wave at someone in the orchestra pit. Bull hovered anxiously by the door until one of the opera house staff opened it and handed him a bottle of champagne and a plate of tiny cakes. Then he had no choice but to go to the front of the box to give Vivienne a glass.

“Cheers, darling.” It was only due to how long he’d known Vivienne that Bull could see the faint strain at the corner of her eyes. It helped, in a way, knowing this was hard for her too.

“Cheers, Ma’am.” Their glasses clinked, and Bull settled in for the show, doing his best not to look down.

Chapter Text

Finian Tabris was a field agent, and he worked mostly in conjunction with the Anderfels desk, so although Dorian had definitely seen him at holiday functions, they had certainly never talked. Anders’ desk was on the other side of the bullpen, practically a world away. Dorian would not have assumed that Finian even knew he existed.

“Hey Tevinter,” Dalish whispered as they left their staff meeting--most of the agenda was taken up by Aveline reminding them all again that there was a possibility of interference between the current bug layout and the enchantments of the proposed centerpieces at the Orlesian embassy ball. “Why is Anders’ field agent by your desk?”

“Maybe he’s delivering another memo from Aveline,” Dorian suggested dryly. He really was fond of the woman, but she just kept looking for problems where there were none.

“Fat chance. She gave me your copy when we left the meeting,” Dalish grumbled. “How did I end up the responsible one?”

Dorian shrugged. They were now approaching the limit of plausibility for having not seen Finian standing by the desk. “Hello there,” Dorian addressed him. “How’s your Friday?”

“Uh... Okay, I guess.” Finian let the silence hang in the air before realizing he’d said nothing particularly worth responding to. “I uh, wanted to ask you a favor, sort of.”

Maker, Dorian had no idea how this man went around being inconspicuous all the time. “May I ask what the favor is before agreeing to it?”

“Uh, yeah, of course. I mean, it’s just... well, it’s a date, kind of.”

Dalish sat down at her desk, but instead of pretending to work like a decent person, she just stared at Dorian with an expression of glee.

“That’s... a way to ask,” Dorian said.

Finian flushed. “Look, here’s the deal. I got invited to go to the opera with Madame De Fer and her husband. I was told to bring a date, and, well, you’re uh, social. I’ve seen you talk? To people? Fancy people. Without getting nervous. And you know Vivienne already and.” He paused to take a fortifying breath. “I know that’s kind of um, a cynical way to ask someone out, but I really would like to get to know you, and I really, really need the help.”

“Don’t you talk to people for a living?” Dalish asked. “Isn’t your job to make people trust you, whether they’re fancy or not?”

Finian rubbed the back of his left hand with the thumb of his right. “This isn’t a job, though. This is like, social interaction.”

“Sure,” said Dorian. “But you have to buy me a very nice dinner.”

Finian looked relieved. “It’s a deal.”

--

Dorian, like most intelligent people, rarely so much as chose a nail polish without the express approval of Vivienne de Fer. For a night at the opera with her and Bastien, in their private box, he texted her at least a dozen separate outfits, each of which got a review more disapproving than the last.

Why don’t you ask your date what he is wearing, darling?

I did, Dorian texted back grimly, he said “a suit.”

Vivienne would never stoop to using emojis, but her I see. conveyed her sentiments just as aptly.

Dorian flopped on his bed, resigning himself to somehow managing to clash with whatever color Finian’s only suit was, when he felt his phone buzz again. Anything that matches silver and charcoal grey will be acceptable.

That hardly narrowed anything down, but Dorian wasn’t likely to get better. He reopened his closet with a sigh and got to work.

--

Finian’s navy suit didn’t exactly match Dorian’s final decision of dove gray, cream and pale lilac, but it didn’t clash too badly. Vivienne’s information was usually more reliable than that, but he supposed even she got it wrong once in a while.

It’s not like Finian was unattractive, either. He was fit, all the field agents had regular physicals to pass, and it looked like he’d gone to a barber since their first conversation. The tips of his ears turned a charming pink when Dorian held open the car door for him, as well.

His haircut had not transformed him into a stunning conversationalist, however. “Do you think it will rain tonight?” Was the only topic he contributed to the conversation the whole drive to the restaurant. Dorian, tasked with navigation on top of staving off the awkward silence, was a little peeved. Finian had every right to be nervous, meeting Vivienne in her private box at the theatre she partially owned, but it would certainly be nice if he finished a sentence or two.

Dinner was delicious, but quiet. The hostess called their table “intimate,” which was just another word for “small and in an unusual corner.” It was slightly dwarfed by the ivy and Stainalia rose centerpiece, which fit perfectly on the other tables.

“Have you seen Ariadne auf Naxos before?” Dorian asked when he couldn’t bear the silence any longer.

“No,” said Finian. “I went to a couple of shows at the Royal Theater as part of a university thing, but I don’t remember them very well. I was studying acting then, but opera is a whole other world, really.”

Dorian nodded and sipped his wine. “How did you find your way to Justinia, then? That doesn’t seem like the most intuitive trajectory.”

“I met Leliana. She came to a production of Othello I was in. I was, um, Iago, and she said I was really convincing. Honestly I’m not sure I should take that as a compliment?”

Dorian laughed. “She told me I was such a bad informant, she’d have to hire me as something else when I became an analyst. She has a way of finding value in our flaws like that.”

The rest of dinner passed pleasantly, the two of them making small talk about their favorite plays and what little of their work they could discuss in a public space. It wasn’t amazing, but it was nice, Dorian thought.

Stepping into the lobby of the Denerim Opera house was almost-- not quite, but almost-- like stepping back into Tevinter high society. People dressed in glittering gowns and crisp suits. He even spotted a couple of subtly enchanted mages’ robes sailing by. Finian stuck close beside him.

“Pretend you’re looking for a mark,” Dorian murmured, keeping a hand on his waist. “These people are all corrupt politicians and racketeering mob bosses, and you’re trying to find the one with a spark of good left in their soul that you can turn to your advantage. But you can’t let any of them know you’re in full possession of a conscience and morals. Keep your back straight and your elbows in.”

Finian burst into giggles. “You know that’s not how it really works, right? I’m not James Bond. All the information I need to coerce out of anyone is delivery schedules.”

“Yes,” Dorian allowed. “But now you’re more relaxed, aren’t you?”

“I guess so.” Finian smiled at him. “I can see why Fenris thinks you’re the only analyst worth a damn.”

Dorian steered them up the curving grand staircase, dodging well-dressed patrons. “Don’t let him ever find out you said that or we’ll both disappear, very mysteriously. He hates me with a smouldering and red-hot passion, and the only one who’s allowed to say otherwise is him. He has not yet chosen to do so, even if we do grab the occasional Thursday night drink.”

“He says he hates you and he thinks you’re good at your job,” Finian told him.

“Shouldn’t you be better at keeping other people’s secrets?” Dorian asked.

Finian giggled again. “I’m nervous.”

“All right.” Dorian stepped them out of the flow of people and gave him a once over. His hair was fine, but his bowtie needed adjusting. It also wasn’t quite the right shade of blue for his jacket, but hopefully Vivienne wouldn’t notice it in the dim lighting of the box. “She’s perfectly nice, you’re perfectly nice, just be yourself and say interesting things in between the arias. And don’t forget to talk to Bastien as well.”

Finian nodded, directive received, and if he was a little stiff leading Dorian into the box, well, with a little luck it could be chalked up to muscles and self confidence. He had at least one of those things in spades.

Chapter Text

Finian opened the door to the private box, and immediately closed it again. “Wrong box.”

“You can do this,” Dorian assured him, doing his best to sound encouraging and not annoyed.

“No, I mean I don’t think this is her box. There’s someone in there already.”

Dorian sighed. “Of course someone’s there already. We couldn’t simply sit in her seats without her there.”

Finian rubbed the back of his hand anxiously again. “Well, it’s not her or her husband. I don’t think either one of them is Vashoth.”

“It’s probably just another friend of hers.” Dorian took a moment to remind himself that however preoccupied he might be, there was no statistically probable way that fate would ever be this cruel to him. Vivienne could not possibly have any professional connection to the Iron Bull. This was going to be fine.

--

Bull had known, going in, that tonight would not be his night, but this was just cruel. Vivienne had told him they would be joined by some upstart attache she described as “useful” and his date, but it seemed Vivienne had left out a couple of key details.

“Darling,” Vivienne said, rising from her chair, “I’d love to introduce you to my young friends Dorian and Finian. They both work with Josephine and Leliana, and Finian is quite the rising star.” Bull watched the pale elf next to Dorian flush all the way to the tips of his ears. “Dorian, Finian, this is the Iron Bull. He gallantly offered to escort me tonight when Bastien was called away on business.”

He knew his lines, at least. “It’s always a pleasure to be out with the woman who kept me sane through grad school.”

“It was nothing, darling. I always told you we would do great things.”

Finian shook his hand happily, and took the seat on Vivienne’s left. His cerulean tie didn’t quite match his navy suit, but Bull would leave that for Vivienne to despair of later. Dorian’s expression was hard to read in the dim light. The cut of his suit was much more fashionable than Bull’s, almost avant garde, like something he’d seen in one of Ma’am’s fashion magazines but just a bit more down to earth.

“I didn’t know you liked opera,” he said.

“I have learned some appreciation for it,” Dorian sounded like he would rather be anywhere else, though Bull wasn’t yet sure if the cause was the public space, the opera, or him. He fiddled with his silver cufflinks.

“So you hate the opera,” Bull tried.

“I am very happy to be in such wonderful company, and I’m sure this production will be excellent,” Dorian intoned, his face stony. Bull took it as a yes.

“Want some champagne?” he asked.

Dorian unclenched just a little. “Maker, yes.”

Bull poured some for Finian and topped off Vivienne’s flute as well first, but they seemed deep in conversation. Well, Finian was deep in conversation. Vivienne was listening.

“So, how do you know Ma’am?” He asked as he poured Dorian’s glass.

Dorian snorted. “Ma’am? Is that what you call her? Didn’t you just say you went to school together?”

Bull shrugged. “It’s a nickname. Things happen, names stick, you know.”

“Next you’re going to tell me your name isn’t really the Iron Bull,” Dorian said, smirking.

“Not, uh, not legally, no.” Bull said, tensing. He really hoped Dorian wasn’t about to ask about his birth name.

“When my dear friend Felix was young, there was a span of almost three months where he insisted we call him Varius Adtrecto. I rather think you made the more evocative selection.”

Bull tried to remember the scant bit of Tevene he had learned in grade school. “Couldn’t that mean--”

“Yes, Bull. Yes it could.”

“I like this guy,” Bull said.

Dorian gave a shy, but real smile. “I rather think you would both get along splendidly.”

“Dorian, darling,” Vivienne called from the front of the box, “is it true you and Finian never talked until this past Thursday?”

Dorian murmured an affirmative.

“Another second date?” Bull asked.

“First,” Dorian corrected. “And it’s more of a favor to a pleasant coworker, really.”

“Pleasant?” Bull said. He looked the elf over a second time. He did have nice shoulders, if you liked blond and muscular. Which, maybe Dorian did. “Yeah, I could see that.”

Dorian took a sip of his champagne. “You should ask him about his field work. I’m fairly certain he’s single.”

“Oh,” said Bull. “No, I’m not, uh, not really looking to meet anyone new. For that. Right now.” He wondered if Dorian could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears.

“Right, of course, sorry.” Dorian drained his champagne.

“I mean, it’s not a sorry thing. I’m just not...interested. In anyone that I’m not already interested in, I mean.” Bull’s champagne also looked quite appealing.

“The Iron Bull?” Finian appeared at his left elbow, making him jump. “Madame de Fer said you were a professor at Denerim Tech. I did my undergrad there in the theatre department a few years back! Do you know Professor Tethras?”

“All too well,” Bull told him, but was rescued from having to elaborate by the house lights going down. Finian made a little “whoop!” noise and rushed back to the front of the box, sliding into the chair next to Vivienne just as the conductor stepped into the pit.

Bull found himself with a new dilemma. There were six chairs in the box. Three at the front, and three behind. Normally, when Bastien and Vivienne invited him along, there was no question about who sat where. Now, it felt rude to leave Dorian in the back row all alone, and awkward to take the solo seat for himself.

Dorian sat in the back right of his own volition, furthest from the stage. After a moment of deliberation, Bull sat beside him. It seemed like the best option. Maybe.

Dorian glanced at him.

“I never take the front row,” Bull lied, gesturing to his horns.

“Not a fan of heights,” Dorian replied softly. That explained the miserable looks Bull had been catching since they’d come in.

“It’s such a shame Bastien couldn’t be here tonight,” he overheard Vivienne tell Finian. She had leaned in to be heard over the swelling music. “He loves comedies, and I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”

“Oh,” said Finian. “Me too. He’s always been a bit of a hero of mine. His rendition of Henry V? in the 13:09 production at Val Royeaux? I’ve watched every recording of that I’ve ever found.”

“He was quite spectacular that night,” Vivienne agreed with a chuckle. It was genuine, and Bull exchanged a look with Dorian. “Now hush, darling. The curtain’s going up.”

--

Dorian should have worn his glasses. A scrolling text display above the stage was translating the lyrics, but he simply couldn't read it. Reduced to squinting at the synopsis in the program, he had trouble following the plot in the first half of the show.

“Are you alright?” Bull asked at intermission. Apparently his attempt to rub his eyes without disrupting his makeup had not been particularly subtle.

“I’m quite fine. I just hate opera,” Dorian admitted without thinking. “And it doesn’t help that I can neither read the translation nor speak Nevarran.”

Bull chuckled. “And here I thought all spies were trained to speak at least three languages.”

“I’m not a spy. I’m an analyst,” Dorian huffed. “And I speak four languages, thank you very much. Just not Nevarran.”

“Well, the fancy artist is upset that the rodeo clowns have been scheduled to perform at the exact same time as his prima soloist, and he’s falling in love with their main girl, who has an artistic soul or something. But it’s forbidden love because she’s physical comedy and he’s highbrow historical art.”

“Huh,” said Dorian. “That has nothing to do with the myth of Ariadne.”

“Yeah, not really.” The house lights flashed on and off. Vivienne and Finian were still locked in conversation. Dorian had been right not to worry about his confidence. He’d also been a little bored, which he could admit now that Finian was clearly no longer his responsibility.

Bull leaned forward in his chair and tapped Vivienne on the shoulder. “Hey Ma’am, Dorian and I aren’t feeling this one.”

Dorian froze. He had never in his life escorted Vivenne de Fer to the opera and then announced that he was ditching her at intermission. He had never in his life ditched an opera, much as he had desperately wanted to.

Vivienne patted Bull on the cheek. “Have a nice time, dear. If you go to that diner on Eighth Street, tell them I loved the garlic bread and Bastien and I will absolutely be back.”

“I was just gonna beg him for a ride home,” Bull said, “but that sounds like a great idea.”

“I’m sure he’ll take you home in due time, darling. Now shoo, before the curtain goes back up.”

And so Dorian found himself back in the hallway outside of Vivienne’s private box, though his company was far more to his liking this time.

“So, how about it?” Bull looked flushed, possibly from the sheer scandal of the act he had just performed. “Want to go get garlic bread?”

Dorian took a breath. “You know, Bull, I think I rather do.”

Chapter Text

Dorian was still somewhat breathless with the reality of having walked out on an opera at intermission when they arrived at the diner on 8th street. Despite not being at an intersection, the place was called 8th and Vine, and as they approached it was easy to see why. On trellises, around window bays, and clambering up the very walls of the place were vines, dozens and dozens of leafy tendrils clinging to wood and red brick. Dorian could feel the magic seeped into the little restaurant as they entered.

Bull greeted the hostess as an old friend. “Table for two, Mira?”

“Bull! Are Vivienne and Bastien not joining you tonight?”

“Not tonight. This is Dorian, though. He’s terrific.”

Dorian felt his cheeks heat as he shook the hostess’ hand.

“Will you two be staying for dinner? Or just the usual?” She asked, guiding them over to a candlelit table partially obscured by yet more vines.

“Just wine and garlic bread tonight, I think,” Bull told her.

“Could I see your wine list?” Dorian asked. Mira and Bull exchanged an amused glance.

“They have a red, a white, and a beer,” Bull told him. “Also some pretty solid lemonade, if drinking’s not your thing.”

Dorian considered his options. If the garlic bread was good, perhaps the natural pairing would be too. “I’ll try the white.”

“Lemonade for me, Mira. And just a shitload of garlic bread whenever you’ve got it.”

She went to the back to fetch their drinks, and Bull leaned over the table to speak to Dorian in a low voice. “This place has some of the worst food in the city. Never, ever order anything on the menu here.”

“Why come here, then?” Dorian whispered back.

“Their garlic bread is incredible. And besides,” Bull leaned back at his seat to gesture grandly around them. “Look at this place. Isn’t it awesome?”

“It rather is.” Dorian agreed. “Is this Merrill’s handiwork?”

“Uh, yeah,” Bull said, surprised. “She got contracted to decorate for them. How did you know?”

“There are enchantments on the plants to keep them growing year round. They have the same sort of... feeling, I suppose you could say, as the greenhouses at Whoopsie Daisy’s.”

Bull looked at the plants around them. “Huh. Cool. I didn’t know mages could do that.”

“Lots can’t, but I’ve always been sensitive to it, and I became quite adept after a bit of training. It’s one of the things I do for work, actually. Identify items enchanted by the same person and whatnot.” He stopped himself from telling Bull everything about learning the skill, how he could still ferret out the tang of his father’s magic from miles away. How he was still afraid he might have to.

“That must be really useful.” Bull was hiding it well, but there was tension in his shoulder blades.

“Are you uncomfortable with magic?” Dorian asked quietly. He didn’t want to embarrass Bull, but it was something he needed to know.

Bull’s face flushed in the dim light. “I don’t want to be. I know lots of people who do great stuff with it. You, Merrill, Asha. Ma’am, of course. There’s lots of mages doing pioneering work in my field with it. I just,” He scrubbed a hand across the base of his horns. “I had a really bad experience with it when I was younger. It’s something I’ve had some therapy for and shit like that but, some days when there’s already been a lot of other stuff it kind of...creeps up on me.”

Dorian nodded. That, he could certainly understand.

Their garlic bread arrived, along with the “white.” It was not good. Dorian barely finished his first polite sip, and as soon as Mira’s back was turned, carefully set the glass down in a place he was not likely to pick it back up.

“Oh no,” said Bull. “That’s exactly the face Bastien made.”

“Vivienne said they’re coming back here?” Dorian asked. “It’s very charming, but--”

“Try the garlic bread.” Bull pushed the basket toward him. “The garlic bread makes up for everything.”

Dorian reached out, then hesitated. “This had better be the best garlic bread I’ve ever had. They may be your friends, but if their sommelier can’t tell the difference between a zinfandel and cooking wine, I do not have high hopes.”

“There’s no sommelier here,” Bull chuckled. “But if you try this bread and you’re not willing to drink a whole bottle of that stuff just to get more, I’ll get under this table and blow you to make up for it.”

“Bold words,” Dorian said, valiantly attempting not to choke. “This wine is truly vile.”

Bull leaned forwards over the tiny table. Dorian was exquisitely aware that their knees were touching. “One time I ate a whole bottle of sriracha just because Krem said I wouldn’t. If I make a promise, you better fucking believe I’m going to make good on it.”

“I believe you,” Dorian said around the dryness in his throat. He almost picked the wine back up.

Bull held out a piece of garlic bread to him. It certainly smelled good. He took it, careful not to touch Bull’s fingertips with his own lest he burst into flame right there.

“Will you be alright if I hate it?”

“Yeah,” said Bull, his voice raspy, “I think I’ll cope.”

Dorian bit into the garlic bread.

“Well?” asked Bull.

Dorian almost didn’t want it to be good. “It’s amazing,” he said.

Bull grinned. “Right? They grow their own garlic. I’ve seen their setup, it’s great.”

“Forgive me for this,” said Dorian. “But what impact do you think it might have on their profit margins if they converted their garlic nursery to a wine cooler?”

“Not as good as if they hired a second chef,” Bull said, tearing a chunk of garlic bread for himself. “We probably shouldn’t order any actual food.”

“Maker’s balls.” Dorian looked around at the empty restaurant. “How do they stay afloat?”

Bull shrugged. “Some kind of front for money laundering, probably. Here, take my lemonade.”

“I’m not technically in law enforcement, so I can pretend you never said that.” Dorian took the lemonade gratefully.

Bull called Mira back over and she replaced the sad excuse for a glass of wine with more of the lemonade and the Maker’s own garlic bread. A few more people came in as the night wore on, mostly nervous couples and drunk college kids, though Dorian did catch a glimpse of a woman in an imposing tuxedo be escorted quickly into the back.

They had demolished four orders of garlic bread and Dorian was considering ordering the lone beer on the chance that it was better than the wine when Bull glanced at his phone and grimaced.

“Is everything all right?” asked Dorian

“It’s some of my research,” said Bull. “I have these fungal cultures from Rivain. They have to be sampled every twelve hours exactly to record colony growth, and it’s Asha’s night off.”

Doran gingerly put his garlic bread back on his plate. “That sounds important.”

“I really wish it wasn’t,” Bull told him, “but it’s Asha’s research, too.”

“Right.” He stood up and grabbed his coat. “Do you need a ride?”

“That’d be really nice.” Bull brightened, just a bit. “I need to be there in sixteen minutes.”

Dorian wasn’t certain Bull would ever willingly enter a car with him again, but they made in twelve. He pulled up in front of the science building, still jolting from the speed bumps.

“Well,” Dorian said smoothly. “Have--have good plant.”

Bull chuckled. “I will.” He unbuckled his seatbelt but didn’t open the door.

Dorian put the car in park.

“Hey listen, Dorian. I--Thanks. I had a really nice time tonight. And Asha won’t even be pissed at me for messing up the culture records, thanks to you.” He smiled and put his hand on Dorian’s, over the gear shift.

Dorian smiled back, leaning towards him. “It was good. Thank you for the garlic bread. Not so much the wine but, all in all I suppose the company made up for it.”

“Yeah.” Bull opened the door. “Really, thanks. Let me know if I can ever return the favor.”

“Love to,” Dorian told him.

“Good night.” Bull swayed towards Dorian for a moment, then stood up from the car and was gone, leaving Dorian to hear the science building door clang shut in the crisp autumn night.

Chapter Text

“I noticed you logged the culture records four minutes later than average,” Asha said the next day as they waited in line for coffee at a place that was far inferior to Merrill’s but also about twenty minutes closer to campus. “Even accounting for post-opera traffic.”

“What do you mean?” Bull asked, aware he sounded too defensive while the words were still coming out of his mouth. “I was totally within the parameters.”

“A little birdie told me that someone showed up at 8th and Vine before the opera was even over, and that someone had someone with him.” She stepped up to the counter to order.

“How do you even hear this shit?”

Asha held up a finger while she ordered a double dirty chai. “Group chat.”

“With who?” Bull asked plaintively.

Asha smirked. “Lesbians. All of them.”

“I don’t believe you.” He turned to the barista and ordered his vanilla raspberry coconut milk latte very slowly, just to annoy Asha. She retaliated by pulling out her phone and texting ostentatiously.

“My friend says you’re an arseballs,” she informed him. “And Skinner’s wife’s boss's wife says you’re a big plant dweeb.”

“This is the worst. You are the worst grad student. I’m firing you.”

She tapped on her phone some more. “I’m your only grad student. And I graded all your bio quizzes this semester. Remember having to do those?”

He grabbed his latte as soon as it was ready. Asha followed him out the door, still texting. “Vivienne says hi.”

“How?” Bull was alarmed by this level of personal intrusion, but was also pretty certain Vivienne was not a lesbian.

“She and Merrill are having lunch. You ditched her at intermission? That’s cold.”

He was more confused that he hadn’t heard about this sooner, if ninety percent of his social circle was involved. “Merrill’s bi!”

“Are you going to tell Merrill she can’t be in the lesbian group chat?”

Bull thought about telling Merrill no to anything at all and shuddered. “I take your point.”

“It’s a very inclusive group chat,” Asha told him. “Basically you just have to thrive on drama.”

“Fine,” said Bull. “How much of the drama is about me?”

“Right now? Maybe half. But it’s not normal. Mostly we talk about cute dogs we pet but I mentioned you being awkward with that guy after flame thrower class last week and then Mira saw you again last night so now everyone’s speculating. It’s a slow mabari day. We’re bored.”

“I wish I didn’t know this,” Bull said.

Asha put her phone away and lead the way down the street. “It was the same guy, right? The one who came to the library.”

Bull sighed. “Dorian, yeah. He was at the opera too.”

“Gross,” said Asha. “I don’t know if combining that mustache with an opera habit is a good look.”

They were almost back to campus. Once they were in the lab, she’d put on her headphones and leave him alone. He hoped. “As an educator and your boss, I will not respond to that comment.”

“Gross,” she repeated, more emphatically. “Is he nice?”

“Yeah,” Bull said.

“Is he cool? What kind of car does he drive?” She paused at a crosswalk. “Does he drive at all?”

“He’s a terrifying driver,” Bull told her. “He’s a mage, he feeds a stray cat near his building, and he wants to learn street magic, like card tricks.”

Asha took her phone back out. “Super gross. I’m happy for you.”

“We haven’t technically gone on a date, you know.”

“8th and Vine garlic bread is like, eleventh base,” she said. “Tell him if he hurts your feelings I’m shaving his mustache off.”

--

“I’ve been expecting you,” Dalish announced, rotating slowly in her desk chair. Dorian half expected her to be stroking a cat.

“I do work here,” he said, putting his bag down. “Right at this desk.”

Dalish sighed. “You have no flair for the dramatic.”

Dorian was fairly certain that was not true, but it seemed more prudent to use the time he would have spent arguing to get his messy heap of incoming paperwork in order.

“I know who he is,” Dalish announced, pushing herself off to spin the other direction.

“The fellow funneling arms money into the Cobaea Syndicate? You should tell Leliana. She’ll probably give you a bonus.”

“Better,” Dalish declared. “I know who flowershop guy is.”

Dorian had known this was only a matter of time, but he still found himself wincing. “I’m not sure that’s actually of greater benefit to the people of Thedas than finding an international arms smuggler, but I suppose it depends on your priorities.”

“You like the Iron Bull,” Dalish singsonged.

His instinctual reaction was to deny it, but-- he didn’t actually have a reason to. “You know him?”

“My wife does. Do you remember when I was like, if you’re not gonna make a move on flower shop guy, I’m gonna set you up with my friend who’s a botany professor?”

Unfortunately, he did.

“Right,” he said. “That botany professor.”

“You should just do everything I tell you from now on,” said Dalish. “It’ll save us both a lot of time.”

“But if you stopped prying into my personal life, what would you do for fun?”

“Stop arms dealers, I guess.”

“That’s our job, though,” said Dorian.

“Actually, our job is to read another one of Aveline’s memos. She’s trying to justify tech spending on magic-dampened microphones.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “The gala is two days away. I’m sure what we have will be fine.”

“That’s what I said. When’s your next date with Bull?”

Dorian balled up Aveline’s memo and missed the trash can by a mile. “We haven’t been on a first one.”

“You went to 8th and Vine,” Dalish told him. “People only go there for dates or money laundering.”

“Well, he certainly didn’t kiss me good night,” Dorian said primly. He considered how much trouble he might get in for lighting his entire desk of memos on fire.

Dalish tapped her fingers rhythmically on her desk. “Skinner and I had our first kiss in the planetarium at the Air and Space Museum after we had to get our apartment fumigated and couldn’t go back for fifty hours or something like that.”

“You and Skinner are the epitome of romance and an inspiration to all, but Bull and I aren’t dating.”

“Yet,” Dalish said. She pulled out her phone and began to text.

Chapter Text

“We have a problem,” Leliana announced.

They certainly did. Much as Dorian liked his boss, any day he physically saw her in his cubicle was bound to go poorly. “Conference room?” He asked.

Leliana nodded curtly, not moving to the next cubicle until he and Dalish stood up to follow.

As they walked, Josephine rounded the corner, Charter and Hawke, Aveline’s usual field agent on her heels. Aveline was already in the conference room, pacing and looking grim.

Leliana didn’t even wait for the full group to be seated before turning on the large monitor on the wall. The visual showed raw footage of the Orlesian Gala from the night before. She fast forwarded through the setup, as well as some of the less interesting guest arrival, and the host’s opening remarks. When the speech was over, she began to play the dinner portion of the evening at normal speed. “Does anyone detect a slight issue?” she demanded.

“Oh, Creators,” said Dalish, “There’s no fucking sound, is there?”

Aveline was a consummate professional. Dorian knew this, but he never saw it demonstrated so clearly as when she merely sat and looked smug rather than standing on the conference table for a full victory dance. “It’s interference from the Blighted enchanted centerpieces,” she informed the room at large. The “I told you so” was implied but strongly felt.

“So all that work was for nothing,” Hawke said as the salad plates were cleared away on screen and the guest of honor stood up to say a few words. Dorian was not adept at reading lips, but the speech did not seem captivating. Several members of the audience began to talk amongst themselves almost immediately.

In the lower right-hand corner of the screen, a flash of gold caught Dorian’s eye. Magister Aventus had not been on the guest list. Squinting, he could just make out the Magister’s designer robe and unmistakable, terrible beard.

Aventus had to have been invited as someone’s guest, but Dorian didn’t recognize anyone else at the table. There was a heavily pierced couple that had to be from the Rivaini delegation, Two other men wearing mages robes, though they appeared more southern in style, and seated next to him was a woman whose pearlescent mask marked her as unmistakably Orlesian, and a high-ranking government employee, no less.

“Dalish,” Dorian asked, “this Orlesian in the corner, is her mask familiar to you?”

Dalish frowned. “Not really, but we could look it up in the database. Ministry of Foreign Affairs, definitely. Diplomat?”

“That is Aurélia Girard,” Leliana interrupted.”I have worked with her in the past. She is not the most scrupulous member of the cabinet.”

“She’s been involved in conversations about installing some rather radical upstarts in the Council of Heralds recently,” Dorian told them. As he spoke, Aurelia slid a single sprig of flowers across the table, quick enough to be a mere flash of purple. Aventus accepted it, waited a few moments before casually glancing down to inspect it.

“Good radical or bad radical?” Dalish asked.

“Far be it from me to say the Council’s status quo couldn’t stand some shaking up, but Aventus is hardly the first ally anyone would turn to if they value fair play or adherence to laws.”

Onscreen, Aventus tucked the flowers into the centerpiece on the table. “That’s a weird thing to do,” said Hawke.

“It is a message, clearly.” Leliana paused the recording. “But indicating what? Perhaps the number of blossoms is a code?”

“Is anyone else in the room noticing it?” Aveline demanded.

The flowers were familiar to Dorian. Something about the shape of them “Does anyone know what species they are?”

Leliana looked thrilled “Are you considering floriography?”

“It could be that the flowers themselves are the message.”

“Over here.” Charter pointed at a table closer to the stage, occupied entirely by a matched set of Orleasians in blue and white. “This guy saw them.”

Josephine stepped closer to the stage. “That’s Hubert Mallard his husband Humbert. Both major players in the international shipping industry.”

“And Serena de Montfort is next to them,” Leliana said. “She would have a stake in regaining her family’s standing from before the revolution, and this is exactly the sort of nonsense she would encourage. You’re right, Dorian. The flowers are a message.”

“So do you know what they mean then?” asked Hawke. Charter helpfully enlarged the feed, zooming in on the table. The flowers were small, purple, and unfamiliar.

“No,” Dorian admitted. “But if you give me half an hour, I think I know someone who may.”

Chapter Text

After a brief stop by the cubicle to get his keys, Dorian walked to the parking structure only to find his car already occupied; Dalish was perched casually on the hood of his honda, texting casually and looking for all the world like she hadn’t bolted out of the conference room and charged down seven flights of stairs to beat his elevator. “Tevinter,” she acknowledged him.

“Dalish, are you laboring under some sort of delusion that you’re coming with me?”

She glanced up. “Leliana said you would need backup.”

“Leliana” Dorian repeated, “thinks I need backup to go speak to a botanist?”

“Well, I may have volunteered to go as your backup. And I may technically also be running the department lunch orders to the deli at the same time. But she did say I could come and text everyone updates on your romantic life.”

“Ah, that sort of backup.”

“I don’t know what you expected.”

Dorian sighed in defeat and unlocked the car. “Put me down for a club sandwich, and try not to embarrass me more than I humiliate myself.”

“Easy,” she said. “Deal.”

The last time he’d hurried to get somewhere on time, Bull had gripped the handle above the passenger door like it was an anchor and braced his other hand against the center console. Dalish was considerably more experienced with Dorian’s driving, and possibly less afraid of death, so she just buckled herself in and put her feet up on the dashboard.

They made good time, until they got stuck behind a car that refused to pass the schoolbus ahead of them.

“So what flowers do you know the meanings of?” Dalish asked while Dorian craned his head around to see if he could slip past.

“Red roses mean love,” Dorian said.

“That’s boring, everyone knows that.” She popped a stick of gum in her mouth. “Unless he’s given you red roses?”

He couldn’t make it before the next light. “No.”

“Lame. Take this right.”

The first buildings at the Denerim Royal University had been constructed in the Dragon Age as the Southern Circles were being reordered into more general academic centers, and the general layout of the campus had grown organically around them. When on foot, it was a charming and intuitive place. In a car, it was infuriating.

“If I could kill speedbumps,” Dorian said conversationally, “I would bring them back to life just to kill them again.”

Dalish was still texting. “I get it. You should probably slow down now, but I get it.”

He pulled up next to a student on a longboard, not bothering to put his car in park. The kid rolled over to him obligingly as he opened his window. “How do I get to the science building from here?”

“I think if you follow this road, then turn left at the big fountain, then go halfway down the hill, it’s on the right?” He shielded his eyes and squinted further into the labyrinthine campus. “Yeah, I think so. I haven’t gone there since sophomore year. History major.”

“Right, thanks.” He rolled onward. Dalish, who had actually listened to the directions, told him where to turn.

Dorian peeled into the parking lot and threw himself out of the car. Dalish followed.

He pushed his way purposefully through the science building doors, where he discovered an empty atrium with a mosaic depicting some sort of cell diagram on the floor. There were branching, darkened hallways in several directions, and no obvious signage or reception area.

“Well,” he said aloud. His voice carried and echoed into the glass panels of the vaulted ceiling. “This isn’t ideal.”

Dorian took a steadying breath, then decided to start going right and hope he hit someone competent soon. The hall was silent and dim, many of its fluorescent lights burnt out overhead. It gave him the creeping feeling of being in a horror movie, but this was far from Dorian’s first walk down a scary academic hallway.

He finally zeroed in on a door decorated with cartoons depicting chemistry puns that had been left ajar, and poked his head inside. “Er, hello?”

“Well, hey there,” came a cheerful male voice. It took Dorian a moment to locate the mustached dwarf amid all of the detritus strewn about the small office. The combination of heaps of paper and bottles containing bright red “Combustible” warnings made him a little leery of venturing inside, but he supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“I’m looking for a professor--”

“You’ve found me,” said the dwarf, standing from behind his desk.

“No,” said Dalish, popping her head into the office. “We’re looking for the--”

“Doctor Fasi is on sabbatical,” said the frustrating dwarf who wasn’t Bull. “I’m the only professor in the building right now.”

“Doctor Ashkaari. We’re looking for Doctor Ashkaari,” Dorian said quickly.

The dwarf’s expression sharpened. “Are you, now.”

“It’s a matter of national security,” Dalish told him. Dorian could take notes from her, he thought. She sounded completely serious.

“And you’re trying to find Bull?” The dwarf asked incredulously.

“It’s...complicated. And uh, plants,” Dorian informed him.

The dwarf snorted. “Sure, kids. His office is down the hall, number 108, but he’s hardly ever there. Good luck.”

“Plants,” Dalish echoed as they walked away. “You really didn’t have any field training, huh?”

“I’m better when I have more time to prepare,” Dorian lied haughtily.

Door 108 was locked tight. A piece of paper was wedged into the jamb just above the handle, announcing a department holiday party, scheduled a week previous. A tiny whiteboard was the only other thing visible. “Office Hours: WD, 10-2, Mon & Thu” was written on it.

Dalish got very close to it. “Another code?” she asked with sarcastic enthusiasm.

“One fit for beginner cryptography students, I suppose.”

“What sort of professor doesn’t use his own office?” Dalish picked up the dry erase marker hanging on the door and drew a tiny flower in the corner.

“One whose research isn’t tied to the building.” The dwarf had followed them down the hall. “It’s harder to study my subjects remotely. There’s a bit more downtime with plants than with corrosive combustibles.”

“I’ll bet.” Dorian tried not to fidget while Dalish made small talk.

“You know,” said the dwarf, “If it’s not time sensitive, I can probably pass a message along tomorrow.”

“No!” said Dalish. “We have to talk to him in person! Well, Dorian does.”

“Really.” Dorian weathered the familiar delayed double take of someone who had heard his name before they met him. “I’m Rocky.”

“Charmed,” said Dorian. “Do you know where else on campus we might be able to find Doctor Ashkaari?”

Rocky shrugged. “You could check the library.”

Dorian liked Dalish because she always asked interesting questions. Dorian perhaps liked her better when the questions weren’t about him. “Rocky, has Doctor Ashkaari mentioned anyone called Dorian before? This is about national security,” she reminded them when Dorian tried to protest.

“Not as such.” Rocky stroked his mustache and grinned. “But I think I’ve heard Asha mention the name once or twice.”

“Excellent,” said Dalish. “I’m building a file, you see.”

“Right!” said Dorian. “Thank you for all your help, Rocky. We’d better be going now.”

Rocky chuckled as Dorian tried to maneuver Dalish away, then vanished back into the bowels of the science building.

“Whoopsie Daisy’s then? See if your mysterious Doctor Ashkaari is there?” asked Dalish. “It’s Tuesday, but it’s worth a shot.”

“Library first. We’ll feel stupid if we have to drive all the way back here.” Dorian cleared his throat. “And he’s not my Doctor Ashkaari. He’s not that mysterious, either.”

Dalish blew a raspberry, reminding Dorian why she and Sera should never meet. “I didn’t learn Skinner’s name for two weeks after I accidentally stole her umbrella. Mystery is good! It’s exciting.”

“We have different definitions of exciting,” Dorian muttered.

She clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s just find your flowerboy, Tevinter.”

Dorian led the way, much more familiar with that area of campus than he was with the science building.

There were no obvious flamethrowers in front of the library, though it did look like the forsythia bushes around the place Dorian had first seen Bull burning woody nightshade had grown back quite nicely.

The inside of the campus library was pleasantly warm, if somewhat musty, and decidedly better lit than the science building had been. It also had the advantage of having a library assistant front and center.

At the circulation area, a blond human man was pecking slowly and determinedly at the keyboard of a computer whose monitor boasted a sign saying “Please interrupt me! I would love to assist you! :) ”

“Hello,” Dorian said.

The library assistant gave him a cursory glance, then returned to typing.

“I was wondering if Dr. Ashkaari happened to be in the library today?”

The assistant shrugged.

“Do you know where I might look?”

“m,” said the assistant, shrugging again.

“I’ll just... check out the science section, then, shall I?”

The assistant pointed at the wing to Dorian’s left.

“Thank you?” By the time Dorian had taken a step forwards, the man had already resumed typing.

The results of their search through the library were expected, but still disappointing.

“On to Whoopsie Daisies?” Dalish asked when they had taken a wander through the stacks.

“I suppose it was inevitable,” Dorian told her, and turned back towards the entrance.

Chapter Text

Dorian got lost on the way out of the campus, because of course he did. “Are you trying to slow us down?” he demanded the third time Dalish’s suggestion took them down a dead end.

“I thought this was the right one, really! See, the main road is right in front of us. It’s not my fault this street ends five feet away from it.” She pointed through the windshield. “Can we drive through that hedge?”

Dorian rested his forehead gently on the steering wheel. “We’re going to be trapped here forever.”

“Leliana can airlift us out, if you don’t mind leaving your car behind.”

“No.” Dorian maneuvered a u-turn. “I will not be defeated by mere geography.”

“Okay.” Dalish put her feet back up on the dashboard and kept texting. “Let me know when you want to look at the campus map. They’ve got a great app here. Little “you are here” marker and everything.”

“And you just opened the app?” He found a street with a name. That seemed like a good sign.

“It takes a while to load. Stay straight here.”

“Sorry,” said Dorian, “I can’t.”

“Fuck off.”

It took them another twenty minutes to escape.

--

Wednesday was a quiet day for Bull. He didn’t teach classes, didn’t have office hours. He usually made himself good coffee and caught up on email in the mornings and puttered around his garden in the afternoon. He was peacefully misting some of the ferns he kept year round on his sun porch when his phone rang the first time. He yawned, and put the watering can down long enough to thumb it over to silent.

--

Dorian had to circle the block a few times before he found a place to park. There was no reason for so many people to be downtown on a Wednesday afternoon.

It was sunny and almost warm, considering how close they were to Satanalia, why weren’t the Fereldans off hiking or ice fishing in the mountains, or doing anything that wasn’t parking right in front of the flower shop that he needed to go into?

He gave up and went to the public parking lot at Mac Tir Plaza. It was only a five minute walk, and it wasn’t like they hadn’t wasted enough time already.

--

The second time Bull’s phone rang, it was lying on his kitchen counter. Bull was pouring himself a bubble bath in the bathroom, but his phone buzzed all the same.

--

Dalish had to stop to pet a puppy and take pictures of it for her group chat, and Dorian resigned himself to the fact that he might never actually make it to Whoopsie Daisy’s.

--

The third time came immediately after the second, and vibrated the phone clean off the counter, sending it crashing to the floor. Bull stood from his collection of bath bombs with a start and wandered into the kitchen to see what the matter was.

Thanks to his heavy duty case, the phone was undamaged, and still valiantly displaying Merrill’s contact picture. He adjusted his fluffy robe and brought the phone to his ear. “Hey, Merrill. What’s up? Everything okay?”

“I need you to come to Whoopsie Daisy’s,” Merrill told him without preamble. “Right now.”

“Now?” Bull glanced longingly at the steam already fogging the sliver of bathroom mirror he could see through the doorway. “Can’t it wait like, an hour? Maybe two?”

“Now,” she said. “I’ve been told it’s a matter of national security.”

Bull laughed. “Merrill, if you want me to come down and look at some more fungus for you, you can just say so.”

“You know I would.”

Bull sighed. “This is really that important, huh?”

“Bull,” said Merrill in her sweetest, most devious tone, “have I ever lied to you? Like, told you things that I knew weren’t true? Isabela’s dating history doesn’t count.”

“A matter of national security,” Bull repeated. “And it needs me and my... plant expertise?”

“So I’m told.”

“By who?” Bull asked. “Never mind, I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“That’s good. I’m pretty sure she can stall that long.”

--

They met a second dog. This one was fully grown, and Dalish had quite the time getting the photo into a perspective she felt truly captured its fluffiness and general girth. Dorian was simply going to perish.

--

Bull made the drive to Whoopsie Daisy’s in record time, though Merrill was already standing outside the shop looking fretful.

“Oh good.” She pulled him through the door and into the back. “Can you hold this watering can?”

Bull didn’t really feel he had much choice in the matter at this point. He took the watering can and looked around for an emergency warranting pulling him from his Wednesday bath.

“Good, you made it.” Asha was lurking by the espresso bar, which explained everything, except for what the fuck was actually going on. She looked at her phone. “They’ll be here soon. Get in position.”

“No,” said Bull. “Not until you tell me what’s happening. Also what position I'm supposed to be in.”

“Too late. Hi Dorian!”

Bull whipped around. Not because he was desperate, or anything. Just surprised. Lonely and very surprised.

Dorian looked crisper than usual, like he’d come from the office, and he walked in next to an elf Bull was pretty sure he recognized but couldn’t place.

“Bull!” Dorian also looked surprised. “You’re here. That’s--That’s good!”

“That seems to be the general sentiment today,” Bull said. “So... what’s up?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Asha and Merrill share a despairing look.

Dorian ushered him into a corner away from them. After a minute of fumbling, he pulled up a picture on his phone. “Do you recognize these flowers? The little purple ones.”

Bull had to take the phone from him to see clearly. The image was a little pixelated, like he’d taken a picture of a screen. It showed a table at a fancy dinner, with a gorgeous arrangement in the center. The colors were mostly red and gold, so the small purple blossoms stood out.

“Yeah, that’s monkshood.” He handed the phone back, very aware of how nicely Dorian was dressed compared to his sweats and old t-shirt. “Merrill has some in her poison gardens if you want to take a closer look.”

“No, I-- I think knowing about it is fine. Do you happen to know what it means?” Bull tried not to notice how close he and Dorian were standing.

He rubbed the base of his horns. “Uh... ‘an enemy is near,’ I think. It was a pretty common poison, so, you know....”

“Right, right. That makes sense. And this one? It was just pulled from footage, so...” Dorian typed a passcode into his email app, then pulled up a silent video, the shot lasted only a few seconds, and focused closely on a man in Tevene formalwear handing a bouquet to an extravagantly dressed Orlesian diplomat.

“Looks like... gardenias, maybe? Moss rosebud for sure. It’s hard to say on the greenery as tiny as this screen is, but given the general look and what the other two are, I’d say it’s maidenhair fern.”

“Any chance those mean ‘the illegal weapons will be by the docks at 8pm’ or anything?” Dorian asked.

Bull snorted. “Nah, it’s just love stuff. I’d say overall it means something along the lines of ‘our love is secret, but still true,’ or something sappy like that. What movie is it from? You could probably look up director’s notes online.”

Dorian coughed. “It’s security footage. But you’re saying this is a genuine sentiment, then.”

“A dramatic one, for sure.” Bull looked at the couple on the screen. “That’s kinda romantic, really.”

“If you like that sort of thing, I suppose.” Dorian pocketed his phone, blushing. “I mean, you probably do, considering… everything.”

“Yeah.” Bull tried to keep the wistful note out of his voice. “I really like that.”

“Well, thank you. For this. It’s a huge help.”

“Sure,” said Bull. “Did you have anything else you needed, or…?”

“No, that was all.” Dorian turned to leave. “Dalish, we have to get back to the office.”

The elf who’d come in with Dorian frowned but followed him back out. Asha made frantic shooing motions at Bull as soon as Dorian’s back was turned, but he didn’t move.

Bull thought about going after him. He did. He just found himself tired of being the one who always chased after.

Merrill materialized at his side, hands on her hips. “Well that was pointless.”

“National security, I guess.” Bull picked the watering can back up.

“That’s not why he came here and you know it.” Asha crossed her arms.

“Except it is,” Bull said. “Because he came here, found that out, and left. And that’s totally reasonable.”

“Not really,” said Asha. “He went to your office and the library before he came here.”

“Bull,” said Merrill, very slowly and very seriously. “You are a smart man and I respect you. But Dorian knows google exists, and he still came to find you.”

Merrill and Asha’s phones buzzed in unison. Seconds later, the canopy of vines that separated the greenhouses from the front of the store burst open as Dorian rushed back through.

Asha stepped back, and Dorian nearly collided with Bull. His cheeks were flushed and it looked like he’d pulled his tie off center. Bull put the watering can back down, waiting for him.

“Actually, Bull, there’s something else that I-- that I should really...well. Here,” said Dorian, and kissed him.

Chapter Text

Kissing Bull was a bit alarming, mostly because Dorian had not really been planning on doing it, at least not by bursting in the door and just grabbing him. He had intended to walk calmly inside, thank Bull for his help, and then casually ask him if he might like to have dinner sometime.

Instead, Dorian had kissed him. It was possibly the bravest and certainly the stupidest thing he’d done all month. They were in public, they’d never shared anything more romantic than garlic bread and a slice of apple pie, and there was the chance that Bull didn’t want to be kissed at all. Or, at least not by Dorian.

As soon as he kissed Bull, however, only the last question mattered. And then all that mattered was that Bull was kissing him back.

Off to Dorian’s right, someone whistled.

Bull had pulled Dorian up against his chest, so Dorian was able to hide his blush while Bull looked up long enough to say, “shut up, Asha.”

“Who me?” Asha sounded delighted.

“Bull,” said Merrill, “this might be a bad time to mention it, but you’ve got potting soil on your face.”

“It’s not a great time,” Bull sighed.

Dorian braved a glance up at him. “She’s right though, you do.” He brushed the dirt off Bull’s face with his thumb.

Bull looked fond. “Do you want to uh, go somewhere more private? Maybe talk for a little bit?”

Dorian nodded wordlessly, and allowed Bull to pull him into the poison greenhouse to the sound of more wolf whistles and shut the door behind them.

The greenhouse had changed since Dorian had seen it last. In deference to the approaching holidays, perhaps, Merrill had hung some sort of enormous trellis made of living wood over the back end of the greenhouse, and was using it to grow mistletoe. He wondered if Bull had known it was there when he pulled Dorian inside.

“Did you know that mistletoe is poisonous?” Bull asked him, after several seconds in which neither of them spoke.

Dorian raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t.”

“Yeah, and since it’s a vine, it can be really bad for trees. It’s actually considered a parasite since it doesn’t provide anything for its host and can’t survive on its own.”

“In Tevinter, it’s a good luck symbol. I thought everyone down here was very superstitious until Sera made me watch my first bad Fereldan Satinalia romcom.”

Bull chuckled. “Yeah, I think it started out as a fertility thing, in the Blessed Age or something.”

“And that evolved into romance more generally,” Dorian said.

“Yeah...” Bull trailed off.

Dorian mustered his courage. “Bull, I just kissed you in the middle of the flower store. Do you want to talk about that?”

“Yeah,” said Bull, “That was… good.”

“Thanks.”

Bull let go of something that was almost a laugh, rubbing at the base of his horns. “Shit, we’re terrible at this, huh?”

“Just this part. I thought the kissing went rather well.”

Bull took Dorian’s hand. “Well, yeah. I’m glad you came back in.”

“Me too.” Dorian took a deep breath. “Bull, I really like you. I like spending time with you, I always have, but I-- Well, for a long time, I’ve been too scared to go after anything that might be… real. You deserve better, and I want to fix that.”

“Well,” Bull said, brushing some of Dorian’s hair behind his ear, “Going after anything at all is a pretty good start. You might have noticed I uh... didn’t really get it together to ask you out, either.”

“Technically,” said Dorian, “I haven’t managed that yet. I’d like to.”

“Not opera,” Bull said quickly.

Dorian laughed. “Bull, will you go to dinner with me somewhere with edible food and no opera music whatsoever?”

“I’d love to,” Bull said, and kissed him again.