Work Text:
"What are you doing?"
"You want an answer Cole would give or something else?" Bull paused cleaning his weapon, seated at a bench on the outskirts of the training yard, wounded leg propped up on a crate appropriated from the gardens.
The hard lines creasing Dorian's face did not soften. Gray eyes cast a cursory look around the yard, speckled with soldiers, practice swords colliding with wood, armor, and limb to make for a proper din.
“Perhaps somewhere more private,” Dorian said through pursed lips. He waited until Bull heaved himself up with a grunt. He left his greataxe propped against the bench; no one would take it. It was recognizable as Bull’s weapon of choice with one glance alone, and for all the times they heckled their boss the Chargers would become more brutal and insistent than a hive of provoked bees if they saw someone try and make off with it.
Besides, who else but a seven-foot-tall Qunari could wield such a beastly thing?
With a huff, Dorian turned on heel, guiding them back up the aged steps into Skyhold’s Great Hall. A blast of warmth caressed him as they passed a fire crackling merrily in the grate nearby, a kind reprieve against the dry mountain chill seeping in from so many people coming and going.
“Drinks and Wicked Grace tonight, Tiny?” Varric called from his seat by the dancing flames.
“If you can get Cullen to try and redeem himself,” Bull replied, throwing a grin over his shoulder at the chuckling dwarf.
“Bag full of royals says he can’t resist.”
“I’ll take that bet.”
Laughter followed them as the pair stepped out into the gardens. A whole bouquet bombarded Dorian’s nose, carried on the gentle autumn breeze, subdued in the quiet, shaded space of the courtyard, but all the mower powerful for how enclosed the space was. A few Chantry sisters tended to sprigs of elfroot stubbornly reaching for their chance at life in the nursery. A few new faces, visiting Orlesians, if memory served correctly, were taking up residence in the gazebo across the courtyard. But just the other way—yes, perfect.
Inquisitor Zulfiya Lavellan, First to the Keeper, had opted to keep the garden dedicated entirely to herb growth rather than selling off their wares to the Chantry, but Andraste still had a room of her own off to the side, candles kept lit and replaced by the dutiful and—in Dorian's oft-accurate opinion—abundantly cautious Mother Giselle.
Sometimes the small quarters would be closed off when some discipline wished to commune with the Maker's wife and champion.
Or perhaps to offer a confession for crimes grating on their doomed soul and dubious conscience.
In the quiet solitude of this revered nook, Dorian felt a renewed weight keeping his words lodged in his chest, never even willing to make it to his closed throat. Now that he'd summoned his audience, he was obligated to commit—
What a dreadful word. Spiteful and full of glass-delicate promises it delighted in shattering. A wretched temptation.
It was Bull's voice that brought him back, like it had been for a while now.
"You had something you wanted to ask, Dorian?"
This dam wasn't showing any signs of closing. If the doors wouldn't shut, maybe he'd just collapse the whole structure.
“I know by your very nature, you’re as subtle as a thunderstorm, but surely Ben-Hassrath training taught you something about feigning discretion, at least,” Dorian went on.
Why are you doing this? Has it not been good, is it so dull you want it to end?
“It taught me about a lot of things,” Bull said slowly, with rare caution in the deliberate consideration he gave his words. “And some other things I’m re-learning.”
“Then learn silence,” Dorian snapped, left utterly unsatisfied by that answer.
A frown pulled at the corners of Bull’s lips, an earnest sight so rare Dorian was unsure how to interpret it. He’d learned some of his smiles—the exhilarated, giddy one he wore in the heat of battle, the reverential awed one reserved for dragons, some kind of teasing, almost fond smirk Dorian had started catching sight of recently; he’d not yet discerned what provoked that one. But with frowning, so far there had been the ones reserved for demon crap and the lost one shrouded in turmoil following the fallout with the Qunari dreadnought. The one he wouldn’t let the Chargers see, though Dorian was sure hovered close and were ready to intervene the instant they caught a flicker of that desolate betrayal.
Neither type suited him, Dorian learned.
“Listen,” Bull began in a rumbling voice. “I don’t want to be anyone’s dirty secret, and in exchange, you’re not some scandal I’m keeping hidden either.”
Dorian held his grand, standing squarely in front of Bull, whose skin turned a mosaic of gold and silver in the faint glow of the candles. “I understand there’s plenty to disparage about the exiled Vint living off of smuggled Inquisition drinks,” he said tersely. “But in other regards, I’m here first and foremost so that history will have to know someone from Tevinter was present to right all these demonic wrongs, and I don’t want any of that endangered by this and all related mockery.”
Bull regarded him with one penetrating pale eye, folding his arms over his broad chest and strumming his fingers—whole and ruined—along one arm. “I never mocked you,” he said at last, low and serious. “And this kind of messing around isn’t something that the history books are going to blacken your name with. Just ask Varric.”
“Oh, yes, the washed-up gossip-monger,” Dorian shot back, mirroring the gesture as if putting a barrier around himself from all the implications Bull’s words might carry. “That’s all this talk is: gossip-mongering. Fuel for some scandalized chatter that people can turn into ammunition and make your worst deeds the only identity you have left.”
“You’re not in Tevinter. And that was something my people got pretty right. Humans are weird about relationships everywhere, but we’re all friends here having fun and teasing, and happy for each other at the end of the day.”
Relationships.
Fun.
In just a few words, Bull had sent Dorian’s—what? Hopes? Expectations? Some terrible wanting that might have been desire—emotions to and fro, the meeting point between terrible and thrilling, and all the overlapping areas between them.
“You’re happy with all this,” Dorian said slowly, eyebrow quirked.
And of course, Bull plainly admitted, “Sure am. The sex has been good, the chatting fun, and even when you calm down and we stop the teasing and just talk. Plus, never thought I’d say this but, we fight well together.” He opened his mouth to add something but stopped short.
Dorian’s heart pounded in his chest, the stress of standing suddenly leaving him dizzy. He eased himself down to the musty stone floor, closer now to the warmth of the flickering alter flames and shivering all the same. He kept his eyes on the humble alter and heard Bull give a grunt, and reflexively his hand shot out to offer some support as Bull eased himself down too. For a moment, his larger hand engulfed Dorian’s fingers, clearly trying not to apply pressure as he carefully minded his aching leg, but pressing down briefly as he finished settling. Their fingers slid apart, and Dorian realized just how empty his palm was more often than not.
Bull’s words were wandering precariously—dangerously—close to colliding with something fragile, and all manner of warnings sounded in Dorian’s head.
He bristled. “Fun,” he echoed, eyes narrowing into stormy slits. “You’re just being used, you know,” he went on, tone dripping in dry cynicism. “Used to satisfy a selfish aberration’s deviant and shameful curiosities. That doesn’t turn you off enough? No, of course not. Because at the end of the day, it’s about being a tool, isn’t it?”
The silence rang loud and heavy in both their ears, to the point Dorian swore he could hear every little twitch of the flames feet away.
“I like what we have,” Bull said at last, snapping the tension with that gentle tone of his. Yet again, he would face all Dorian had to fire off at him with the same level head and readiness he armed himself with against dragons. It was unnatural and undeserved, and just enough to spill a vial of acidic shame right into Dorian’s gut.
“Of course,” he tried once again, voice feeble to his own ears. “It satisfies your own power trip over the Tevinter magister, right?” As it had for so many before Bull.
At that, Bull raised a hand. The jagged lines of his scarred face were thrown into sharper relief with his uncharacteristic frown, highlighted less by the abysmal light trickling in from the gardens and more by the candles flickering contritely at Andraste’s feet.
"I'm gonna stop you there," Bull said, as serious as Dorian had ever heard him. "I'm a lot of things, things I'm still making sense of, things people want me to be, things Krem insists I am when he's feeling generous. But I am not like any of those Vint magisters you were with back there. Especially not in bed. I like what we have, whatever this is now and whatever we do later. And I enjoyed thinking we both liked it.”
From the corner of his eye, Dorian eyed him warily. It couldn’t possibly be—not from a Qunari of all people. “You’re speaking in a very exclusive, long term way, Bull.”
Bull shrugged a broad shoulder, the leathers of his harness humming accordingly. “Maybe that’s another part about it I like. Those few times you stay over, when you just can’t resist watching me train, sharing a tent on missions. It’s—” At this, Bull broke off, averting his gaze, the corners of his eye crinkled in frustrated contemplation. He grunted impatiently, shaking his head as if to dislodge just the right words for the knot of feelings they’d both become entangled in. “I’d had this before. Still do, with my men. But this goes deeper than the Qun taught about...or allowed.” He turned back to look at Dorian in earnest. “But we have a word that says it pretty well, just about. Kadan .”
Dorian frowned, a crease carved between his dark brows as he mulled that over. “The center of the chest?”
At that, Bull managed a wry smile. “I guess the Vints wouldn’t exactly teach the deeper meaning, then. Oh that’s good, that’s some good propaganda. Yes, but no, it has a whole lot of other meanings related to the chest. It’s for people you care about, that you’d carry in your heart, making those people your actual heart. That make sense?”
Only when asked to answer did Dorian realize his breath had caught in his throat. “No,” he croaked, suddenly regretting his choice to sit; it would make fleeing take just a bit longer.
Bull’s smile softened at the edges, turned almost fond. “Yeah, a lot of this doesn’t make sense to me either.”
To me either . Damn Ben-Hassrath, probably got a read on Dorian ten times over this whole conversation, analyzing and extrapolating conclusions Dorian was still fumbling blindly for in a maze that smelled suspiciously of Vyrantium dinners and rang with the melodious bells of Minrathous, guarded under the watchful eye of jaded alti life.
But if Bull could really have all this figured out, that made his actions all the more— dangerous, hurtful, destructive, heartbreaking .
“If you like this so much, then why do you want it to end?” he managed at last around his dry throat.
“What?”
All the risks that turn good and beautiful and enjoyable and meaningful end. That’s why you keep your distance and make it mean nothing for as long as possible. It stays whole that way, empty but blessedly whole .
Instead, Dorian simply replied, “As soon as you start holding onto something, there then becomes the risk of letting go.” Usually either deliberately or sheer uncaring negligence, and strange how those people never seemed to notice their hand feel so empty and light when he was gone. “You give people ammunition against us continuing...whatever this is. A clear target to break apart or root against.”
A sad sigh spilled from Bull’s lips, and Dorian was privy to a new look to learn, a melancholic hybrid between weariness and grief and something achingly soft and tender, neither smile nor frown. “You came a long way from Tevinter to not be there anymore, you know. Think it’s about time to start living like you’re not there, yet?”
Laughter, short and bitter, rattled through Dorian. “Maker, I don’t think I ever really lived like I was in Tevinter, even there,” he mused. “Much to my parents’ chagrin. Then, of course I had to adjust to this wretched southern climate and absence of hygiene and common fashion sense.”
“Says the guy,” Bull hooked a finger under one of the straps arcing across Dorian’s body. “In a jumpsuit of belts.”
“At least one of these belts holds excellent reading material at all times,” Dorian countered, turning to better face Bull, falling easily into their usual banter, glad to be stepping away from the precipice into a place the threat of temptation forbade him from.
Bull seemed determined to stomp right across the threshold, though, and pressed, “My point, which I know you know what I mean already, is you don't have to be afraid of some depraved, asinine standards anymore. If you want something, go for it.”
His stomach curdled at those words as Dorian started to withdraw into himself. “Everyone I know who has done that sacrificed all their values along the way, and they not only fell short of what they wanted, they lost it completely.” The next words caught in his throat, clutching stubbornly to remain private, hidden safely from all the world’s destructive wrath under every unassuming stone and so very close to home.
It was more, Cole's airy voice had intoned, it was the man with your eyes...angry, walking on cobblestones, 'I'm on my own now...'
But something about having this heartfelt discussion was addictive, intoxicating, thrilling in its newness, and a rare sight to actually gain so much momentum; Dorian felt compelled to continue engaging. “And I’d rather not lose this.” He aimed for airily disinterested and landed at grievously desperate.
Bull was silent for a moment, expression thoughtful as though he were contemplating his next chess move against Solas, but absent of the impersonal tactician’s glare. It was easy to say a lot of things as they’re felt in the moment, so long as both parties had half a clue what they were talking about.
“Well,” he began at last. “Good thing about being here is we’re the only ones who decide how long it goes on.” He looked at Dorian, leveled a fierce stare and would not let up until he saw those gray eyes meet his own, determined to make him understand.
“There’s a concept,” murmured Dorian, as though suddenly afraid of disturbing the divine sentinel in front of them. “They would call this selfish back home.”
“Yeah.” Bull’s fingers slid from Dorian’s belt, ghosted over him gently, lazily, uncaring where they landed, seeking only contact. “Yeah, I can say the same about my home too. But it looks like we’re not Qun or Vint anymore. Our jobs are just to the Inquisition, and I haven’t seen that damaged by what we’re doing.”
“No, it hasn’t been.”
Dorian knew he was prodding at an already weathered and cracked dam, had struck a few blows to that solid foundation himself over countless years with countless mistakes, but never so many costly blows in such short succession as during his time with the Inquisition. It almost felt unfair, though he had no one to blame but himself; this was supposed to be a chance for redemption, the one bit of good his life of proud blundering could have contributed, in the name of his misguided homeland and his misguided self.
At least, for the most part, as with many of his past mistakes, the person most in the impact zone would be himself…
...and, stubbornly holding his hand would be Bull.
But would it even matter to the man, a Qunari of all people?
A Qunari divorced from his peoples and all their teachings because he cared too much, because he dared to place his devotion beyond what his handlers allotted for him.
Maybe standing with Dorian amidst the fallout of whatever they were endeavoring meant all the world to Bull; perhaps dangerous places like the heart were exactly where he always wanted to place himself. For the Chargers, maybe someday for himself, and presently, for Dorian.
Dorian sighed, a tired thing that swelled inside his chest and dispelled just some of the ache there as he deflated. “Neither of us are remotely qualified to try this whole...something,” he pointed out, sounding far more tired than he’d ever want to be heard.
For however fatigued he sounded, Bull’s smile matched that tone, but never absent of its bracing energy, as though his very spirit were a flame that could feed itself. “We’re a bunch of Thedas’ greatest freaks and outcasts banding together to close up a creepy green hole in the sky, slay an ancient magister, vanquish demon shit, and figure out whatever the hell the Winter Palace was. Qualifications never really stopped anyone here before. Besides,” he added, sidling beside Dorian and bumping him with his hip even as he draped a long, thick arm over his shoulders. Dorian never failed to appreciate just how well he fit into that nook there, and didn’t reprimand himself for easing into the warmth that radiated from the man beside him. “Give us some credit. You’re a bigshot who figured out time magic, and all my Ben-Hassrath training didn’t just disappear because they sent assassins after me. We can figure out dating, I think.”
“Dating,” Dorian echoed with a dry laugh. He stared ahead, regarding the aged statue staring serenely ahead of her, unseeing but all-loving. “Going to start showering me in flowers while serenading about my unmatched beauty?”
Bull gave a bark of laughter that set his whole chest rumbling, and like a spark, the small gesture warmed something within Dorian. “Nah, that’s all busy work. Besides, wouldn’t that be a step backwards? We sort of skipped that part.”
“Yes, it rather first began with abundant innuendos and your poor bedroom safety practices. I would have thought a trained spy of all people would know to lock his door.”
“Bedroom safety? Says the guy who set my drapery on fire.”
That wasn’t the only thing on fire now. “That’s never happened before, I had no reason to expect such an occurrence.”
Bull turned very slowly to star down at him, expression turning blank, the better to dramatically stretch into a wide, satisfied grin. “Hey, I’m not complaining. It was pretty… hot .” Then, just when Dorian thought he couldn’t feel more exasperated, Bull perked up and added, “Wait, that’s never happened before? So, I’m the best you’ve ever had?”
“We’re not doing this.” Dorian made to rise, only for that acursedly strong arm to tug him back down, more flush against Bull than even before, and it was rather inconveniently comfortable even like that, too. “You’re impossible,” he snapped without any fire, choosing to preen rather than look at that far-too-pleased grin.
“So you keep saying, but I promise I’m not just a really lucid fantasy come to life.”
“More like a nightmare…” Dorian still made no move to extricate himself again. He did, however, sigh. “Well, you now know all the risks, so you can now make the informed mistake of trying out what’s sure to be a mess.”
“Messy battles are the best,” Bull mused, fingers grazing idly up and down a tan arm. “They’re the most worth it.”
Dorian found new fascination in the lowest candle spluttering nearly out of light. “The things you say.”
“Drive you wild with desire?” Dorian didn’t have to look to feel that grin radiating a heat of its own. Just as surely, Bull should be able to sense him rolling his eyes, hard.
Tracing idle lines alongside a scar carved into Bull’s stomach, Dorian sighed rather wistfully. “We’re going to make such a disaster of this, amatus .” In the quiet of the enclosed garden Chantry, he tasted the word on his tongue, experimented with the very gall to say it aloud, to the very person he meant it for, no less.
If Bull wondered what it meant, he didn’t ask. Perhaps Ben-Hassrath training had covered such messy admissions in their vocabulary lessons. Or, just as likely, Bull had caught on that though he explained what his term of compassion meant, Dorian wasn’t about to explain his, not right now, not in the early life stages of their whatever-this-was. A whole lot of something. Perhaps later he would press; he already seemed primed to, if that pleased smile massaged into the back of Dorian’s shoulder was anything to go by. And Dorian would be cornered and refute it in a way he would think safe only for Bull to crow his delight that Dorain did care, after all.
“It’s our disaster to enjoy, kadan ,” Bull replied, embrace tight, face set. “For what it’s worth, I’ve got a good feeling about it.”
Dorian regarded another spider’s web of scars splayed over Bull’s torso as he miserably admitted, “Against all better judgment I tend to ignore anyway, so do I.”
He would say For now, that would have to be enough , but that really wasn’t all they had, was it? Days gone and days to come filled them with more familiarity with each other and with themselves, with their place in worlds they never seemed right for anyway and a greater world cursing them with wonderful freedom to choose such mistakes, to clumsily repair and dote upon and worship and hate and love as they’d never thought possible before.
All that would be more than enough even for some of Thedas’ most displaced and unqualified to figure out.
THE END