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"Rough night, prissy breeches?" Sera said conversationally as she strode down the hall from Bull's room.
Her footsteps continued sounding further and further away even as Dorian came to a halt. The otherwise empty hallway echoed with the ominous tune of Sera's laughter, and that was all the final confirmation Dorian needed.
Bull was already several paces ahead, lifting a hand to push his door open.
Faster than blinking, Dorian was between Bull and the door, arm thrown out in front of the large bare chest. With another sweep of the arm, a very familiar film of shimmering blue briefly flared across them both as Dorian set up a barrier, and though Bull couldn't imagine why, he didn't need Ben-Hassrath training to appreciate that Dorian had shielded not just himself but Bull as well.
"Feel like trying out a new place? I'm game for anything, big guy."
"That depends." One hand delicately traced the ancient wood slats before them, the other kept a firm grip on his staff, thrumming with a spell at the ready.
"No point wasting time," Dorian murmured, almost more to brace himself. He threw the door open and slid inside.
Sunlight poured in from the gaping hole left unattended across the ceiling, gold rays illuminating the Bull's room much as he'd left it that morning. Garishly-patterned pants sat sprawled halfway off the bed, a trunk held its draws gaping open with this or that tool for maintaining a sturdy weapon. Only his writing area looked particularly tidy, a habit from too many years as little more than a tool programmed for efficiency.
Still, Dorian slowly and deliberately placed the area, delicately sidestepping rumpled bedrolls and a sheath put aside for leather repairs. A keen eye could spot tiny sparks dancing from his fingertips in an anticipation of the slightest provocation.
"Listen, big guy, they might have kicked me out, but I was still a trained spy." Bull padded loudly right behind him, loud in everything he did in stark contrast to Dorian's light steps. "I would notice if anyone even dared approach this place unwelcome."
"The enemy is from within, you naive lummocks," Dorian replied tersely, leaning down to rifle through one of Bull's travel bag. Their barrier would be dwindling soon; time was limited.
"Uh huh." Dorian could hear the amused smirk coming from Bull. "The enemy being Sera."
"Precisely."
“The fact that we’re allies has no bearing on any of this?”
“As a matter of fact.” Dorian did not turn from carefully considering the expanse of floor underneath the bed. “It makes her all the more dangerous.” He hunched down, briefly pushing aside the sheets and comforter to closer inspect the floorboards before straightening. Gray eyes swept the small quarters one final time before Dorian’s face set, brow creased in thought. “Right, in all likeliness, since my search didn’t turn anything up, whatever trap she laid isn’t proximity based, but timed.” He rounded on Bull and jammed a finger matter-of-factly at his bare chest. “We’ll be staying in my quarters tonight.”
“We?” Bull echoed, grin stretching from bemusedly entertained to downright wicked. “Pretty generous - and presumptive - of you.”
His comment was waved away by a ringed hand as Dorian brushed past him and out the door. “Do try not to make something out of nothing. It’s simply pragmatic. You’ve made our private affairs no small secret, so she would expect us both back here after drinks. This will throw her off and we’ll clean up the debris tomorrow.”
“Not sure I’m the one making something out of nothing,” Bull countered, but followed him for their scheduled meeting with Cullen, brimming with his trademark subdued energy at the prospect of new training drills for soldiers and mages alike. For the rest of the afternoon, Dorian could assist with a clear head and sharp focus, certain he’d ascertained Sera’s plot and disabled its ramifications swiftly.
***
Without any Maker-forsaken sojourns in the Emprise du Lion, or a foray through the trenches of the Exalted Plains, training could last through the day without worry of a wearied departure anytime soon. Just about everyone seemed eager for some intense combat without any true stakes, exempting a few garish bruises sure to manifest from so many blows with a staff or shield. But during these skirmishes, the Inquisition’s troops could hone their skills, commune with those entrusted with their lives, celebrate those who remained, and fight on in defiant love for those who could not.
By the time the early chill of dusk chased away what little warmth a sunbathed Skyhold had to offer, everyone was donning sweat, dirt, and a pleased smile. Even Cassandra seemed satisfied, judging by the subtle angle of the scar raking down her cheek, the way she eyed her fellow combatants with a kind of fierce pride.
It was enough for Dorian to deem the day a productive success and that meant an evening well-spent downing drinks at the Herald’s Rest and a grateful slumber to mute the complaints his muscles would undoubtedly issue soon.
"You still lending me that book?" Bull reminded as their paths intersected at the foot of Skyhold's aged stone stairs flanked by gods of old illuminated from below by splashes of dancing gold.
"Ah, yes. You really will appreciate the thesis on working around the Orlesian mask customs. Our dear spymaster Leliana read from its pages, though she didn't seem to pick up some of its more discreet suggestions." As the Inquisitor's advisors vetted any and all potential threat to the Herald herself, Leliana had not gone through the subtle gestures of presenting controlled opportunities of attack too salacious to pass up. Instead she violently overturned the orderly sanctity of everyone's luggage. His drawers had required much attention to undo the damage, and for what?
"If it helps filter out the bullshit nothing everyone lies about at court, I'll leave it a glowing review all around Thedas. Though, that might tip them off. Probably too set in their ways to change much," Bull mused aloud as he and Dorian ascended the curving stairway to the library.
"I'll give them this: Orlais is a touch more subtle than the Magisterium. At least the powers that be might wait to be in private before ordering someone's death. Magisters are rather more hands-on—"
Dorian froze. At his nook, framed in the narrow window, was a retreating figure; Dorian caught the very end of a leg clad in plaidweave, ending in a small foot retreating up beyond the frame and out of sight, no doubt to perch on a nearby rooftop.
In two long strides, Dorian was at the window, ready to inspect for sabotage, when he paused. He pressed a hand, firm, against the panes, and gave a firm shove. The glass and casing stayed comfortingly in place.
Comforting until Dorian realized that meant the damage had been done elsewhere in his treasured sanctuary.
"Help me," he half-ordered and though he'd never admit it—half-implored Bull.
Most certainly able to hear the tangible paranoia lacing Dorian's words, Bull humored him, offering at least some assurance getting safety feedback from one of the Ben-Hassrath's very best, until it became painfully obvious the Ben-Hassrath weren't the best for Bull.
They checked his high-backed chair top to bottom, individually removed books from their shelves to check for hidden traps, even peaked inside the lute leaning nearby. All the while, Dorian refreshed a barrier around him and Bull so often, the smell of ozone filled the small alcove and Bull's nose with a pleasantness he'd never thought he'd enjoy.
"Nothing here, big guy." Bull regarded Dorian with a narrowed eye. "Think you might just want to relax about it, assume the little mop-headed terror doesn't care?"
The look Dorian leveled was answer enough, but he still asked, "would you think that?"
Then, Bull's rough, rumbling hum said all words couldn't.
***
Dorian was not his usual made-up self. The day Sera commented on his kohl, he'd spent an hour pouring over each vial of beauty product, meticulously inspecting for tampering with painstaking thoroughness. Then, the harness for his books disappeared; no immediate worry, since trips had slown for him as he conducted research into Corypheus' genealogy, he didn't need an easy way to carry reading material across vast stretches of barren barbarity. But when Sera turned up with it clutched in her hands, inquiring "Looking for this?"
By the end of the week, Dorian conceded. He crossed the courtyard into the Herald's Rest with all the numb composure of a man going to the gallows determined to keep his head held defiangly high; the better for the executioner to understand the outstanding profile he'd be riding the world in, doomed to only be immortalized in marble.
Stationed at his usual perch was, predictably, Krem, drawing closer and closer to the bottom of his tankard after another day of the Chargers putting each other through the paces, lest Bull voice disparaging commentary about their form when he returned from the Frostback basin today.
"Cremissius," greeted Dorian with a bow of the head.
"Altus," Krem said curtly, nodding before downing another swig. Their strange but time-honored ritual complete, Dorian cast a critical eye over the wearied former soldier. "I know the Bull enforces vigilance, but surely you can take a break from the garish and the uncomfortable when you're trying to unwind." Gray eyes followed Krem's gaze. "Wouldn't you want the object of your affections to see all your battle-won muscles and scars?"
A final swig, the last bitter mouthful. Krem stared fondly at Skyhold's divisive bard as she strummed away about someone else's condensed personality. "Easier to just put off taking all this crap off. Also, taverns are practically a thug's favorite place for a brawl." He looked past Dorian, some of the sudden hardness dissolving as he added, "Besides, make this a lot less painful."
"What—"
All the wind left Dorian as a pair of strong arms embraced him and Krem, enveloping them both in a hug that removed Dorian's feet from the floor and Krem from his seat.
"There are my favorites Vints!" Bull crowed over Dorian's squawks of protest and Krem's dismissal at this "sappy sissy crap, chief, you're hopeless."
Both lowered back down to earth, Bull sounded a booming laugh, launching into tales of the Inquisition's latest dragon hunt.
It was around then that Maryden's music changed tempo, and her crooning voice instead happily chirped "Sera was Never." That only ever meant one thing. Sera herself was present.
Sure enough, there she stood, freshly descended from the stairs ready to beeline towards Cabot and—more to the point—drinks. Her round face wrinkled in annoyance when she heard the lyrics, and it was this look Dorian was greeted with as he resolutely marched up to her.
"Alright, come clean. What is it."
"Whah—?"
"Enough playing coy, Sera. I can barely stand it anymore. Whatever your intended revenge may be, enact it now and we can all be friends again."
At that explanation, Sera blinked, eyes flashing and transforming her face from blank perplexity to giddy amusement. "We've been friends the whole time, prissy breaches," she said through a grin. "So, I didn't mess with any of your fancy weird shite and never planned to!" Pride. That was what flavored her every syllable.
"You—didn't?"
"Course not." Sera tried for a serene smile, which only succeeding in looking more ominous. "But I made sure not to let you into that, right? You fussed and fretted all these days over nothin'. I got a reward without doing anything. And that's the best revenge." She rolled her eyes. "Learned that trick from Vivi."
"Madam helped you with this?" Very little got past Bull at Skyhold, but this obviously threw him. Sera and Vivienne de Fer were not famous for their unshakable friendship.
"Ugh, course not, not after what I did to her shoes. But those scaly creeps she said she sent back to me—she never did, but I still thought she did, so she just had to say she did, and I sat there like a stupid prick waiting for something that'd never come. Best way to mess with the lordly-type is to use their own evil schemes, right? Got you proper well, didn't it?"
Again, years of mastering the Game against more threatening combatants than Sera were all that kept Dorian from gasping in—Maker keep him—awe at the simple complexity, the complex simplicity of it all.
But pride would not allow it.
Instead, Dorian folded his arms, chin tilted in the start of an acquiescing nod. That’s when it happened. With absolutely no ceremony, the intricate cords and buckles of his shirt unfurled, as if one simple tug had undone a complex knot into little more than a heap. Leather and cloth hissed down his chest as his shirt was effectively disassembled without provocation.
A pregnant silence lasted for a whole heartbeat before an appreciative whistle sounded, suspiciously from the Chargers table. Other goodnature chortling hummed to life and finally the patrons snapped from their reverie. All except Bull.
Never one to miss a chance at preening, Dorian attempted to salvage the situation with a deep, theatrical bow, to a renewed smattering of clapping and heckling. Upon standing upright, his gaze fell right upon a certain elven archer.
Sera’s smirk was one of poisoned honey, smug and knowing as Dorian worked hard to keep his face composed. An upbringing spent in the Imperium kept his expression schooled, but his tone betrayed his shock. “But you said—”
“Then I figured, final part of that little trick ought to be actually doing something after you’re all relaxed like. Get a double hit in for one. Wasn’t even hard, was it?”
Quickly, and with increasing ease every time he spoke to the elf, Dorian translated then processed just what Sera had said. His eyes widened again in especially naked awe. “Sera, that’s—brilliant. The kind of manipulative cunning I’d expect at the Magisterium or Orlais.”
Sera’s face twisted sourly. “Uck, don’t try ruining it, fancy breeches. This is my victory over the lordly types. But we’re friends enough, so, suppose we’re even now.” She pondered for a moment. “Makes sense, though. That it’s all fancy shmancy rich people mind games for people with too little to worry about. I did get the idea from Vivi, right?” Something of the diabolical marksman returned to her narrowed eyes. “Speaking of, time to try this out on a real threat.”
She started for the door. As if released from a sheath of ice, Bull started, approaching Sera’s retreating form. “Hey, Sera, wait!”
Sera turned, surprisingly imperious, better enjoying the culmination of all her machinations falling - literally - into place. “Yeah? Come to thank me for doing half your jousting work tonight?”
“Actually y—jousting?”
“Horns blocking your ears? It’s jousting, innit?”
Decades of dedication and training for the Qun prepared him for any situation - except Sera. The muscles in his neck worked as he marched bravely passed the hiccup, pressing, “I need you to tell me how you did that with the buckles. How did you figure them out so well? Because it’s a bit of a mood killer wrestling with those things but all his outfits are like that.”
The towering Qunari offered down a placating smile to the elf, whose entire width was probably more narrow than his own forearm, as she and her roguish knack for lockpicking held his romantic life in the balance.
“Dunno, do I? Just comes to me like archery. Gonna have to figure it out yourself, I’m not practicing on him, you daft tit.” She barely gave Bull’s look of distressed dismay a second glance before turning on heel and heading back to Skyhold proper.
Dorian pulled his gaze from her retreating form, mind catching up with all the evening's events. He started to shrug his shirt and leather straps back on, feeling Bull's grin before seeing it.
The look was supposed to be entirely filthy, but lately it'd been laced with something Dorian might classify as fondness had he been on the receiving end of such a look more often in the past. Either way, it was charming, and so uncharacteristically almost-delicate and tentatively hopeful for Bull that Dorian was quite won over even before Bull asked, "Hey, think I can spend the evening practicing with those straps, since she won't teach me the secret?"
Feigning haughty indifference with practiced ease, in answer Dorian headed for the stairs that would take them to Bull's chambers. "I expect it'll take quite long. Did you finish that book I lent you? I should like some reading material while I wait."
"Guess I'll have to be a quick learner so you don't get bored."
"That remains to be seen."
In the end, he was a rather quick study, between remarkably tame lessons with far more talking than either had expected. Unexpected but welcome once again defined yet another one of their nights together, thanks in inadvertent part to Sera's unwelcome but expected hijinks.