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People—humans, elves, the handful of Tal-Vashoth that haven’t yet been put down—all have their own stories about the marks. Where they come from. What they mean. Whether it was the Maker or something older that deigned for them to be visible on the skin. The lore varies from city to Dalish encampment to isolated homestead, with little agreement beyond the basics: whenever you make a life-altering decision, whether you know it at the time or not, script appears somewhere on your body with the name of your soul’s perfect match.
There are no life-altering decisions under the Qun. You fulfill your purpose in life, and nothing can stand in the way of it. The Tamassran see to it that you continue in your place, undistracted.
A few of the Ben-Hassrath use the marks—especially when it comes to a target they’re closing in on: find out who it is, what their mark says, if they’ve found the other person with the matching mark. He’s known some who have found ways to mimic the tattoos all together, just for the sole purpose of using it to manipulate their target. That never sat right with him, though he could objectively appreciate the amount of work and calculation it took to ingratiate yourself to someone by making them believe you were their soulmate.
Once, Bull was tracking down a couple of Tal-Vashoth—a brutal pair who had fled and left a trail of bodies and salted earth in their wake. When he’d caught up with them, they’d given Bull and his company the sort of fight that left lasting scars and more than a few more permanent casualties. When he’d finally put an axe through one’s skull and put him down, the other had fallen. Not dead, but not really living anymore either. He’d finished her off as well, and only once they were dead and Bull was getting ready to burn their bodies had he seen the Qunlat script decorating their skin. He knew the names they’d given themselves after they’d left, and seeing the words imprinted on each other was… Well. They were Tal-Vashoth. And they’d died well, despite everything. Bull could respect them for that.
The back of Bull’s shoulder burned after he saved Krem’s life. It was a mild burn, as if someone was dragging the sharpened tongs of a fork lightly against his skin, quickly gone and quickly forgotten. He didn’t notice at first. Not while Krem was pressing a cheaply-made poultice to what remained of his suddenly sightless eye. His hands were intermittently fluttering and steady, insisting that Bull had been an idiot to intervene and all the while blushing like he couldn’t believe someone would accept such an injury in the name of helping him.
He remained unaware until a few weeks later—sporting a new eyepatch and tumbling a server from the nearby tavern. She had a good ear and no love for her neighbours… The perfect informant in an otherwise hard-to-crack port town.
“Lucky,” she whistled, poking at the back of his shoulder. “Don’t think I’ll ever have one, fucking about these parts.” She paused. “Funny-looking, innit?”
Bull let nothing slip. Not until he was back in his room, soaking in a tub the staff had kindly arranged for him and half-listening to Krem continuing to insist that he could make it on his own, as though defecting from the Imperium wasn’t a death sentence from which there was no appeal.
“Is there something…” Bull paused. “My right shoulder...”
He could feel Krem peering at it across the room. “Tevene,” he breathed. “Fancy shit, at that.”
“It’s not you, is it?” Bull demanded, mildly horrified. He’d stopped Krem from being killed, but he wasn’t ready to be saddled with him for life.
“Fuck you, I’m a catch,” Krem snarled. “You should be so lucky.”
“Then don’t tell me,” Bull said. “I don’t want to know.”
There was a long pause, and then, “Why not?”
And Bull repeated what he’d herd every day of his life, “There are no soulmates under the Qun.”
When he first sees Dorian, he’s striding through the gates of Haven—brazen, like only Dorian can be—and heading towards the Chantry.
The Herald needs to stop picking up strays.
But that’s not quite right. There’s an aura of subdued superiority around Dorian. He’s too well-dressed, considering he must be one of the Herald’s lost souls, and it’s almost easy to overlook the tiny stitches repairing a whole host of tears to his robes, or the buttons that are merely a close match instead of a perfect one. It all speaks of living a lifestyle to which he’s not accustomed and struggling to maintain the vestiges of one he’s left behind.
Sera is a feral cat, beast born and raised without comforts. Dorian reminds him of a pampered pet who’s been turfed and has learned to fend for himself.
Later, over drinks, he hears a few of Cullen’s men spitting about “another goddamn ‘Vint.”
Bulls glances at Krem, who’s surprisingly focused on the thin head topping his ale. His Second has had to bash more than a few skulls together to drive home the point that he’s a Charger, and any affiliations he might have with his birthplace have been buried beneath his loyalty to his company.
“Don’t look at me, Chief,” Krem mutters into his cup, “I’m inclined to agree.”
As it happens, Krem and Dorian get along far too well.
It starts after they return from Redcliff—the Herald still treating Bull and Cassandra like casualties, and Dorian constantly involving himself in their business like he belongs. Cassandra seems inclined to treat him like a canker sore—doing her utmost to ignore him, but inevitably returning to deliver a tongue-lashing that just aggravates the situation. Bull spends his time admiring the cut of his figure and the blade-sharpness of his cheekbones. For some reason, the Boss treats him like one of her own; like he’s been slogging through the Hinterlands with them since the beginning, though he’s really only just signed up.
They return to Haven, and Dorian stakes out a small, solitary corner, obviously expecting to be left alone. Solas ignores him, Varric treats him with the same paternal condescension with which he treats everyone, Sera and Vivnienne are true to character and Krem. Well.
The next time he sees Krem, he and Dorian are glued at the hip.
It’s not sexual—at least, Bull doesn’t think it is, and he’s got a good eye for it—they’re just friendly; like two people who sat as strangers beside each other in some Tevinter amphitheatre and left together once the show was done. They drink, fight and talk as though they’ve know each other for years. Two outsiders trying not to look back, so Bull figures. They sit in a corner of the bar, whispering in a language Krem claims to have mostly forgotten and Bull only occasionally glances their way. Wondering. So far as Bull can figure, no one gets all of Dorian’s story. Not even the Herald.
Then Corypheus happens, and everything gets reshuffled like the sky is falling. Again.
Bull’s in the yard, trying to encourage Grim to give him the same amount of shit Krem gives him when he sees Krem and Dorian crossing towards them, whispering furiously and ignoring the glares offered up by a hundred displaced soldiers.
“Long road,” Bull mutters. Grim grunts. The Boss does her best to keep everyone in line, but she can only be in so many places at once, and far be it from Bull to judge her for one of those places primarily being the battered office Cullen has claimed for himself.
He keeps half an eye on them during the rest of the training exercise. And again later on, when they stake out a corner for themselves in the bar. The other Chargers seem happy enough to accept Krem’s lead, folding Dorian in when he’s not hiding in the fragmented library. When he’s not joining their newly-appointed Inquisitor, Cassandra and Bull on the missions that come increasingly often as they hunt down the apocalypse and its harbinger.
Dorian is good.
Bull doesn’t begrudge anyone’s talent. And Dorian is intensely fucking talented. His magic works excellently in conjunction with the Boss’, and even Cassandra seems to develop a begrudging respect for him.
What it really comes down to, though, is how excellently he works with Bull.
The Boss notices first in Crestwood, where the two of them clear out the bandits while she and Cassandra are still fapping about with a couple of locked doors and cursing that they didn’t think to bring someone who could actually do something about them.
Bull cuts down bandit after bandit, a wash of cool magic keeping their weapons from hitting. He spins his axe around and Dorian effortlessly ducks beneath it, blasting a man running at Bull’s exposed back and pinning him to the ground with ice and thunder.
It’s easy to work alongside Dorian. Easier than with any other mage Bull’s been saddled with other the years. There’s a synchronicity Bull’s been missing; an inherent instinct that makes it easy to know exactly where to put his axe, or when to duck to avoid the crash of lightning. It’s amazing, and the thrill of victory dogs their footsteps like a loyal pet, a constant shadow.
They’re riding high on that success when Bull takes him to bed.
Caer Bronach is newly theirs, and they’ve managed to stake out a small corner for themselves as Leliana and Cullen move their people in to keep it in custody. Dorian and Bull are bunking together in one of the few rooms not filled with detritus or structural insecurities. The rooms are cold and musty from the rain, and he can practically see Dorian shivering as he shuffles around his field kit in an effort to keep his hands occupied.
“You know,” Bull mutters, “I can think of a few ways to keep warm.”
Dorian pauses—a bare moment of hesitation—then turns to Bull with his mask of bravado firmly back in place. “Can you now?”
His eyebrow is tilted just so, and Bull takes it as tacit permission to rise, ignoring the ache in his knee, and cross the small room to Dorian’s side.
Dorian waits, his face flush from desire, his eyes hot as he allows himself small but interested glances up and down Bull’s body. ”I suppose it’s something athletic you have in mind?”
Bull makes a noncommittal noise and places a hand on Dorian’s hip. Dorian makes an obvious effort to swallow back an ensuing sound of desire, failing only when Bull allows his fingers to trace the path between his ear and his neck, skirting the bare strip of skin with the lightest of touches.
“You’re terrible at subtlety,” Dorian tells him, his voice more than a little choked. “Everyone knows what we’ll be up to tonight, I’m sure. All that talk of domination...” His voice hitches as Bull runs his nails across the same short expanse of exposed skin.
“Want me to tear these clothes off?” Bull whispers. Fair warning and all.
“Don’t you dare,” Dorian grins. “Go and remove that horribly ostentatious contraption you have the audacity to call armour and leave me to my buckles. We’ll meet somewhere in the middle.”
“I could break every one of those buckles no problem.”
“Savage,” Dorian murmurs with a fond smile. “Go on.”
Bull turns to the bed and strips down the leather holding his gear in place. It doesn’t take long, but before he can do more than reach for his pants, Dorian is behind him, running his fingers over Bull’s mark.
“This,” Dorian breathes.
“Don’t tell me,” Bull says before Dorian can continue. “I don’t want to know. I never have.” Dorian remains silent, but Bull can feel his fingers tremble on the small patch of skin. The quiet threatens to stretch into something uncomfortable, and Bull boulders on. “I’m probably going to have the Tamassran remove it next time I check in.”
Dorian snatches his fingers away. “Probably for the best. After all, I can’t imagine anyone who deserves to be tied to you the rest of their lives.”
“You say the nicest things,” Bull laughs. It only sounds a little forced to his ears.
He turns around and cups Dorian’s cheek. When he ducks his head to go in for a kiss, Dorian tilts his head, allowing Bull’s lips to graze his neck instead. Bull runs his hands down Dorian’s sides, his fingers stumbling over a patch of too-smooth skin across Dorian’s torso, below his ribs. Bull has enough of his own scars to recognize the ghost of a large burn. He wouldn’t take much notice of it, but it’s always been obvious to Bull that, despite his natural talent, Dorian hasn’t seen much in the way of real action before joining the Inquisition. They all have their scars. Their ghosts. But Dorian’s had never struck him as the type of revenants that left such obvious marks.
Dorian draws his hand away, cups his fingers around the beginning of Bull’s erection, and closes his teeth on the nearest available patch of skin.
Predictably they move perfectly in tandem in this as well. The cant of Dorian’s hips, the slide of his hands against Bull’s skin. The occasional huff of breath and how it sings in Bull’s ear. Dorian is a biter, to Bull’s complete lack of surprise. But every time Bull goes to catch his mouth, Dorian turns away. The effect is so jarring in comparison to the ease between them that it throws Bull off every time, only to have him pulled back in with the scratch of Dorian’s nails down his back. He tries to respect it. Tries to keep his lips away. But damn if the fullness of Dorian’s mouth isn’t driving him a little crazy.
The closest they get to kissing is the moment Dorian comes, his mouth temptingly close and so fucking hot. Their lips hover a hairsbreadth away, close enough that Bull can taste Dorian’s breath. But he can take a hint, and instead of claiming what he so badly wants, he buries his face in Dorian’s neck instead, biting down hard when he comes seconds later.
He cleans them both up using a corner of the musty sheets that had come with the room—discarded when the bare mattress seemed the better option—and begins to drift off. As sleep claims him, he thinks he feels the barest brush of Dorian’s lips against his collarbone, but sleep chases the thought too quickly for it to remain.
Dorian is gone in the morning.
Bull has always known ‘Vints are weird about sex; from what he’s heard from Krem, or observed for himself on the occasions he’s had the chance. But he thought Dorian, more than the others of his homeland, had his shit together enough to avoid falling into their traps. Apparently that’s not the case, because Dorian returns to the stiff and untouchable outsider he’d been when he’d first come aboard. He spends increasing amounts of time sequestered in the library, avoiding everyone but the Boss.
And yet, despite what an otherwise casual fuck has done to mess Dorian up, they apparently haven’t ruined their working relationship. They still move with the same perfect synergy that the Inquisitor obviously envies, given the amount of time she now demands Dorian’s presence in the training grounds trying to emulate it. Dorian gamely follows along as she tries to coordinate casting spells in time with him. They get pretty good at it. But they’re always just a second away from being in perfect lockstep. It’s a fidget here. A twitch there. Bull never has to look at Dorian to know what he’s doing, but the Boss seems to need to have half an eye on him and the rest on her surroundings. They’re brilliant together, no one can argue that. But he and Dorian are perfect fucking magic. He’s pretty damn smug about it.
Dorian’s just finishing with another game of ‘obliterate this practice dummy’ when Krem marches up to him and, for once, he’s got nowhere to run. He’s gotten good at avoiding Krem—though Bull could’ve told him to just have one of the other Chargers staking out the back stairs of the library if they really needed to talk—but this time he remains frozen in place.
He and Krem don’t say anything. Just look at each other. Dorian starts looking a little dewy-eyed, but shakes it off and tosses his training staff to one of the quartermasters’ assistants. He gestures for Krem to precede him and follows him back to the tavern.
Bull considers following when Skinner manages lives up to her name and takes a thin strip off his arm.
“Didn’t think I needed to remind you to pay attention, Chief,” she snaps. Skinner has never taken well to being forgotten.
Bull looks down at him arm and nods in approval. He deserved it. “Again.”
He never does find out what the problem was. Dorian and Krem seem to fall back into their easy friendship and, slowly, he and Bull seem to eke out a place for themselves outside of battle. Unless they’re in the field, Dorian shuts down any overt flirting with a quick snap of angry words or just removes himself from the conversation all together. And normally Bull would just stop, but there’s something there. Maybe the slight blush that creeps over his cheeks, or the way his eyes warm; little signs that he actually relishes the attention. And Bull’s not one for giving up hope of a good thing. If Dorian shut him down all together, he’d back off. He would. But until that happens, maybe a little pushing is forgivable.
When they drag themselves back from the Storm Coast, the Dreadnought in pieces at the bottom of the sea, Bull’s first instinct is to write a report about it. He’s halfway through composing it in his head when he remembers that, oh yeah, he doesn’t have to do that shit anymore.
“And fuck reports anyway,” he said into his cup later that evening. “Who wants to come up with a hundred different ways of describing the asshole you’re fighting anyway?”
“Preach it, Chief!” Dalish agrees. Krem pounds Bull’s shoulder and pushes another full cup into his hands.
Krem, unsurprisingly considering their history, is the first of the Chargers to bring up Bull’s new status. And it’s not in the back slapping ‘welcome to the rest of us assholes’ sort of way Bull’s expecting. He waits until most of the Chargers are blissed out on enough booze to kill lesser men, Bull and Krem still mostly sober from long habit.
“You going to find out about that mark now, Chief?” he asks.
With everything, Bull hadn’t even thought about it. “No.” Krem’s brow draws up in surprise. “Why would I?”
“I always thought it was the Qun stopping you,” Krem says slowly.
Bull shrugs. He’s gotten so used to denying it even exists that it’s beyond habit, now. It’s part of who he is. As much as the eyepatch. As much as the article at the beginning of his name. He’s The Iron Fucking Bull. And now that his path is his own, he’s going to walk it with the people he chooses, not anyone forced on him by fate.
A few times in the next week, he spots Dorian watching him from the window of the library. Mostly during training. Once or twice he thinks Dorian is going to crack; late nights, when it’s just the two of them left or conscious. They toe back towards the line of civility, but all it takes is for Dorian to smile—to really smile, instead of smirk—to remind him of whatever it is and he’ll excuse himself for the evening.
It’s too bad. If they hadn’t messed everything up by fucking, Bull would’ve offered him a commission with the Chargers.
They continue doing good. Actual good, which is something Bull has ever only done as a means to an end while reporting back to the Ben- Hassrath. It feels like an anchor, keeping him from flying into the pit of savage instinct he’s feared since being forced out on his own. If he can’t entirely trust himself, he can trust the Chargers, the Inquisitor—despite her occasional habit of putting her conscience before her common sense—and the small circle of trusted powerhouses she’s surrounded them with. He doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know there will be someone there to keep him from slipping. And more and more often—with every battle, every fight from which they claw out a hard-won victory—he trusts that person to be Dorian.
The battle at Adamant sneaks up on them. They spend so much time preparing to fight Corypheus that suddenly being faced with the prospect of killing every Grey Warden to thwart his plans takes them all aback. Bull isn’t as trepidatious over the prospect of killing them all if they can’t coax them back from the void, but then again, the Grey Wardens weren’t his childhood heroes.
The Boss does the unthinkable beforehand.
“Dorian, I need you to stay with Cullen. He’s going to need backup if he insists on being on the front lines.” She looks to the rest of them. “Bull, Cassandra, Blackwall, you’re with me.”
Dorian stiffens, and Bull would be lying if he claimed he wasn’t surprised at the decision. “With all due respect, Evelyn—” Dorian begins.
“I know you two have been working well together. But I need my best where they’ll do their best. And that means you’re with Cullen.”
They’ve all gotten to the point where they trust Evelyn with their lives so Dorian doesn’t argue further. Later, though, as Dorian is helping her into the elaborate robes that are two-thirds cloth and yet nevertheless have managed to keep her safe, Bull has to fight the urge to eavesdrop on what seems like an intense, if quiet, disagreement. She finally bats him away from one of the ties keeping her breastplate in place and grabs his hands, pulling him close.
He can’t help himself anymore. He leans forward, ostensibly to tie his boots, and focuses in on them.
“I need you to keep him safe, Dorian. There’s no one else I trust like you.” She leans closer, and Bull has to force himself to tune out all the background noise around them. “And I need you to trust me to do the same.”
Dorian looks terribly torn. Terribly vulnerable, in a way Bull isn’t used to. Finally he nods. The Boss kisses his knuckles—not passionate, though it speaks volumes about their intimate friendship—and then shoos him off to finish clasping her armour herself.
And Bull knows there’s something there. He’s always known. This is just the first time the unknown begins to form a shape somewhat like an idea. But he doesn’t get the chance to examine it too closely before they go into a battle against an undead dragon and then find themselves falling into the Fade.
Under the Qun—under the Ben-Hassrath —they are taught ways to supress their dreams. The Saarebas, of course, are still vulnerable. Their connection to such things is much stronger. But it’s been years since Bull has had a dream with all the vivid hostility of the nightmare surrounding them. Hawke and the Boss seem more at home and yet somehow more alien at the same time. Their magic responds in ways Bull didn’t know was possible. Dorian would be able to explain it, with all the smugness of a man who loves showing off his own intelligence. Maybe Bull will ask him later, if he ever gets the chance.
It passes like the dreams Bull only barely remembers. Too quick to pin down anything memorable, too slow to deny it as reality. Bull sees the Chargers as mutilated corpses shambling towards him. He sees countless Tal-Vashoth who call him ‘brother.’ He sees madness painted on the surface of his tombstone and can’t deny it.
“I hate this place,” Cassandra whispers, mostly to herself. They’re two of a kind. Put something physical in front of them—something they can kill—and they’ll engage with prejudice. All this demonic nightmares-made-real shit and they’re done. With Cassandra it’s even more personal. The spirit claiming to be Divine Justinia is fucking with her more than she’s willing to admit. And the demon taunting them with every turn is just icing on the whole fucked up cake.
But finally it’s right in front of them, and he and Cassandra take a chunk out of the fucker for every second they’ve been stuck here.
When they stumble out, it’s back into a world that feels more real. He and Cassandra nod stiffly at each other, both ready to limp off and lick their wounds while the Boss explains to Varric why Hawke didn’t come out. It seems like the tide turned in their absence. The Inquisition soldiers in the courtyard now far outnumber the Grey Wardens, not that there were really that many to begin with.
Cullen is organizing the troops, looking none the worse for wear. Dorian is frazzled, obviously, and intensely focused on polishing what looks like a splintered scuff on the haft of his staff. He smiles blandly every time someone passes him and claps his shoulder. Apparently keeping the Commander safe in battle has done wonders for his relationship with the army. He should be lapping up the praise. He’s not. Bull doesn’t want to dwell on why.
It’s a long slog back to Skyhold, especially with a couple hundred more mouths to feed. Eventually, a handful of them who are a bit more accustomed to hard rides—heh—go ahead to prepare the remaining occupants for the impending arrival. The cooks take the news with long-suffering acceptance and get go work reorganizing their stores. Everyone else splinters off to their corners, ready for some rest before the boss pulls them along into the next clusterfuck.
Word reaches him that Dorian and the Boss had a blow up in the library, and Bull figures it’s only a matter of time before Dorian turns up at his door.
He’s not expecting it to be that night.
Dorian looks fidgety and uncomfortable in his own skin, and Bull thinks this is it. This is where he finally opens up and says something. This is where that shapeless thought in the back of Bull’s mind is finally given form.
Dorian stares at him. “I’m glad you’re alive.” His fingers twitch at his side.
“Not too worse for wear,” Bull agrees. “Could be better, if you’re interested.” He adds a weak leer. It falls flat—he never thought he’d reach this point—and Dorian shakes his head.
“I think not.” His lips purse, but he turns before he can say anything else and steps back from Bull’s door.
“Dorian.”
“Good night,” Dorian says brusquely, all weakness gone from his voice. From his body.
Bull watches him walk away, and doesn’t call him back.
“They’re starting to remind me of roaches,” the Boss says as she surrounds a small knot of Venatori toughs with a ring of lightning.
“Did I ever mention the roaches on Par Vollen? Huge. Killed one the size of a cat, once. Caught it scurrying around the shitter.” Bull knocks the knees out from under his opponent with a sweep of his axe, and buries the blade in the man’s chest a second later.
“I’ve always considered scurrying to be the domain of small animals. I would think cat-sized roaches would be more inclined towards scuttling.” Dorian waves his staff and sends another man spiralling to the ground. “Would that be the word?”
“Could we all please focus on the task at hand?” Cassandra demands.
A wave of warriors—bodyguards, conscripts, reanimated corpses—follows fast on her words and they all brace themselves. Close behind them, a Magister steps out from wherever he was hiding, and looks them all over with a cool eye.
Dorian knocks a couple of them back and away and spins his staff, tapping the ground with the blade. It draws the Magister’s attention well enough to let him duck the paltry bolt of lightning Dorian sends speeding his way. He blinks at Dorian in surprise and takes a few carefully-measured steps closer, heels clicking on the stone floor.
“Well,” he says, looking Dorian over. “I’d heard there was a Tevinter Altus suckling at the Inquisitor’s teat. I, of course, immediately thought of you.”
“Cladius.” Dorian says the word as though it leaves an awful taste in his mouth. “And here I would have been happy not to breathe in the same air as you for the remainder of my life.”
They trade a few more piddling spells—feeling each other out, more than anything, and Bull’s spent enough time with Dagna to know that whatever the Magister’s staff is made of, it’s something you have to be powerful to use. Dorian allows himself to be lured away from the fray, inching closer to the Magister with every verbal barb and casual display of magic.
Bull is between opponents—finished smacking around one with a mace and turning to tackle one with a maul, their weaponry all that seems to distinguish them—when he hears the Magister laugh.
“But come, now. Surely a once-respected Altus such as yourself wouldn’t refuse a properly-issued duel.” He huffs a laugh, a short sound that manages to come across as deeply amused and condescending all at once. “Unless, of course, living amongst the barbarians has ruined you for polite society.”
Bull wants to yell, because of course Dorian is going to refuse. He’s not stupid. There are too many Venatori around for him to waste time posturing. But whatever it is about this guy that gets under Dorian’s skin seems to work, and he eases himself into a painfully formal stance. It’s useless for fighting; his feet are crossed and his knees are bent way too far—Bull could push on his left shoulder and he’d hit the ground. Cladius grins, bloodthirst in his eyes, and shifts into a similarly ridiculous position.
“Maker,” the Inquisitor growls, ducking under the swinging arc of a sword and smacking her opponent in the face with the end of her staff. He stumbles back and she throws a fireball at him with a little too much relish. “What’s he thinking?”
Before Bull can reply, the goon with the maul descends on him and he’s off again.
This one is tougher than the others have been, and after deflecting just a few swings of the bastard’s maul, Bull’s arms begin to complain. Across the room, Dorian and Cladius are exchanging spells in earnest, and the crash of lightning and the raw smell of smokeless fire add a drama to his fight that he doesn’t care for. It’s hard to keep an eye on him without taking a hammering from the unusually strong Venatori tough trying to turn him into paste, and it rankles that Dorian removed himself from the rest of them. He’s too accustomed to fighting closely at Dorian’s side; needs to remember how to be a badass all on his own.
Cassandra shouts in pain beside him and Bull splits his attention for just a second; the Boss is already nailing Cass’ opponent with a bolt of ice, freezing him in place so Cassandra can finish him off with a hard smack of her shield. The momentary distraction is all it takes for a maul to come flying at Bull, and he knows before the spiked end of it is even in his peripheral vision that he’s not going to be able to block in time.
A sudden wash of coolness dances across his skin, followed by the wave of goosebumps that always accompanies Dorian’s magic. The blow glances off his shoulder instead of crushing his skull, and Bull’s got enough momentum built up in his return swing to take off the fucker’s head.
He looks towards Dorian just in time to see the Magister’s staff blade sink into his gut.
Dorian’s staff is still pointed towards Bull, leaving him open and far too exposed, and he drops it as his legs begin to buckle. Cladius twists his own staff with a wicked jerk of his wrists, punching out a half-scream from Dorian’s lungs. Bull knocks the last of the goons out of the way, his legs feeling useless and slow as he starts ploughing across the distance between them.
Cladius says something—too soft for Bull to hear—and twists the blade again. Dorian snarls wordlessly in response and grabs haft of his staff. His hands glow bright red and the staff responds immediately. A stream of flame nails Cladius right in the middle of his torso, the crackle of brilliant fire drowning out his scream. Waves keep coming, until the man is little more than a charred pile of burning meat on the ground.
Once he’s down for the count, Dorian pulls the blade out of his gut and it falls out of his shaking fingers.
His useless legs betray him, and the Inquisitor makes it to Dorian’s side before Bull does. She’s already muttering obscene invectives as she pulls out one of the few potions they have remaining and tips his head back to pour it down his throat. As Dorian sputters around the contents, she whips out an elfroot-soaked bandage and slaps it against the still-raw hole in his gut.
“Have a care, dear,” Dorian mutters, breathlessly petulant.
“What were you thinking?!” Evelyn demands. “Duelling a Venatori? Leaving your guard down? ”
Dorian’s eyes flick towards Bull for just a moment, so brief that had Bull not been looking straight at him, he’d’ve missed it. And Bull’s not a stupid person. You can’t be stupid if you’re in the Ben-Hassrath. He catches Dorian’s eyes, and every small snippet of thought floating through his mind suddenly coalesces into something resembling a real idea and he knows.
Dorian scoffs and the moment is gone. “This is hardly the first time I’ve sacrificed something to attain victory. You can ask your Commander Cullen.”
She stares at him for a moment, flabbergasted. “Dorian, so help me, if I have to explain the differences between chess and actual battle to you, I will incinerate the chessboard.”
“But what will you and the Commander use as an excuse for gazing at each other soulfully for hours at a time?”
The Boss efficiently swaps out the bloodsoaked bandage for a clean one; Bull wonders if she isn’t tamping down the desire to be more than a little rough with it.
Dorian’s in rough shape and Cassandra is favouring her left side, but they leave the area with the documents they came for; a list of Cladius’ allies among the elite of Minrathous. Encoded, of course, but it’s the sort of infant cryptology they had Bull practice on when he first joined the Ben-Hassrath. He’s got the cipher mostly figured out by the time they reach the horses.
The trip back to Skyhold is spent punctuated by the Inquisitor asking Dorian all about the formalities of Tevinter duelling, with only occasion pauses to remind him of how incredibly dangerous it had been for him to go off-script and take on the Magister by himself. It makes it next to impossible for Bull to get any time alone with him, and from the furtive glances Dorian keeps shooting his way, he can tell that Dorian’s noticed Bull’s attempts. If anything, it drives him further away. Once they reach Skyhold, he spends less than a minute passing his horse off to Dennet before disappearing into a conveniently-placed door, throwing an unintelligible excuse over his shoulder as it closes behind him.
The Boss stares at the door and turns her attention on Bull. She peers at him closely, as though trying to decide what to say. Her body language reads threat, even as her eyes read fondness. Eventually she seems to wash her hands of them both and turns to discuss something with Dennet.
Bull chooses to head to the Herald’s Rest to check in with the Chargers, drink some ale, and plan his next move from there. They can’t go on as they’ve been. He can’t keep relying on plausible deniability, and Dorian can’t keep pretending like he’s somehow expendable. They’ve figured out how to work well together in the field. It’s time to figure out the rest, now, too.
He waits until most of the keep is down for the night. There are only a few guards on the walls, the training grounds are empty, and firelight flickers from Dorian’s window.
Dorian answers at the first knock, looking resigned. “Bull, it’s late,” he says, “I’ve had a few rather exhausting days. If you wouldn’t mind saving the shoddy flirting—”
“My flirting isn’t shoddy,” Bull protests by route.
“Hah! It’s obvious you’ve never been subjected to it. Now, if you want a tumble, why don’t you go harry one of the kitchen lads. There’s a good man.” He starts to close the door, but the slowness with which he goes about it is definitely an invitation to stop him. Bull places a hand on the door, unsurprised when Dorian stills.
He steps back into the room and Bull follows. He doesn’t stand too close—Dorian’s body language is screaming for distance—and he waits as Dorian shuts the door and takes a moment to collect himself.
“Dorian—”
“Bull,” Dorian says. “Let’s be honest. You don’t want me. You want to fuck me.” Bull stares at him blankly and Dorian sighs. “I’ve spent far too much of my life kowtowing for small scraps of affection from men who want the same. I won’t take it from my—” His jaw clenches and he bites off the word.
“Your soulmate,” Bull finishes.
Dorian looks away. “You’ve made it quite clear that it’s not what you want. I’ve respected that, as best I can.” He sniffs. “I’ll admit, I’m not a terribly circumspect man, sometimes.”
“It’s not what I want anymore.”
Dorian glares at him, avoidance giving away to anger. “Don’t you dare do this to me. I’ve spent too much time trying to reconcile this with myself.”
Bull closes the space between them and cups Dorian’s cheek. Dorian swallows shakily, and Bull ducks his head until he meets Dorian’s eyes.
“I do want you,” he promises. He leans closer, giving Dorian every chance to escape and glowing with second-hand pride when he doesn’t, and finally presses their lips together. Dorian’s mouth opens immediately, wine and sorrow on his breath, and Bull barely grazes Dorian’s tongue with his own, chasing it down until it becomes less bitter. He pulls away a breath later.
“Oh, you great bastard,” Dorian whispers, cheeks flushed red. He clamours into Bull’s arms wrapping his legs around Bull’s waist. “I hate you.” Bull holds onto Dorian’s hips, his grip just shy of bruising. Dorian kisses him again, hard and deep, but surprisingly sparse on teeth. His breath catches when Bull finds a sensitive spot on his inner thigh and drags his thumb across it. It’s only for a second that their lips part, but Dorian seems intent on making up the time.
It’s a wonder they didn’t kiss the first time when Dorian obviously loves it—his mouth circles to Bull’s again and again, and he seems resentful of every second he has to pull away for air—but as Dorian makes every effort to map out Bull’s mouth, he begins to wonder if maybe he doesn’t already understand.
Dorian finally tears his lips away and begin yanking on Bull’s harness. “If you change your mind,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “I swear by the Maker.”
“I won’t,” Bull says. “Not when I would’ve chosen you anyway.”
“I hate you so much,” Dorian repeats, like a mantra he’s clinging to so he won’t lose grip on his sanity. He finally gets the snaps undone and pushes the harness off so he can attach himself to Bull’s neck. “Take me to bed. I’ve been waiting for you for far too long already.”
Bull obliges.
The sky is creeping towards dawn—the sun a bare sliver of light over the mountains—and Dorian is tucked into his arms. Dorian is listlessly resting somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, letting out occasional sighs of contentment. It would be a perfect moment, if there weren’t splinters sticking to the back of Bull’s neck from where he accidentally gouged a chunk out of the headboard earlier.
Bull runs his fingers up and town Dorian’s side, only occasionally pausing on the scar. Others have joined it since the first time Bull saw it—there’s a brand new one in the middle of his stomach, which Bull kissed with a proprietary passion because it was a scar Dorian had acquired for him—but he keeps returning his attention to it. He knows what it is.
“What did it say?” he asks the half-darkness around them.
He’s not expecting an answer, but Dorian grabs his hand and locks their fingers together the next time Bull’s touch strays across it. “I never knew.” He presses his face into Bull’s chest, kissing the skin before he continues. “It was Qunlat. When it appeared, my father convinced me that it was dangerous to myself and the rest of my family. That it would be considered treasonous, and we’d all suffer for it. I allowed him to convince me to remove it, and he burned it away.” Dorian tries to sit up, but Bull tugs him back into the warmth of their bodies. “Nothing has ever felt emptier than looking at where it was and seeing that horrid scar. Later, he tried to use the same argument to sway me into marrying a proper woman and surrender my love of men.” Dorian snorts derisively. “‘My own good.’ If I’d been braver… If I’d run then…”
“There’s no point dwelling,” Bull replies.
“Perhaps not.” Dorian leans up and kisses him again. “And my path has brought me to you, regardless. I suppose I shouldn’t complain.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
“It would be a long, cold walk back to your room at this time of night,” Dorian points out.
Bull chuckles. “I suppose it would be.”