Chapter Text
Where is it written, that machines can't lie?
“The Iron Bull.” Dorian Pavus says, looking mildly disbelieving. “Your preferred name is The Iron Bull. Are you even made of iron?”
“I have a few steel components.” Dorian Pavus' apartment is easily large enough to accommodate both himself and The Iron Bull, although it is somewhat sparsely, coldly furnished. One part of his brain calculates likely acceptable bearing loads on the furniture and makes note of which chairs to avoid. “The Polymer-Matrix-Composite Bull doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, you know.”
“Oh, wonderful.” his new assignment says. “She gave me the funny android.”
“Would you prefer the unfunny android?” he asks, with grin #14 (friendly, non-threatening, non-sexual).
He doesn't exactly need to ask about Dorian Pavus' preferences, as The Iron Bull has full network access and knows quite a lot about him already. More, he presumes, than Dorian Pavus knows about The Iron Bull.
It was Madame de Fer who picked him for this assignment, although of course secondary functions have been imposed on him by the Qun when the new arrangement was formally registered.
Primary function: to ensure wellbeing of Dorian Pavus.
Report level 3 (daily movements, all communications)
Additional flag, secondary function, priority 3: to report immediately on any interaction of Dorian Pavus with residents or citizens of Tevinter.
Additional flag, secondary function, priority
listen, imekari. listen closely:
»error»
Dorian Pavus lays a hand on one of his arms, expression curious. “I've never really seen one of you up close.” he says. “There aren't any in Tevinter, you know. Enemy technology, and all that.”
Primary function does not cover informing Dorian Pavus when he is wrong, especially when it involves S-classified facts. The Iron Bull is obvious, loud, blatant in his being. A cover for those who are not. “If you are wondering if my capabilities live up to the contents of Sex Machine In Antiva, the answer is yes.” This is the most-watched pornographic video in Dorian Pavus' collection.
“You--” His assignment turns a pretty colour, eyes wide.
“I am fully functional and assigned to look after your needs.” The Iron Bull points out. “In order to assist in my primary function, you allowed me access to your home network, which includes viewing frequency--”
“Stop!” Dorian Pavus waves his hands in front of his face, hastily. “Please stop talking. Also, don't look at my porn.”
“Privacy settings altered.” Not like his private interests are the sort of information the Qun's really after. Also, he's pretty when he's flustered. The Iron Bull's neural network contains a large amount of material regarding human aesthetics. The ability to express preferences and opinions on beauty is not out of diagnostic scope.
All the same, some impulse causes him to erase that thought from the report logs shortly after it occurs. It is not relevant to his assigned functions.
He was designed as guardian, bodyguard, soldier.
He spends most of the first month of his new assignment making sure Dorian Pavus eats and sleeps. They are meant to be dangerous, mages. Magic is illogical, beyond his capabilities, and when it involves fire or lightning in particular, potentially dangerous to his functioning.
It is difficult to remember this when his assignment is sleeping in a chair, open books on the table before him, and also drooling a little. His size and strength does not mean he lacks precision: The Iron Bull is able to transfer Dorian Pavus from his chair to his bed, change him into pyjamas (silk; cost to function ratio obscene but he rejects all suggestions for alternatives), and tuck him in, all without waking him.
Dorian Pavus shifts, and breathes a name. “Rilienus.”
Search of databanks: this is not a person Dorian Pavus is in contact with, currently or within the scope of historical communications available to The Iron Bull. Widen search: relatives, schoolmates, colleagues of a similar age.
There is one hit with far greater probability than the rest, even with his limited access to Tevinter systems. Swift chronological sort of available data. Met at seventeen, classmates, Rilienus expelled, 'moral failings', complaint of one Halward Pavus. Military school. Seheron. Deceased.
That would explain the lack of current contact. Seheron. Her tears on his cheek. Ashkaari's broken body.
»error» data encrypted. »error» Primary function:
live, my son.
»error» Primary function: ensure wellbeing of assignment (Dorian Pavus). Secondary function: »error»
How young he looks when he is sleeping, and not complaining about everything. How soft and vulnerable beneath the words he wears like spines to stop anyone getting close enough to see it.
He spends the rest of the night running self-diagnostics, but there is nothing wrong. He should report, perhaps, the possible malfunction.
Primary function: ensure wellbeing of Dorian Pavus. He cannot do that if he is recalled for maintenance.
When Dorian wakes, he complains about The Iron Bull undressing him in his sleep.
“Only to get you into your pyjamas. Take it from me, you have nothing to be ashamed about.” The Iron Bull tells him. “If it would help even things up, I could show you mine.”
Dorian makes a not very convincing noise of disgust. “Not interested. Next time, just wake me up.”
“You know there are seventeen separate physical symptoms of arousal detectable by my sensors, right?”
He flushes. “Androids aren't supposed to lie, you know.”
“Not really lying. Teasing.” Besides, heartbeat and the way his pupils dilate tell the story more than enough. He wouldn't need seventeen different ways to spot that Dorian's interested. “Also, still fully functional over here, if you'd like a demonstration.”
Dorian suddenly becomes very interested in the painting on the wall behind The Iron Bull's shoulder and a little to the right. “You don't mean that.”
“The offer's genuine.” It is a function Bull has served a number of times since being sent beyond the boundaries of home, one he enjoys. To please is pleasing to him - a neural feedback loop, a quirk he's picked up somewhere along the way, perhaps somewhere in the foggy mists of things that happened before his recalibration.
Dorian bites his lip, looks up at him. “Androids don't fall in love.” he says, walks stiffly past him to the kitchen, and doesn't speak to him-- even when struggling to remember how his coffee machine works-- for the rest of the morning.
Bull's not dumb enough to repeat the offer, so by lunchtime Dorian has apparently forgiven him. This might be a bit to do with the fact that he's so far into whatever deeply creepy necromancy research he's current doing that he barely registers the fact that it's Bull who just brought him his lunch, or that it's Bull who brings him tea all through the afternoon.
It's probably funny. Eight feet of military-grade equipment and he's making tea. Well, that and trying to construct a report on Dorian's research without actually letting himself think about what that sort of thing entails.
There was a necromancer in Seheron, put spirits into broken android bodies, the closest Tevinter has come to being able to replicate the Qun's technology. He cut through dozens of his fellows to get to the guy. Ashkaari had--
»error» attempt to access encrypted data
»warning» unit operating outside parameters. running diagnost--
»error» diagnostic check cancelled
“Enough.” Dorian says, throwing one of his books down with a sigh. “I don't suppose you could suggest a bar where they don't know me?”
Bull doesn't need to think more than a moment. “I can suggest a bar where they don't know anybody like you. Although you might want to wear something a little more relaxed.”
He doesn't actually require clothing, himself, although he has learnt the social norms, the minimum he can get away with in any situation. He is battered and scarred – they would fix him, he supposes, if the purpose was to put him back into a war.
This is a different sort of battle.
When they sent him south to take up an observation role, it suited to appear to be an old junker, half-obsolete, the sort who was assigned and reassigned to various jobs, obvious and therefore, also invisible.
It was supposed to be an observation role, at least, but he was not designed to just stand by and watch.
Rocky was first, actually. Dalish, and Skinner shortly afterwards. Stitches, after convincing Skinner to actually get stitches for that wound. More and more, a motley group, and he told himself it was building a network, informants, information, cover, so many reasons, so many excuses.
The designations he gave them in the reports were never corrected, though, so doesn't that mean the reasoning was right?
Krem was one of the last he collected, but he's also the first to greet him when Bull ushers Dorian through the doors of the Chargers Bar and Grill. “Where have you been, you heap of junk?”
“Nice to see you too.” Bull feels himself grin, without consciously calculating how to. “New assignment. He needs a drink.”
Krem looks Dorian over, and then clearly decides not to ask. “Ferelden beer okay?”
“Sounds ghastly.” Dorian replies, but smiles through it. “I'll have two.”
Krem passes the second to Bull instead, and when Dorian raises an eyebrow he tells the story about the android whose owner had it modded so it could actually get drunk, rather than give him the technical specs on his own metabolism.
It's a good story, and it does the job of distracting Dorian from who and what he is, at least for a little while.
Long enough for Dorian to get drunk, somehow end up in a karaoke battle with Sera, and have a mildly heated argument with Krem about Tevinter politics that Bull decides isn't really worth making a record of as they're both sloppy drunk and the argument is mostly conducted in outraged hand gestures.
He pretty much has to carry Dorian home. Thankfully Dorian still has sufficient motor skills left to get himself out of his jeans all by himself, because really those things are painted on and Bull's pretty sure helping him change for bed would involve crossing some lines Dorian's laid down.
“Well,” he says, smoothing his silk pyjamas down and accepting the glass of water Bull's brought him so he doesn't wake up too regretful in the morning. “That was interesting. I didn't realise androids could-- that you could-- that you have, I mean, have so many friends.”
An interesting categorisation. Bull finds he can't argue with it. “I'm a singular guy.”
Dorian laughs. “That you are.” He lays a hand on Bull's arm, traces a scar up on one broad shoulder. “You make it very hard to remember you're not real, you know.”
That sounds like something slanting towards a confession. “You should go to bed.” Bull says, before anything else can spill from Dorian's lips. “You need to rest.”
He tries to erase that conversation three times, but it seems to have lodged itself in his brain. He locks it down instead, makes sure at least it won't end up in any of the automatic reports. It's not like it's relevant.
He could report it anyway, and let someone else decide that, but then what is the point of something like him?
He does not sleep, precisely; he does shift into a power conservation mode while Dorian sleeps, only maintaining watch on perimeter sensors in case of intruders and on communications because that is his job.
So when contact is initiated at 4:12am from Felix Alexius, a Tevinter citizen who appears to be currently located in Redcliffe, despite no border crossing entries to that effect on the public databases, he is well prepared before Dorian wakes up to see the message.
Monitoring this matter has been given priority level two, high alert. He does not know why. It is not his place to know. It is his place to make coffee and oatmeal, and pretend he has not read the message already when he brings them in to Dorian's bedroom to see him frowning down at his phone.
It is his job to lie.
It is not his job to feel so uneasy about it.