Chapter Text
Later, this would all fall under the heading of "seemed a good idea at the time." When Magister Halward Pavus sent an excessively awkward letter inquiring as to whether his son had slummed it sufficiently in the backwater south—and when he would be returning home—Dorian had only thought to ruffle his father a bit. So, "You'll be delighted to meet the Herald of Andraste, you'll remember her, and of course my Qunari lover," had been a throwaway line. Good for a laugh, ha ha, well done Dorian, there goes the rest of your father's dark hair.
But the joke was as ever inevitably on him, when the next missive arrived and his father responded that, if it meant that much to Dorian, he would make the time to come south himself. "To better understand your insistence on staying put," as he'd said it.
"Pretty sure I'm supposed to be the nervous one," says the Bull, slapping Dorian on the back in the here and now. "After all, I'm meeting the family, and if he attacks me, I can't kill him."
"Do refrain," Dorian snaps, and then sighs. "He won't do that. He'd be extraordinarily outnumbered."
The Bull laughs, big and broad as his shoulders. "Shame."
Why the Iron Bull agreed to play along with this little farce, Dorian can't say. Perhaps he too relishes the idea of scandalising a magister—or, more likely, scandalising Dorian as well. There is also the favour Dorian now owes him, which he will doubtless end up regretting. But the Bull did agree to help. Dorian has not been here in the cold but friendly south long enough to take that lightly.
"I do appreciate your help," he says, and the Bull laughs again.
"Don't strain yourself on my behalf."
Despite himself, Dorian's hands clench as they enter the courtyard. He has to smooth them against his coat before he reaches their esteemed Inquisitor, though she's fidgeting herself—Kara had not taken kindly to Magister Pavus' actions, once informed.
She does double-take at the Iron Bull at Dorian's left, and raises an eyebrow at Dorian himself, but elects not to comment. "Are you ready?" is all she asks, reaching up to rest her hand for a moment on Dorian's shoulder.
"As I'll ever be, I suppose."
Momentarily the soldier atop the right gate tower gives the signal and, at Kara's nod, the gates swing ponderously open. Magister Pavus' retinue come into sight before Halward himself, carrying banners of all things, as if this is some sort of stately visit rather than the rebuked father attempting to reconnect with his estranged son. Dorian doesn't realise he's tensed up until both Kara's hand and the Bull's arm press against him. He excuses his lack of protest with the stress of the moment.
The whole group comes to fourteen, including Magister Pavus in the center. He steps forward, catches sight of Dorian and the people flanking him, and visibly starts, which is a fantastic sign. Perhaps this will go all right after all. Perhaps the cows will once again take flight over Minrathous, for that matter.
Kara cleverly positioned them to stand in a patch of afternoon sun, while the House Pavus entourage remains in Skyhold's shadow, but the disadvantage of their position is that anything in the shade becomes somewhat obscured, especially with the sun in their eyes. Dorian cannot see, for instance, if his father is looking at him, or if his face betrays his intentions—whatever in the Maker's name they are.
They all stand there while the House Pavus flags flap in the mountain breeze. Dorian's terrified that breaking the ice will fall to him, but his father beats him to it. "The Inquisitor, as I recall. We did not get properly introduced when we met before, though given the circumstances..."
"It wasn't really the right time," replies Kara, stiffening at Dorian's side. She hadn’t actively opposed this visit, but she had made it very clear she had made up her mind on Halward's account and would not be changing it. As long as she doesn't set anyone on fire without provocation, it's honestly comforting. Kara does not quite glare at Halward, but anyone could read the suspicion and dislike in her posture and face.
The Inquisitor is a diplomatic disaster, and Maker knows why but the people love her for it.
"Magister Halward Pavus, of Qarinus," Halward says, sweeping a grander bow than the situation called for. Eager, perhaps, to make up for past behaviour. Or maybe he just wants to set aside ages upon ages of Tevinter oppression before the Dalish woman whose hospitality he must maintain can, what, remember it? Whichever, he must see just as well as Dorian that there is no forgiveness in Kara's eyes.
Over to the side, Josephine makes small but urgent gestures—welcome him, her lips read—and miraculously Kara responds. Without an effort to downplay her own hostility, she replies, "Skyhold eagerly offers its hospitality to friends of the Inquisition."
The Bull snorts, quietly, and Dorian resists the urge to elbow him. "The Inquisition is most gracious," says Halward, as if he failed to notice any irony in Kara's delivery.
After a moment, Kara manages a working smile, though with the teeth she bares it might not quite count. "Ambassador Montilyet will see to accommodations for your delegation," she begins, but Josephine does step forward then. Wise woman. Kara did mention a fair number of times where Magister Pavus could accommodate his delegation, in less public settings.
Josephine makes a smooth transition of it. "But please, in the meantime, why don't we have Dorian show you around Skyhold, Magister Pavus? I'm sure you must be eager to speak with him, and there is some time yet before the evening meal." Her eyes dart to Dorian's, perhaps in apology, but the man is Dorian's father. No sense in foisting him off to someone else immediately.
"I'd be happy to," he says, perhaps not as enthusiastically as he ought. "Father?"
Halward inclines his head, and Dorian tries not to swallow too noticeably. He grabs the Bull's right elbow instead, in case he had any ideas about getting out of this one. As Josephine draws their Inquisitor away from possible violence, Halward approaches them with the beginnings of a smile.
"I am glad to see you well," he says, and Dorian grits his teeth. Even a little hesitation would have been something, just the barest acknowledgement that he might have contributed to any unwellness on Dorian's part—well, that would have been too much to expect, clearly. But not too much to ask for. "You've been missed in Minrathous."
"Short a scandal or two these days?" Dorian replies, keeping his voice light, though his fingers tighten against the Bull's arm. He drops his hand as if burnt. "I should have thought that the absence of one source would only bring about a half dozen more to light. Or have I become an effective cautionary tale? No matter. You'll want to see the garden, I expect. Allow us to escort you."
The attempt at friendly greetings thwarted, Halward follows them up past the Herald's Rest and the infirmary. Maintaining a steady chatter— "the barkeep's name is Cabot, but he's yet to serve an identifiable vintage. You'll have no interest in his brews—" holds off further conversation until they reach the wall itself. But he's got to ask sooner or later, and while Dorian was bold enough writing letters, suddenly the prospect of making a case for the false relationship between himself and the Bull seems a much more ponderous task.
And indeed his father does cut in, once they've commenced walking the wall, but it is only to say, "There are aspects of the architecture that could almost be of Tevinter."
An easier question to answer, at least. But speaking of the absent Solas to his father seems somehow inappropriate. Dorian compromises. "The—man who guided us to this place claimed it to be of elven origin. Though it's been destroyed and rebuilt plenty of times since then. We found masonry from Nevarra during the restorations, and I wouldn't be surprised if something from the Imperium had made its way in the structure."
"Someone who lived here liked to take really big souvenirs," adds the Iron Bull.
Halward takes another furtive glance at him, like he thinks the Bull won't see. "It would be fascinating to learn more of the previous inhabitants," he says, to Dorian. "And if I know you, you've already begun to search for them."
Never mind that Dorian he knows is wishful thinking he superimposed over his actual son. The second benefit of having the Bull with them; Dorian can't voice these things in front of someone else. He braces himself for a moment against the grey stone guard wall, faintly warm from the sun despite the chill of the air. "I've only been terribly busy saving the world," he says, leaving out the bitterness but not all of the spite. "Certain pursuits had to wait."
The Bull snorts, but when Dorian looks up at him he only quirks the side of his mouth. When he looks back to Halward, his father has turned his face away entirely. Certain pursuits. Ah. Well, his father can keep his disgust to himself for now, if that's his game, and Dorian will enjoy the continued respite.
"Anyway, if you'll look to your right, you'll see the stairs we're about to take," he says. "Unless you're enjoying the view, in which case: please, continue."
They descend into the garden. Mother Giselle, to Dorian's delight, shoots Magister Pavus a far dirtier look than she's ever graced him with. It follows them into the Skyhold chantry, which gets raised eyebrows from Halward—possibly from the drab decor, or the prominent statue of Andraste confronting any visitor to the room. Good old southern Andrasteans. The Bull sneezes as they bustle back out, and when Dorian passes him a spare handkerchief in solidarity, his father looks away again.
He admires the herb garden for its practicality, but either fails to notice or does not deign to comment on the more recreational specimens that have been introduced of late. A few visiting Fereldan dignitaries escape introductions by virtue of Dorian simply not knowing their names; they absent themselves rather than dedicating time to being properly offended. The gardener simply walks away ahead of them, glancing back furtively over her shoulder in the exact same way that Halward has been pretending not to glance at the Iron Bull.
It's funny, to see this again. When Dorian first joined the Inquisition back in Haven, he'd been met with similar mistrust and avoidance, particularly from the other mages—which was understandable at least. And Cullen's former templars had watched him always with hard faces. He'd thought to find some work he could do, some way to help out, but no one had been particularly forthcoming with it. Not until the red templars' attack, anyway, as nothing brings people together like running desperately for their lives. Unless another Corypheus happens to be readying an attack on Skyhold, though, Halward Pavus won't get that chance.
The elder Pavus might hold an important seat on the Magisterium and the younger might be a turncoat and an outcast, but only one of them has given anyone in the south reason to think anything but ill of Tevinter. In this place, at least, Dorian has something over his father.
They continue on into the Inquisitor's hall, currently lacking one Inquisitor. Josephine has beaten them there, waiting with an honest smile like the spirit of capability she must be. "I have seen to your quarters, Magister Pavus, if you would like to freshen up from your journey. We will be dining in this hall in two hours' time, but if you wish, I will send for light refreshments. Unless you had additional sightseeing planned, Dorian?”
"I think we can relinquish him into your hands," Dorian replies, trying to convey a world of gratitude with the least evidence possible.
"My son served as an excellent guide," Halward says, again looking away from the Bull. And while it was relieving to avoid having that particular conversation, this will be a very pointless visit if he can avoid everything offensive to his sensibilities.
Dorian shoots the Bull a look, but still jumps when the Bull's arm wraps around his waist. He claps a smile on quickly, but the noise is still enough to attract his father's attention. Halward's mouth tightens, just for a moment. "I will appreciate something to drink before retreating to my quarters. Thank you, Lady Montilyet," he says, turning back to her, voice smooth as if there were no interruption at all. But it was enough for that glimpse of his discomfort.
Manners dictate that Dorian ought to stay until his guest takes his leave, but having paused even so shortly was enough to let the shaky tiredness sink in. It will hardly hurt his father's opinion of him to disregard one more convention. "In that case, I hope you'll excuse us until the evening meal." He places a careful hand on the Bull's back, a point of emphasis, but he can't keep it there with his nerves still firing off like gaatlok. The Bull shifts his own to settle at the base of Dorian's spine, just shy of inappropriate, a point of support.
The Bull's hand stays on the small of Dorian's back until they're well out of the way in the library, which Dorian regrets because once separated he remembers how cold it is in here. Perhaps he ought to have lit a fire in the hearth after all. It would be preferable, anyway, to leaning on the Iron Bull for warmth.
"What a charming guy," says the Bull, shaking his head. "Can't look a man in the eye. Sure this is the same one who chased you out of Tevinter?"
Dorian shakes his head. "He didn't chase me out. But he might have been a little less obvious in his judgement."
"The flinches were the best part." The Bull smiles wide and a little bit predatory. It's unfortunately an extraordinarily good look on him. "Whenever I caught his eyes. It was pretty hilarious. Think it's because he thinks I'm Qunari, or because he thinks I'm fucking you?"
"Either would do it." Dorian laughs, more bitter than he meant, and rubs his forehead. He does not look back at the Bull, most likely still entertained by their alleged sex life. This may end up more exhausting than he had planned.
It's only a week and change, at least. Ten days, and they could all laugh about it as Pavus the elder and his retinue descend the mountains in disgust, never to trouble them again. He'll do the Iron Bull his favour and they'll go back to being tangential pieces in the Inquisition machine and no more than that.
"Possibly I was hoping he would take one look at you and leave in a huff," Dorian adds after a moment. "I suppose that was too much to hope for. He'll want to stay and change my mind."
He does chance a look at the Bull then, and is rewarded by an unexpectedly serious face while the Bull considers him. "Hey, I can try being more explicit, if you want. Pretty sure your dad won't take kindly to the detailed thought of his bound and gagged son getting pounded by some brutish oxman."
"That won't be necessary!" Dorian yelps, and just like that the Bull's grin is back. It no doubt doesn't help that Dorian is, of all things, blushing. But there's a difference between having engaged in more audacious acts of coitus and having the man pretending to be his lover tell his father about them. Regardless of whether they actually happened.
Still, they clearly need to make this more unavoidable. "The hand on my back was a smart touch," Dorian allows, ignoring how he'd very nearly flinched and given them away. "He doesn't need to know the particulars of our fictional sex life, but some physical contact will give him the right idea and all that."
"You asking me to touch you?"
The Iron Bull's grin has not yet faded. In fact, it may have just widened. "You needn't look so eager," Dorian sniffs.
"Hey, if we're gonna play this out for a week, we might as well have fun with it." The Bull snorts. "And if you're not gonna, I sure will."
"At my expense, I expect," says Dorian, but of all possible fates a week of embarrassment at the Bull's hands is infinitely preferable. Dorian presses the bridge of his nose against the oncoming headache. "Fine, enjoy yourself. I just want it to be over. Having him around sets my teeth on edge."
"I thought that was the point of dragging me into it," the Bull points out, hand coming down heavy on Dorian's shoulder, but Dorian's lack of response or his expression must not have passed muster. The hand stays, but the Bull leans around to catch Dorian's two eyes with his one. "Hey. You've got a whole mountain fortress full of people happy to keep you safe. No one's gonna think the less of you if you let them at it."
That's not completely the problem, though, and tactical master the Iron Bull may be but he doesn't understand parents. Dorian can't explain that without overexposing himself, and it doesn't really matter, not to the Bull. Not beyond a point of curiosity. He thinks to break the gaze, or say something, but whatever it was to be becomes a mystery to the ages as the door opens behind them. Josephine's voice calls, "Dorian, are you," and then interrupts herself with a surprised "oh!"
Both Dorian and the Bull look up in horrible tandem, physical contact unbroken, and Josephine claps a hand over her mouth. "I do apologise, I didn't realise—oh, I should have taken Varric's bet—I'm so sorry to interrupt. Perhaps another time?"
Dorian moves out of the Bull's orbit to call her back, but the door has already shut behind her. So much for explaining the arrangement to the appropriate people before the news came out. "If you run," the Bull offers, "you can probably catch her," and Dorian is about to do just that before he thinks twice. His father was still in the hall when they entered the library and there's no way to know if he's left.
It will have to wait. "I should have informed everyone before he arrived," Dorian says aloud. "No matter. We'll explain when he's gone. More convincing, anyway, if we're the only ones pretending."
The Bull shrugs, which could mean any number of things—agreement, acquiescence, a lack of inclination to take any responsibility for leaving Kara or Josephine out of the loop. "If we're keeping everyone else in the dark, it'll look weird if we sleep in separate rooms."
He doesn't even look smug about it, so outrage would be a completely useless reaction. They both know he's right, anyway. "I expect you to bathe daily," is all Dorian can muster without being an unbearable prick, and the Iron Bull just snorts.
"I'll even scrub behind the ears. Just for you," he says, and that, Dorian supposes, will have to do.
One tense dinner later, they share the bed. Bedding isn't nearly as hard to come by as it would have been the first few weeks at Skyhold, but it would require asking someone, which would surely bring up questions—best just not to chance that. Dorian can't make the Bull sleep on the ground in good conscience, and he certainly doesn't intend to sleep there himself. It's not a huge bed, but Dorian knows how to take up little space when need be, and the Bull winds up being a surprisingly stationary sleeper.
Not so with Dorian. He's restless at the best of times, and tonight the Iron Bull's furnace-like presence has him on a low-grade adrenaline rush. It has been—a long time since anyone shared his bed in any capacity. So even an entirely sexless arrangement leaves him awake and alert and nervous. He keeps needing to contain the urge to roll over on his side and lean back-to-back against the Bull, just because the Bull is warm and there.
But that would be entirely inappropriate and not a small bit horrifying, so Dorian rolls out of bed and pulls his coat on over his bedclothes. Going outside at any hour means socks and boots, but it's better than lying awake, so he pulls both on and slips from his room like a thief.
The halls of Skyhold are dim but not completely empty; one of Sister Nightingale's spies winks at Dorian as she passes, Maker-forsaken raven on her arm. The bird makes not a sound. A young mage skitters from stairwell to some bedroom door. When Dorian opens the door to the fortress wall, he finds Cassandra pacing it.
"Dorian," she says, startled, then settles in place. "Can't sleep, I take it?"
"I've been more relaxed in my life," he replies, and leans against the other side of the walkway.
They both lack for words for a moment, and Dorian is halfway through wording the least awkward excuse to leave when an actual question comes to mind. "Have you seen Josephine this evening? I understand she had a question for me."
He smiles, but it comes out nervous. Cassandra fixes him with a Look, which must really be a feature of Seeker trainer the way she wields it. While the Nevarran winds could easily have frozen her face in her usual fearsome scowl, this one's worse for being intentional. A delightful friend, to be sure. "I have not. She has been entertaining the magister for most of this evening, a task I do not envy her."
"Nor I," says Dorian with feeling; he'll have to get Josephine a gift basket when this is all over. "I had hoped my father would be tired from the road, and retire quickly. Had I known—"
"Was there some significance to my having seen her?" Cassandra interrupts, ever impatient.
"Ah." The chance to deploy his excuse has now passed. "Not as such, no, I only wondered if she had spoken to you regarding—whatever message she meant to impart."
"She did not," Cassandra says, frowning deeper. "Is there any cause for her to have done so?"
"Not especially," says Dorian, full of regret for even beginning this conversation but trapped nonetheless. It would have even been a nice night, the clear skies of day remaining thus for an unencumbered view of the waxing moon, even the perpetual wind grown milder with the end of winter. Ruined, now, by his running mouth.
"Then what," continues Cassandra, "are you tiptoeing about."
Dorian considers his options. He'd intended to go ahead with his resolution to tell no one, but the delightful thing about Cassandra is that no one can read her even at her most flustered. She just glares and whatever unreadable emotion that might possibly have shown becomes something hardly worth the risk to decipher. She could stare at Dorian in disapproval or disdain whenever he passed and no one would even think it unusual. Whereas if she suspected something amiss she would pry, and do so effectively, which would be much riskier for this little farce.
It's always nice when problems have clear solutions. "I may have outmaneuvered myself," Dorian says, spreading his hands in admittance. "I told my father certain untruths before he made plans to visit, so as to cut off the problem at the source, but as he proved determined to inflict himself upon me and the entire Inquisition while he's at it, I thought it the best to play these misconceptions out where he will have to witness them."
Cassandra's already providing a marvelous example of the face she will no doubt be directing his way for the next nine days. "And these 'misconceptions' would be...?"
"Ah, well," says Dorian. He pauses, either for dramatic effect, or dread. Potentially both. He’s not entirely certain. "I may have informed him that our resident Tal-Vashoth and I have been far more intimate than the truth would tell."
For a moment Cassandra's face twists and fear lodges itself in Dorian's heart. As friendly as they've been lately—and in comparison to the early days of their acquaintance, they're practically bosom companions—he knows the vastness of her ire, and if he has properly incurred it the whole jig may be up. But then Cassandra is laughing at him, and all is well. "You told your father that you were romantically involved with the Iron Bull?" she asks, incredulous in tone but starting to grin.
"I had no idea he was going to see for himself!" Dorian protests, perhaps a little hotly. "I couldn't think of anyone who would horrify him more than that. You must have seen his face when he arrived."
"I had assumed the Inquisition and our elven leader would be sufficient for even that sour look," Cassandra replies. "So, you and the Bull are, what? Lovers for a week and some?"
Dorian winces. Technically true, but she didn't need to phrase it as if they were actually anything. "As far as my father will know. Only... Josephine walked in on us planning and now seems to believe it independently."
"Planning," says Cassandra, total deadpan, but does not press the matter. "And you feared she might have conveyed this information to me."
"Apparently not." His hands, chilled now, find his pockets. "Though now you know anyway. I thought it might be simpler, no one knowing but the Bull and I, but I suppose Kara would prefer to be informed."
"For her sake, or for your appearance's sake?" Cassandra asks, which is unfortunately a fair question.
"You're not going to insist I report all plots to my superiors?"
Cassandra rolls her eyes. She is really quite good at it, a true master of timing and rotation. "It is hardly my business—or hers—who you do or do not involve yourself with. But I suspect that our Inquisitor would make an even poorer liar than I."
Completely true. Kara managed in Halamshiral with sharp wit, not brilliant diplomacy—much to Josephine's chagrin—and in no other situation has even bothered to conceal her true feelings on any matter. It had earned her respect, but put rather a damper on subterfuge.
She would, of course, find the whole matter utterly charming. Telling her the truth afterward will be a chore, though hardly so much a chore as entertaining Magister Pavus for the duration of his visit.
"You're quite right," Dorian says, "and thank you, Cassandra. For your assistance. And your discretion.”
"I'm scarcely assisting," Cassandra protests, but Dorian returns to his walk before she can say anything else to surprise him.