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The Inquisitor was a marvel. Some did doubt this, but The Iron Bull never could. He would never doubt the power in the body so little compared to his own. He would never doubt the strength in the spirit that felt like kin to his own. He could not deny the kindness in the heart that had him falling despite himself.
The Inquistor had his difficulties from time to time. War councils would go by but he wouldn’t register a word, often asking the advisors to repeat themselves. And diplomacy was difficult when he couldn’t look people in the eye. What should he do at the Winter Palace when the room is too tight, the voices too many, the air toxic? The Inquisitor was once alone in this. Not anymore. Having a significant other that let him be himself was a gift. A significant other who let him gush over his culture’s history like he loved, let him be reclusive, let him take his time, let him ask questions, and let him release (after appropriate teasing) was the greatest gift. Finally, a friend who understood. Who did not judge. A safe space.
Being the Inquisitor was power. Being Kadan was strength.
They shared the same room, though they spoke no words. The Iron Bull rested in the enormous, overstuffed armchair the Inquisitor often read on. Today, Bull read and the Inquisitor paced.
The routine had been here before Bull was. Inquisitor Ridley would attend meetings, fix people’s lives, find quiet time inbetween, and go back to his room in the evening to pace. Ridley would pace all night. He enjoyed the movement and the occupation. Pacing removed the stress of day to day life. It took his mind off duty for an hour or two. Pacing was the best outlet for his ticking fingers and jiggling leg and unrelenting need to move. Honestly, most of all, it was fun.
Too many people assumed something was wrong when Ridley paced. They meant well, but Ridley didn’t need encouraging words of strength. He needed to be stimulated. No, nothing was wrong. Yet when they asked Ridley why he paced he wouldn’t know what to say. What words explain the listless joy that came with having the occupation? The best he could explain was to an open-minded Bull. The Iron Bull may not be able to find words for it either, but together they found some sense.
A knock on the door. Ridley jumped like a spooked cat.
“Don’t worry, I got this. You keep doing what you do,” he said. After a second Ridley nodded and continued.
The Iron Bull went down and when he opened the door a blatant newbie stood in front of him. The greenhorn like surprised, then looked up, craning his neck to meet the Iron Bull eye to eye.
“A signature from the Inquisitor is needed.” He thrust the clipboard forward. Bull sighed.
“You’re new, so you probably don’t know, but Ridley isn’t suppose to be disturbed at the end of the day,” The Iron Bull explained with patience.
“But-”
“Just go,” he said firmer
The messenger blinked, faltered, and eventually turned back. Bull shut the door behind him.
Ridley stopped pacing when he saw Bull.
“Don’t worry about it.” Bull was already trying to comfort.
“What if it was important?” Ridley rung his hands together.
“It wasn’t. Just a letter a greenhorn didn’t think could wait but it could.” Bull walked toward Ridley, one arm open in an offer. Ridley accepted and wrapped himself in Bull’s embrace. Bull kissed the top of Ridley’s head, making the shorter man smile against Bull’s warm chest.
“Do that again, please.”
Bull kissed Ridley again and Ridley smiled wider.
“Keep pacing. Come to bed when you’re ready, Kadan.” Bull smoothed his hand over Ridley’s moppy mess of hair.
“You sure?” Ridley asked.
“Of course. It makes me happy to see you happy,” Bull said, kissing Ridley lip-to-lip.
“Goodnight, Bull.”
“Goodnight, Kadan.”