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Bull comes to with a sharp intake of breath, too clear, too clean, a sense of utter wrongness in the lack of pain because there should be pain. The first easy breath fills his lungs with dust, with air, the metallic taste of blood, some fresh, some already going stale, what’s drying tacky and stiff where it drenches his armour and skin. The next breath fills them much the same, comes just as easy.
It’s a lot of blood to lose.
And most of it is his own, Bull knows, certain even through the haze of disorientation. His heart is beating steadily. His blood pumps rich and confident and he's sure his entire body should be screeching. It's not. Even older hurts have gone the quietest they've ever been. His ankle, the shortened fingers on his left hand, the empty socket where his eye used to be—all of it ringing with the aftershocks of a healing he knows is impossible, what feels like it reached back to a time when they were whole, coaxed past to present, made a now where they ache less, where even scars are soothed.
Bull has to get moving.
He turns his head, instinctively looks, knows there was a Bas Saare—no, Solas, Bull knows Solas was with him. Is with him.
“Welcome back to consciousness,” a familiar, lilting voice says, chimes in right on cue, clipped with some strain Bull can’t yet parse, “might you stay so a while longer this time?”
Little shit.
It takes a moment to focus on him. The light here is dim. Disorientation making it even dimmer because Bull still doesn't know where they are. He's on the ground, finds the shadowed shape of knees, squints until his gaze finds its way up.
When Bull finally gets a look at Solas some fracture of memory clicks like dislocated bone: shifts back in joint like ice cold realisation, a reset lining up how good he feels with how good he knows he shouldn’t. Bull remembers half of what happened; too fast flashes of rumbling stone, an avalanche of it, but he finds thought recorded crystal clear. How he'd done the math and come up empty and emptier and had to make a choice anyway. Grabbed a smaller, frailer form to pull in and hold so very close. He couldn’t soften the landing but he could wrap Solas up in a shield of limbs and take the brunt of its beating himself. Bull had known something would shatter and had hoped there’d be enough left to spare.
They are both alive but there isn't a way to tell how good his gamble was. Even if Solas would tell him Bull can never actually be sure how close it really came.
But he's guessing it was pretty damn close.
What he knows for certain is that a calculated brunt has been healed right back to nothing. Bull licks his lips, expects to taste magic—anyone can do that, in the right circumstances anyone can trace powerful magic in the air, find it ozone heavy and still sizzling—is surprised to have missed it when he woke up. It takes another second to realise he’s missed nothing. Because there is nothing. There is no trace at all. But Bull knows Solas had cast. He knows what to look for, has been healed by him before, so why can’t he taste it? Does it have something to do with how much mana Solas had clearly poured into him?
Bull knows it was a lot.
Because Solas looks—
Well, he looks how Bull knows he should feel.
Which is to say—utterly terrible. Torn flesh, bruised meat; Solas is all black and blue and red, has had time for colour to blush from initial impact, darken from yellow, from green, and it's telling that he's still bleeding. Under the blood he's bone pale. Bull isn't sure how hurt he is, can’t see everywhere he’s injured in order to make an exact assessment. The face is easier, a split lip, still more small cuts across his cheeks, his forehead, others littered up and down the long, finely boned fingers of his bloodstained hands. Non-lethal damage. Superficial wounds. Aesthetic deep and not likely to pose much danger.
What does it say though that they remain? It's not definitive. Solas could have prioritised deeper, more significant hurts.
Or he could currently be unable to heal so much as a paper cut.
Solas is smiling under the scrutiny, revealing a flash of bloodstained teeth. Bull wonders idly if any are loose. There is no longer a strain in his voice when he speaks. “Unpleasant though I undoubtedly look, would you believe me if I said you had looked far worse?”
It takes a moment for Bull to heave himself upright, but when he does it’s almost dizzyingly smooth, euphoric as if he’s guzzled dragons blood straight from the vein. Gorged past his fill. Electrified with an energy not his own, what courses frantic through his veins as if it knows. He licks the inside of his mouth and once again tries to taste magic. Bull looks down at Solas, even seated they are not of a height, and shrugs. “Yeah. I would believe it actually. Thanks Fadewalker; how’re things looking now?”
A simple rolling shrug, “As well as could be expected I suppose.”
“Think you overshot it a little," Bull can't help but say—speech coming as easy as his breath, what rasp remains a natural gravel—clumsy because the admittance lets Solas know he's onto him. It hasn't conceded any advantage through. Solas is smart enough to know what Bull has noticed without being told. Bull can at least ask, can at least gather still more evidence, "We out of potions?"
Solas smiles. Closed mouthed this time.
He nods.
"Hmm. You can’t heal yourself can you?” Bull says casually. It’s not a question.
Solas blinks. In the almost darkness his eyes gleam Elvhen as they come, reflecting light, “Not yet.”
The confirmation was merely a courtesy, but it’s good Solas hadn’t seen the use in deciding to lie. It's good he's certain enough to underlay his words with a promise. Bull nods, “How long we gotta wait?”
Solas frowns. Brisk now, “Can you stand?”
Stand? Bull could run. He firms his tone, “Not what I asked.”
It needles enough that Solas makes an impatient little tssk sound with a flick of his tongue. “The answer to your question is irrelevant, but if you insist it can be answered on the way. We should not linger here. We have to move.”
“Mhm.” Bull acknowledges. “Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“…no.”
Bull grins. “C’mere.”
He opens his arms invitingly, wiggles his fingers in a teasing beckon, making it very clear what he's offering. Even bruised and bleeding and quite possibly seriously injured in ways Bull has yet to confirm—strained in some way he's kept hidden—Solas doesn't disappoint. He sighs and it sounds indignant, tone one of measured dignity longing for the indulgence found in being sullen, "You could just help me to my feet."
Bull laughs. "I could."
This time is even better. Solas very nearly huffs, "It is unnecessary."
"Is it? See I think that depends," Bull smirks, slow and wide and victorious, "Tell me, Fadewalker, how badly are you hurt?"
Solas stares at him impassively.
Then begins to gingerly shuffle closer.
Ah. It's serious then.
The victory is admittedly an easy one, but checkmating Solas will never not be satisfying. Bull is going to savour this victory. He isn't an asshole though, not even to stubborn little know-it-alls who definitely drained their mana reserves to save his life, and Bull will wait until they are safely back at Skyhold before he starts properly gloating. So he only chuckles a little as he reaches out, gently taking hold of shoulders so thin in comparison his hands swallow the bone. In dim light such as this Bull loses the fine details of nuanced expressions, and with it most of the information sight can give. He pays close attention for a flinch he'll only find by touch; feels nothing on the left, catches a small twitch on the right that means he needs to be—
"It was dislocated," Solas offers before he can finish the thought, easy as anything, like a riddle he's suddenly open with the answer now Bull has already found it. "I put it back in the joint, but it will be tender until I can treat it properly."
"You should wrap it now. You've been moving it too much already," Bull frowns, pauses where he'd been about to scoop an arm under the elf to pick him up.
Solas shakes his head. "No time. And I do not have any bandages."
The admittance is a reminder. It niggles, sends thoughts spiralling free. The truth that maybe he has a residual concussion because observation is what Bull does and it is far too late for him to have only just realised two very important things are missing. While Bull has everything he'd expect to have on him Solas is another story. Which honestly makes sense from what he can remember of the cave in. Bull doesn't remember where it went, but he does know that Solas doesn't have his pack.
And neither does he have his staff.
"Anything else you want to share?" Bull says, low and coaxing as Solas shifts obediently when he slips an arm under his knees. "Like, I don't know, if there any other bones you've put back into the joint?"
Solas smiles a sharp, daring smile. "None that were my own."
Bull isn't surprised. But he still wouldn't have been able to tell for sure. He can't even verify an educated guess—had to be one of his shoulders at least, an ankle maybe, where the joint is already weak—can't figure out which of his bones was fixed. It's an odd mirror to how Bull also can't tell which of Solas's might actually be broken. It's easy to be cautious though. Bull always is. To be what he is you need to prove as adept at avoiding pain as you are at being the cause of it. Bull is effortlessly gentle when he lifts Solas from the floor, uses all the skill he has to be as careful as one can when trying to account for unknown wounds.
The limit nonetheless disgruntles him.
And Solas gives absolutely nothing away. He doesn't wince. He doesn't make a sound. Bull has no guarantee that his silence is actually proof he's not in pain.
"Where'd a wandering apostate get to be so stubborn?"
Solas hums a very Solas answer, "One can learn many things in the Fade."
Bull laughs, already adjusted to the added weight. Which really isn't much at all. Seriously. Elves are birdlike that way. Light and slender and built like dancers. Assassins too.
But whatever Solas is hiding Bull doesn't think it's that.
He peers into the darkness, looking for the way out but his eye has other targets too. Such as where the tunnel had caved in; finds crumbled stone, then jagged shards and pools of sand Bull would bet his reputation as Ben-Hassrath weren't there a few hours ago. Bull knows enough about magic to do his job. But he doesn't know enough for whatever this is. It might be possible that if a mage chugged enough lyrium to give them the shakes for days they'd both be able to shatter stone like that and not need a break to have enough juice left to heal a near dead qunari.
Maybe on a good day it'd be enough to snatch them back to life. But Bull hasn't just been snatched back. He feels incredible.
And there was no way Solas had taken any lyrium.
Bull hums, thoughtful. "The others would have dug us out by now if we could go that way,"
"I agree."
"They finding a way around?"
"I believe so," Solas replies evenly.
His voice is quiet. Measured. And there'd been dreams, sometimes, of what would happen when the Qun inevitably won. There'd been other dreams too. Ones about what would happen if the invasion happened now. The mages are taken to Par Vollen of course, and in some of those dreams Bull had returned to find it burning and every time it had been Solas who stood there, maskless, scarless. Barefoot amongst the ashes and watching the flames with a polite, distant interest. Standing slender and unconcerned, this delicate elf so cool and calm while somewhere deep in his eyes there gleamed a light reflection blue.
Bull knows Solas is a dreamer. He knows he's dangerous.
He also knows what dangerous people will do to protect their secrets. Solas just did something impossible. And he did it to save Bull's life.
The mage he holds is a slender little power house, mana reserves gutted so thoroughly he can't even heal a small cut, ostensibly relaxed, but wounded or not Bull has been waiting for Solas to settle. He's still waiting. Solas hasn't shifted even once. Bull continues to examine the tunnel around them for an exit, finds more and more shattered stone, steps forwards onto sand and wonders if there was another reason Solas hadn't wanted to let him carry him.
"Relax a little won't you?" Bull says, prods at that reluctance just to see what he'll do.
Solas scoffs. "You are covered in blood."
"So are you."
"Fine," Solas retorts flatly. He finally shifts, tentative, leans his head against Bull's shoulder and breathes out in one quiet exhale. There's a hint of exhaustion now, the return of a fraction of the ragged strain Bull first recognised when he woke up. "Can you see a way out?"
Bull dallies, then shakes his head, "Not yet."
"Then might I offer some assistance," Solas says, because of course he does, "I suggest looking to your right, about eight feet from the site of the cave in."
Those reflective Elvhen eyes don't lie.
Bull spots it easily now he's pointed it out. He quirks a brow, "What happened to 'we should move quickly' eh? How long were you going to let me search?"
"I find I don't quite know what you mean." Solas replies guilelessly. "My intervention was perfectly prompt."
"Sure it was Fadewalker," Bull grumbles as he heads towards the tunnel, careful not to jostle the mage as he walks.
It's lit as dimly as the one half collapsed, some sort of luminescent plant native to Emprise du Lion providing almost enough light. It doesn't look like there is anything down here but with Solas pretty much out of commission Bull isn't letting his guard down. If anything attacks them—spiders, darkspawn, anything—they won't live long enough to regret the choice of target. Bull can't really go as fast as he wants, but he can set a brisker pace than any of his shorter companions would be able to easily keep up with.
It will have to do.
For his part Solas merely hums, a lazy, yawning sound, and Bull thinks that if he looked down now he'd see that those clever eyes have slipped closed. Solas breathes in a rhythm of small puffs of air tickling against Bull's neck, slowing to a deeper, steady beat. It doesn't worry him. At least not until he's been walking for a while and realises the elf is cooler than Bull would like, robes sticky with drying blood, likely to be contributing to leeching the warmth up from his blood and right out of his skin.
Suddenly that becomes far more important than letting Solas rest.
"Hey, Solas," Bull whispers, a soft but undeniable attempt to wake him up, still wanting to be nice about it. "Wanna play chess?"
Silence. Then a long, drawn out groan of exasperation. "Need I remind you that I saved your life today?"
"Yeah. Thanks for that." Bull says, not feeling very sorry but thinking he should at least act apologetic. His voice drops low and soothing. "Just returning the favour and trying to save yours."
"I am not—" Solas pauses, interrupted by sudden shivers. "Ah. I see."
Bull could have been smug. He chooses practicality instead. "Guessing you still aren't rested enough to heal?"
The answer is a clipped, succinct, "No."
"Ok. So two options. You can either tell me how badly hurt you are, and I may let you go back to sleep when we're done, or we play chess." Bull says, and on the off chance Solas picks option one Bull will be taking the opportunity to have a look at those injuries for himself. "Your choice."
Solas thinks it over.
"…pawn to E4."
Well. No surprise there, "Alright then," Bull grins, shifts Solas enough to allow more of his body to press against Bull's bare skin. He might also be covered in blood but Bull is still warm. And Solas is very much not. Hopefully now Bull is aware of it he'll be able to better share his body heat. "Pawn to E6."
It's a decent distraction.
As always chess with Solas is fun. Though Bull doesn't think either of them are in top form. Bull is much more focused on protecting Solas than analysing the board. It means that half an hour or so later the game is over but their walk is not. The tunnel has been nothing but one long straight line and while they haven't run into any danger they also haven't found the exit. Bull tries to remember how long it took them to get this far into the tunnels and finds his memory is still coming back in patches.
The good thing is that Solas isn't quite so cold, but the bad news is that he's more slumped than relaxed now, head lolling where it rests on Bull's shoulder.
And he's starting to slur some of his words.
Which is when Bull calls it on indulging stubborn mages and does what he'd wanted to do in the first place. He stops and sits down on a rocky outcropping, settling Solas gently on the floor, half in his lap, easing his head down to rest on Bull's thigh before beginning his search for wounds, and the protest he gets is entirely verbal. Of course that doesn't mean it isn't customarily cutting.
"Bull," Solas hisses, pale and exhausted and as ruffled as a cat spiking up its fur when sprayed with water. "We do not have time for this. We need to keep moving."
"We do. And we'd get back to that a lot quicker if you told me where your injuries are. Which you can do. At any time." Bull replies, nonchalantly moving Solas's arm away from his torso, frowning as he realises the elf has had it curled there protectively. Bull gently probes along the line of his ribs, ready to stop at the first sign of a flinch. He can't feel much, needs to examine him properly to be sure nothing is broken. "I need to unfasten your robe. Is that ok?"
Solas glares at him.
Then nods.
Bull lets out a relieved breath as he reaches for the clasps of Solas's robes. He really hadn't liked the idea of having to force him in order to save his life, "Right. That's good; I know you're pissed at me right now and honestly, I get it, but—fuck."
Damn it Solas.
"That's—"
"Internal bleeding," Solas finishes calmly, another abundant answer offered up for free now Bull has solved the corresponding riddle. There is a smug, amused, quirk to his lips that draws the cut splitting it taut. His eyes glitter out of a bruised and pallid face. "I believe you now understand the reasoning behind my previous insistence? There is nothing you can do now you know about it. And nothing I can do either until I've recovered more mana, or we've found the Inquisitor."
The frustrating thing is that he's right.
And Bull realises he can't even go at a faster pace, can't run, without risking hurting him more. It does rather make Solas's point for him. Bull growls, frustrated, "Alright. But we're talking about this later."
"Very well." Solas replies.
The light is dim but not dim enough that Bull can't see the mess that is Solas's torso, as black and blue as his face but with ramifications far more concerning. This is certainly no superficial wound. An offence to his professional pride really. Because Bull hasn't been able to pick up so much as a damn hint to suggest exactly how Solas was hurt, and that should not have been possible with the amount of pain he should currently be in.
"Interesting." Bull says. "How well you hide pain."
Solas scowls, his calm ripples with affront. His own offended pride perhaps. "Apparently not well enough."
Better than most though.
The mage is one tough fucker alright.
There are many reasons why someone hides pain. And Bull has made a living sniffing out motive. Sometimes a conversation with Solas tests that skill more than anyone he's ever met. Other times it's like the mage is an open book. The oxymoron of it boggles, leaves questions, leaves the utter frustration of how Solas could very well be the most dangerous person he's ever met without Bull ever really knowing why.
"Considering whether to ask how an apostate learns such a thing?" Solas goads up at him; right back to being infuriatingly smug, still prone, head resting against Bull's thigh, horrifically injured and entirely, helplessly, undeniably vulnerable.
What a risk that might be.
To be alone with a dangerous qunari Solas has just healed up to—no, healed better than—full strength when he could have just as easily healed himself first.
Bull smiles. "Nah. Think I got you figured all out."
Solas laughs.
It promptly turns into a cough.
Which, come to think of it, is actually the first time he's laughed since Bull woke up, and if Solas had done so at literally any other time he'd have given himself away in an instant. Bull finds the realisation quite similar to when Solas puts the final flourish on one of those sneaky chess strategies he's so fond of.
Solas smiles serenely at him like he knows it, purrs in blatant challenge, "Is that so?"
It's the sort of sassy little quip that, in other settings, said by other people, has often inspired Bull to get rather creative with a length of rope and a firm, hard paddle.
He suspects Solas knows that too.
Bull is good at staying calm though, at refusing to be riled, baited, so he simply leans down and tucks Solas's robes gently back over his torso. He doesn't want to do up the clasps because he suspects it's better to keep easy access to the wound, but Bull does return his arm to its protective cradle. Solas curls obligingly into his grasp when Bull carefully picks him up again.
"Tell me the moment it gets worse." Bull tells him. "Or when you are able to heal it."
"Of course," Solas replies, cool and calm and as falsely contrite as ever. He rests his head back on Bull's shoulder, shifts to get comfortable.
"…pawn to D4?"
As Bull said.
Solas is such a smug little asshole.