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Anaan esaam Qun
Bull hears about the Tevinter altus in captivity before he remembers how Dorian was captured. He can't stand the warring memories: ones from Orlais, and ones from the past year or so in Thedas. His body bears new scars, and he can't--
He can't block out his role in all of this.
Do you ever think about what would happen if the Qunari invaded?
No. Not at all.
The memories of the Dorian Pavus in this world are the worst. The pain upon realizing Bull's betrayal, the rage and fear and longing on his face when they finally confronted each other on a battlefield. Dorian nearly killed him and Bull bears deep scars from ice nearly going through his chest. He would have died had it not been for a saarebas in the field.
But he also remembers quiet, tender moments on the porch of the bungalow and on the beach.
It hurts to see Dorian in captivity, even if this man tried to kill him. He can't even blame him. Bull can't stay away, finding excuses to pass through the prison, to look at him while he's sleeping. It isn't until he hears that the prisoner has been taken to interrogation that cold fear strikes through him.
-*-
As far as Dorian can tell, this portal has landed him in some Qunari-occupied version of Thedas straight out of a Tevinter cautionary tale. It's clearly Ferelden; in fact, it looks very much like Redcliffe, from the glimpses he'd gotten at the outside world before being locked up, chained and collared in a very dark room by very indifferent-seeming Qunari. If the Qunari have gotten this far south, he can't help but think, then surely Tevinter must be--
No, but he can't dwell on that. He has to get out of here. Back to Zhautas, or at least to a Thedas that isn't so fucking dismal; the spread of the Qun to this point is a complete nightmare, would be so even to someone like Bull, who had followed the Qun throughout his life. Maker, Dorian hopes he's all right. He'd been nearby when the portal opened. Impossible to say whether or not he'd come through as well.
He's been given water occasionally, but it's laced with magebane. He knows the taste well, even subtle as it is. His father had dosed him with it for months. But he can't very well not drink at all, especially when he's not been given food for--as far as he can tell--several days. Difficult to measure the hours without sunlight. The heavy collar around his neck would prevent him from using magic anyway, even if he could access it. No magic, no food; he feels empty in every way, lightheaded and weak and devoid of purpose, of options. He's spent most of the time asleep, or at least trying to rest. He's been isolated, too; a few people have come by to view him, but all have spoken Qunlat, and none have spoken directly to him.
The first time he was acknowledged was when he was dragged from his cell for interrogation. They speak to him in Common, low and only lightly accented. He doesn't know anything of value, of course, about the state of this world, even if his counterpart here is apparently quite important to the resistance of Qunari occupation, which doesn't surprise him for a moment. But he's stubborn enough not to want to tell his interrogators anything anyway. And where is Bull? Surely he must exist in this Thedas, fighting alongside him?
Where is Bull?
Time passes. He doesn't give satisfactory answers. They tell him that if he does, he will be rewarded; perhaps he will be allowed to convert, and live out his life as a Viddathari. He laughs at this. He knows the Qunari don't bother to convert foreign mages. Dangerous things. For those like him, there is only qamek.
That must have been...yesterday?
Where is Bull?
He fears, at first, that qamek is exactly what they're giving him. But that doesn't seem to be so. It is some other poison, perhaps, as his free will doesn't suddenly dribble out his ears; it merely makes his mind increasingly fuzzy. He is left alone for some time. Now he really can't measure it, can barely keep hold of his own thoughts. They blur together in the dark, and after some indeterminable amount of time, it becomes difficult to tell whether there is anyone there with him or not. At one point, he's sure he hears Sera's voice, but opens his eyes to find himself alone. Felix sits with him for a while, silently, a Blight-ridden hand covering his; but he'd never looked that bad in life, the flesh melting from his beautiful dear face as though already decaying from the inside out. He wonders what has happened to Lavellan, and when he next opens his eyes, her head is laying at his feet, the stitches holding her lips sewn shut still bleeding sluggishly. He sobs, slams his eyes shut, and when he opens them again it's gone. He would say that he is dreaming, but whatever they've put in him keeps him awake, and uncomfortably aware of the weight of his collar, of his chains, of every cut and bruise and sore on his body. He is itching in his own skin, and and eventually he begins talking--begging, really, is what it is, for someone to come back, anyone, anyone who he can know is real.
Eventually, they return.
Where is Bull?
They ask him first about his family. He doesn't like to talk about his family, but he tells them. It's a relief just to have someone there and solid and decidedly alive to interact with, and he has no reason to defend Magister fucking Halward anyway. Then they talk about his friends, about Maevaris, Lavellan, Gereon--no, he really doesn't know anything about where Mae is now, have you tried her estate near Vyrantium? She likes to host her summer parties there, not quite as oppressively hot as Minrathous. No, he really doesn't know where she might be right now, and why should he? Known co-conspirator? Well, they've been known to be thick as thieves, but--
It occurs to him that this is still an interrogation, and not a friendly chat. It occurs to him that they want to find Mae to hurt her. Perhaps to do the very same thing to her as they have done to him. (Lavellan, her mouth sewn shut; he failed her, he must have, he can't fail Mae that way. Was that even real, or a figment of his mind? Does it matter?)
"Where is Bull?"
He nearly doesn't realize he's spoken aloud. There is silence for a moment after, and then a quiet murmuring, one interrogator to another. Dorian hears it, the whisper of a word--a name--he recognizes. Hissrad.
Dorian's stomach twists. "Is he dead?" He asks, frantic. The room seems to be closing in on him. "Is he dead?" But no one is listening to him now. One of the interrogators leaves. Dorian's throat feels dry, and he still can't reach his magic, this bloody collar is so heavy, he wants to just--just sleep, or burn everything, it doesn't matter which. He's surprised when he feels his eyes welling up, but can't stop the tears when they fall. He has to leave. He has to get back, back to a world that makes sense.
Where is Bull?
-*-
People are not hard to break. All it takes is loneliness, uncertainty, and fear. Even the strongest minds will eventually fall to one of these, especially if there is pain of some kind or another. It's a matter of time; it's a when, not an if.
Especially when the Ben-Hassrath are in charge.
Bull knows exactly what the prisoner is going through and there is nothing he can do to stop it that would not end in both their executions. He visits a tamassran every day and no one questions it: of course Hissrad seeks comfort and reassurance in the Qun. He has been on the front lines, they say. He has been away for so long. It is the least they can do to give him respite.
It is part of why they keep him from the interrogation, and he can find no good reason to insert himself into it. He knows Dorian, intimately, but the interrogation techniques of the Ben-Hassrath do not depend on things like that. Still, the interrogators report to him and to the Viddasala. In every report, he looks for-- something. There has to be a way to get Dorian out, to get him to the border.
Learning how far the borders are send cold chills down his back. The Frostbacks, the Waking Sea. But he knows this land well. If he can just find a reason to be alone with Dorian--
"Hissrad, we need you."
He looks up from the campaign map spread across the table, then pushes away to follow the interrogator. Have they killed him? Is it worse? Bull steels himself for any number of possibilities.
Somehow the reality is worse.
Dorian sits, broken, in the middle of the room. Bull is told little, only that Dorian has asked after him. They encourage into the space and into the light. There is no mistaking him: he is too unique among his people. All he wants to do is drop to his knees, to lift Dorian up and hold him close. He wants to kill everyone else in the room, and anyone that gets between them and a true escape.
But he will not risk Dorian's life that way. He must be Hissrad or they will both die.
He moves closer and finally sinks to one knee in front of the mage.
"Dorian."
Kadan.
-*-
They bring him.
The relief Dorian feels at the sight of him, his huge and familiar presence taking up so much space in the small, quiet room, is enough to have him doubling over. He aches in every imaginable way, but seeing the Bull unharmed is worth everything.
"You're alive," he murmurs, and leans toward him instinctively as he sinks down nearby, seeking comfort in the size and strength of Bull's form. He can't quite reach him, and it sends a pang of desperation through him. There are new scars spanning the tough grey skin of Bull's chest, and his expression is impassive, but he is here.
"Bull, amatus, please--please, let's leave." It doesn't occur to him, in this state, to wonder whether he is another prisoner, or whether he is somehow in charge here, or if he even has the power to release him or not. The tears are hot on his cheeks, blurring his vision. He tries to blink them away. He wants to see Bull clearly. "I can't give them what they want, Bull, please, let's go--" He makes another attempt to reach him, but is stopped by the length of his chains. A low, pathetic noise wrenches its way from his throat. Just touch me, he thinks, just touch me please, and everything will be all right.
-*-
Bull doesn't dare offer too much comfort. He considers Dorian's state, knows well what they've likely given him to induce it. The bruises and chaffed skin make his stomach turn. He takes a breath and lets it go slowly.
Would the Dorian that tried to kill him call him amatus? Would he be so relieved to see him, even in these conditions.
He turns his head to address the interrogators.
"I'll take over from here. You've pushed too hard today."
It isn't a difficult argument to make. Dorian sounds nearly incoherent. The interrogators both murmur their apologies and leave to write up their reports. Bull breathes another quiet sigh and waits for a few agonizing minutes before he moves. He carefully unties Dorian and, as he gets to his feet again, he picks the mage up effortlessly.
"I'm here," he says very quietly. Even if this is the man that tried to kill him, Bull cannot stand to see him in pain.
-*-
Bull gives a directive, and the other two leave. The implications of that--this Bull isn't on his side at all, is he? Hissrad. Ben-Hassrath. Spy, agent, traitor.
But that can't be the case, can it? Surely it is a ruse, he thinks. Bull is releasing him, shackles falling to the floor, and then taking him in his arms. He's safe. Dorian buries his face in Bull's shoulder and lets himself weep. Bull would never want to hurt him. He'd even given him a word to say to stop him if he ever did. Katoh.
"Thank you," he says, watery, thick. He hates that he cries so easily, but he seems to have even less control over it now than usual. Logically, he knows he needs to rest. He needs to let the poison clear his system. But all he wants to do is get far away from here, let Bull carry him until this is nothing more than a bad dream.
"Don't leave me," he implores. That is the most important part.
-*-
Something in him breaks when he hears Dorian thank him. He adjusts his hold slightly, making sure to keep the mage against his chest. His mind is racing: he needs to think of a viable reason to keep Dorian with him.
A question burns in him and he hates himself for a moment. If he asks it now, there is no way that Dorian can lie to him. It's the easiest, fastest way to get the information he needs.
"Dorian," he murmurs his name again. "When do you last remember seeing me? What were we doing together?"
-*-
Gradually, he stops heaving, breathing slowly to a more sedate pace. Deep inhales and exhales, shaky still. He isn't exactly not crying, but it's near enough. He holds tight to Bull where he can, and breathes in the scent of his skin.
"Near the beach. You and I were walking together, looking at trees," he says, and hopes that makes some sense. "There was a portal. I only wanted to have a look--they're so fascinating--but I ended up here after all." Home and very much not home. He's longed to see Thedas for months, but not like this.
-*-
Bull can't breathe. Dorian-- this is his Dorian, the man he's loved for years, the man he's grown close to since they found each other again on Zhautas--
He's left him here all this time, not knowing, suffering. Bull closes his eye for a moment and squeezes Dorian as tightly as he dares.
"Forgive me," he whispers. "For not intervening sooner."
He walks past the prison, moving up through the castle. No one questions him. If someone does, he'll find an answer, but he cannot leave Dorian there a moment longer. Bull's mind is already racing to concoct a story, a reason for his taking possession of a Tevinter altus. He could tell them that his mind has broken. That he barely remembers who he is, never mind information of any use to the Qunari. But what is to keep them from deciding to simply kill Dorian?
Me, he thinks grimly.
-*-
Well, at least he understands. This is his Bull then, isn't it? Good. Then they can work together to find the portal that will get them out of here. Bull apologizes to him, and Dorian's breath hitches at the emotion in his voice. No, no. He doesn't want this. It isn't Bull's fault, is it?
...is it?
"It was a bit inconvenient," Dorian agrees weakly. Bull is carrying him through what Dorian recognizes to be the halls of Redcliffe Castle, without a doubt. Ironic, that; he'd seen Bull locked in a cell beneath this very castle in the dark future that hadn't come to pass. That was long before he'd ever considered Bull special to him. Indeed, it was before he knew him at all.
Or, well, it hadn't been before, exactly, since it had been the future, but timelines are funny like that.
"You couldn't have dropped by to pick me up yesterday?" His attempt at humor falls flat in the face of what he's experienced. He fears he'll lapse back into it the moment Bull lets him go. That he'll be gripped again by the isolation, the fear, the uncertainty of what is real and what isn't. And he's still got that collar on.
-*-
Bull wonders if he can get Dorian out of the castle. He has rooms here, but he hates the idea of staying. There are too many eyes and ears in the castle itself and it's too close to the local triumvirate. But Dorian is in no condition for that trip, and there will certainly be questions if he carries him all that way.
Bull avoids main thoroughfares in the castle, sticking to back stairs and quiet corridors. He doesn't know why he remembers his way around, but he does.
"I was afraid they would kill us both," he admits. "If I showed my hand, if I tried to place myself in the investigation without reason."
He had to wait. It's something he learned as a spy, but waiting meant letting Dorian suffer, and the knowledge eats at him. Bull aches to kiss Dorian.
"I won't let anyone take you from me again," he murmurs, his voice low and harsh. When they reach his small apartments, Bull settles Dorian on the bed.
-*-
"I understand," he says, as only someone whose trust is certain could. "I know you wouldn't leave me to--to that," a moment to swallow, trying not to think, now that he is in Bull's arms, about what had come before. "Not if there was any other way." He appreciates these quieter halls, back passageways, lesser-used stairs. The last thing he wants now is too many eyes on him. He wants the Bull, and the Bull alone.
"Perhaps I should have asked after you sooner. I worried that they had done something to you." He'd assumed incorrectly, he now realizes. It's a sobering thought, and one he still can't force his mind to examine beyond a surface level, murky as his thoughts still are. "But you aren't Tal-Vashoth here, are you?"
You are part of this, is what is implied. You made this happen.
He doesn't want to believe that the Bull--any version of him--is capable of this. But here they are. In a room, now. Small, but much more comfortable than the castle dungeon, at least. He reluctantly allows Bull to put him down, but reaches for his hand instead, more than a little terrified to lose contact completely.
-*-
"No," he answers quietly. "I am not Tal-Vashoth."
The words hold more weight than he ever thought they would, and so much goes with them now. He knows he has something to do with all of this: how could he not, given his extensive experience in this part of the world? The information he would have been sending back to his people like clockwork? The intimate details of weaknesses, points for exploitation?
Bull squeezes Dorian's hand before he moves away from the bed. He wants to draw a bath, certain that Dorian will want one; he makes sure to stay in the mage's line of sight at all times. There's a stone tub in the room and he know it will hold heat well. That will let Dorian soak for as long as he wants.
He's wearing the ropes of his station: they wrap around his chest and shoulders, down his arms. He doesn't have his eye patch. He's wearing vitaar.
-*-
Dorian's jaw sets. There it is, then. He has to wonder just what had led to this. What had to change to make Bull behave this way? To remain loyal to the Qun rather than to...to him. Or had they not been together here? Or is he simply letting his vanity give him an inflated idea of his own importance? Of course, in a choice between him and the Qun, Bull's people--
Thankfully, his Bull had not been presented with that ultimatum. Or if he had, he had chosen differently.
The sight of the bathtub is a welcome one. He'd been about to ask, but as usual, Bull anticipates his needs. He still draws in an unsteady breath when they part. Though he isn't so far away, he misses the contact immediately. It isn't enough just to see him. Dorian pushes himself up. His legs are shaky, but he manages the few steps it takes him to reach Bull again. He presses himself flush against his back, leaning his forehead against his spine, arms circling as far around his waist as he can reach. His hands rest against the curve of his stomach. The Bull is so solid, sturdy, present. Touching him is grounding. Bull is in many ways the only real thing here. What would he do without him, in this world or any other?
"I love you," he says, the hoarse words half-buried against Bull's skin.
-*-
Bull almost tells Dorian to get back into bed, but it's futile. Soon enough the mage is pressed against his back, and, selfishly, Bull is grateful to feel him there. One hand moves to cover Dorian's.
His fingers brush over the fresh scars. Deep, killing wounds. He remembers the pain.
He doesn't say anything, only reaches with his free hand to check the temperature of the water as it fills the tub. The words go straight through him, fill him, and his hand tightens over Dorian's.
"I love you," he answers, and with Dorian's head against his back, the man can probably feel the words as much as hear them. "I'm here, kadan."
-*-
He loves this. He loves when he is pressed so close to Bull that his words are tangible. He can feel them, and that makes him edge all the closer, though it's barely possible. A hand covers his entirely, and he centers himself. This is real. And this is real, what they have between them. He has never been loved like this. He has never trusted anyone to love him like this and mean it, but he thinks that Bull does. He thinks that Bull will stay with him, if he asks. Will go to Tevinter with him, will travel to another bloody planet for him, and want nothing in return.
Dorian wants to give him everything.
"Bathe with me?" he asks, and for once it isn't even an implication that Bull needs a bath. At the moment, there is nothing he'd like more than to lay in the warm water in Bull's arms. He won't be able to sleep, he thinks, while the poison is still in his body, but with Bull there to ground him in reality, he can at the very least relax without fear of what he might see.
-*-
"Of course."
Bull had considered offering, but he's uncertain of how much space Dorian needs or wants. Little, seems to be the answer, but he wants to be sure. The invitation soothes some of his frayed nerves but ignites other worries.
"I'm going to take your collar off. I know they've been dosing with you magebane..." Bull trails off, hating the words inside his mouth. But he speaks them - he needs to. "Don't use your magic, kadan. Whatever your ability or the temptation. They'll find out."
He isn't sure that he can protect either of them if anyone thinks that Dorian is capable of his usual expertise, or even anything near that. Ashamed, Bull can't quite bring himself to look at Dorian after asking that and instead focuses on getting the collar off.
He can't block out his role in all of this.
Do you ever think about what would happen if the Qunari invaded?
No. Not at all.
The memories of the Dorian Pavus in this world are the worst. The pain upon realizing Bull's betrayal, the rage and fear and longing on his face when they finally confronted each other on a battlefield. Dorian nearly killed him and Bull bears deep scars from ice nearly going through his chest. He would have died had it not been for a saarebas in the field.
But he also remembers quiet, tender moments on the porch of the bungalow and on the beach.
It hurts to see Dorian in captivity, even if this man tried to kill him. He can't even blame him. Bull can't stay away, finding excuses to pass through the prison, to look at him while he's sleeping. It isn't until he hears that the prisoner has been taken to interrogation that cold fear strikes through him.
-*-
As far as Dorian can tell, this portal has landed him in some Qunari-occupied version of Thedas straight out of a Tevinter cautionary tale. It's clearly Ferelden; in fact, it looks very much like Redcliffe, from the glimpses he'd gotten at the outside world before being locked up, chained and collared in a very dark room by very indifferent-seeming Qunari. If the Qunari have gotten this far south, he can't help but think, then surely Tevinter must be--
No, but he can't dwell on that. He has to get out of here. Back to Zhautas, or at least to a Thedas that isn't so fucking dismal; the spread of the Qun to this point is a complete nightmare, would be so even to someone like Bull, who had followed the Qun throughout his life. Maker, Dorian hopes he's all right. He'd been nearby when the portal opened. Impossible to say whether or not he'd come through as well.
He's been given water occasionally, but it's laced with magebane. He knows the taste well, even subtle as it is. His father had dosed him with it for months. But he can't very well not drink at all, especially when he's not been given food for--as far as he can tell--several days. Difficult to measure the hours without sunlight. The heavy collar around his neck would prevent him from using magic anyway, even if he could access it. No magic, no food; he feels empty in every way, lightheaded and weak and devoid of purpose, of options. He's spent most of the time asleep, or at least trying to rest. He's been isolated, too; a few people have come by to view him, but all have spoken Qunlat, and none have spoken directly to him.
The first time he was acknowledged was when he was dragged from his cell for interrogation. They speak to him in Common, low and only lightly accented. He doesn't know anything of value, of course, about the state of this world, even if his counterpart here is apparently quite important to the resistance of Qunari occupation, which doesn't surprise him for a moment. But he's stubborn enough not to want to tell his interrogators anything anyway. And where is Bull? Surely he must exist in this Thedas, fighting alongside him?
Where is Bull?
Time passes. He doesn't give satisfactory answers. They tell him that if he does, he will be rewarded; perhaps he will be allowed to convert, and live out his life as a Viddathari. He laughs at this. He knows the Qunari don't bother to convert foreign mages. Dangerous things. For those like him, there is only qamek.
That must have been...yesterday?
Where is Bull?
He fears, at first, that qamek is exactly what they're giving him. But that doesn't seem to be so. It is some other poison, perhaps, as his free will doesn't suddenly dribble out his ears; it merely makes his mind increasingly fuzzy. He is left alone for some time. Now he really can't measure it, can barely keep hold of his own thoughts. They blur together in the dark, and after some indeterminable amount of time, it becomes difficult to tell whether there is anyone there with him or not. At one point, he's sure he hears Sera's voice, but opens his eyes to find himself alone. Felix sits with him for a while, silently, a Blight-ridden hand covering his; but he'd never looked that bad in life, the flesh melting from his beautiful dear face as though already decaying from the inside out. He wonders what has happened to Lavellan, and when he next opens his eyes, her head is laying at his feet, the stitches holding her lips sewn shut still bleeding sluggishly. He sobs, slams his eyes shut, and when he opens them again it's gone. He would say that he is dreaming, but whatever they've put in him keeps him awake, and uncomfortably aware of the weight of his collar, of his chains, of every cut and bruise and sore on his body. He is itching in his own skin, and and eventually he begins talking--begging, really, is what it is, for someone to come back, anyone, anyone who he can know is real.
Eventually, they return.
Where is Bull?
They ask him first about his family. He doesn't like to talk about his family, but he tells them. It's a relief just to have someone there and solid and decidedly alive to interact with, and he has no reason to defend Magister fucking Halward anyway. Then they talk about his friends, about Maevaris, Lavellan, Gereon--no, he really doesn't know anything about where Mae is now, have you tried her estate near Vyrantium? She likes to host her summer parties there, not quite as oppressively hot as Minrathous. No, he really doesn't know where she might be right now, and why should he? Known co-conspirator? Well, they've been known to be thick as thieves, but--
It occurs to him that this is still an interrogation, and not a friendly chat. It occurs to him that they want to find Mae to hurt her. Perhaps to do the very same thing to her as they have done to him. (Lavellan, her mouth sewn shut; he failed her, he must have, he can't fail Mae that way. Was that even real, or a figment of his mind? Does it matter?)
"Where is Bull?"
He nearly doesn't realize he's spoken aloud. There is silence for a moment after, and then a quiet murmuring, one interrogator to another. Dorian hears it, the whisper of a word--a name--he recognizes. Hissrad.
Dorian's stomach twists. "Is he dead?" He asks, frantic. The room seems to be closing in on him. "Is he dead?" But no one is listening to him now. One of the interrogators leaves. Dorian's throat feels dry, and he still can't reach his magic, this bloody collar is so heavy, he wants to just--just sleep, or burn everything, it doesn't matter which. He's surprised when he feels his eyes welling up, but can't stop the tears when they fall. He has to leave. He has to get back, back to a world that makes sense.
Where is Bull?
-*-
People are not hard to break. All it takes is loneliness, uncertainty, and fear. Even the strongest minds will eventually fall to one of these, especially if there is pain of some kind or another. It's a matter of time; it's a when, not an if.
Especially when the Ben-Hassrath are in charge.
Bull knows exactly what the prisoner is going through and there is nothing he can do to stop it that would not end in both their executions. He visits a tamassran every day and no one questions it: of course Hissrad seeks comfort and reassurance in the Qun. He has been on the front lines, they say. He has been away for so long. It is the least they can do to give him respite.
It is part of why they keep him from the interrogation, and he can find no good reason to insert himself into it. He knows Dorian, intimately, but the interrogation techniques of the Ben-Hassrath do not depend on things like that. Still, the interrogators report to him and to the Viddasala. In every report, he looks for-- something. There has to be a way to get Dorian out, to get him to the border.
Learning how far the borders are send cold chills down his back. The Frostbacks, the Waking Sea. But he knows this land well. If he can just find a reason to be alone with Dorian--
"Hissrad, we need you."
He looks up from the campaign map spread across the table, then pushes away to follow the interrogator. Have they killed him? Is it worse? Bull steels himself for any number of possibilities.
Somehow the reality is worse.
Dorian sits, broken, in the middle of the room. Bull is told little, only that Dorian has asked after him. They encourage into the space and into the light. There is no mistaking him: he is too unique among his people. All he wants to do is drop to his knees, to lift Dorian up and hold him close. He wants to kill everyone else in the room, and anyone that gets between them and a true escape.
But he will not risk Dorian's life that way. He must be Hissrad or they will both die.
He moves closer and finally sinks to one knee in front of the mage.
"Dorian."
Kadan.
-*-
They bring him.
The relief Dorian feels at the sight of him, his huge and familiar presence taking up so much space in the small, quiet room, is enough to have him doubling over. He aches in every imaginable way, but seeing the Bull unharmed is worth everything.
"You're alive," he murmurs, and leans toward him instinctively as he sinks down nearby, seeking comfort in the size and strength of Bull's form. He can't quite reach him, and it sends a pang of desperation through him. There are new scars spanning the tough grey skin of Bull's chest, and his expression is impassive, but he is here.
"Bull, amatus, please--please, let's leave." It doesn't occur to him, in this state, to wonder whether he is another prisoner, or whether he is somehow in charge here, or if he even has the power to release him or not. The tears are hot on his cheeks, blurring his vision. He tries to blink them away. He wants to see Bull clearly. "I can't give them what they want, Bull, please, let's go--" He makes another attempt to reach him, but is stopped by the length of his chains. A low, pathetic noise wrenches its way from his throat. Just touch me, he thinks, just touch me please, and everything will be all right.
-*-
Bull doesn't dare offer too much comfort. He considers Dorian's state, knows well what they've likely given him to induce it. The bruises and chaffed skin make his stomach turn. He takes a breath and lets it go slowly.
Would the Dorian that tried to kill him call him amatus? Would he be so relieved to see him, even in these conditions.
He turns his head to address the interrogators.
"I'll take over from here. You've pushed too hard today."
It isn't a difficult argument to make. Dorian sounds nearly incoherent. The interrogators both murmur their apologies and leave to write up their reports. Bull breathes another quiet sigh and waits for a few agonizing minutes before he moves. He carefully unties Dorian and, as he gets to his feet again, he picks the mage up effortlessly.
"I'm here," he says very quietly. Even if this is the man that tried to kill him, Bull cannot stand to see him in pain.
-*-
Bull gives a directive, and the other two leave. The implications of that--this Bull isn't on his side at all, is he? Hissrad. Ben-Hassrath. Spy, agent, traitor.
But that can't be the case, can it? Surely it is a ruse, he thinks. Bull is releasing him, shackles falling to the floor, and then taking him in his arms. He's safe. Dorian buries his face in Bull's shoulder and lets himself weep. Bull would never want to hurt him. He'd even given him a word to say to stop him if he ever did. Katoh.
"Thank you," he says, watery, thick. He hates that he cries so easily, but he seems to have even less control over it now than usual. Logically, he knows he needs to rest. He needs to let the poison clear his system. But all he wants to do is get far away from here, let Bull carry him until this is nothing more than a bad dream.
"Don't leave me," he implores. That is the most important part.
-*-
Something in him breaks when he hears Dorian thank him. He adjusts his hold slightly, making sure to keep the mage against his chest. His mind is racing: he needs to think of a viable reason to keep Dorian with him.
A question burns in him and he hates himself for a moment. If he asks it now, there is no way that Dorian can lie to him. It's the easiest, fastest way to get the information he needs.
"Dorian," he murmurs his name again. "When do you last remember seeing me? What were we doing together?"
-*-
Gradually, he stops heaving, breathing slowly to a more sedate pace. Deep inhales and exhales, shaky still. He isn't exactly not crying, but it's near enough. He holds tight to Bull where he can, and breathes in the scent of his skin.
"Near the beach. You and I were walking together, looking at trees," he says, and hopes that makes some sense. "There was a portal. I only wanted to have a look--they're so fascinating--but I ended up here after all." Home and very much not home. He's longed to see Thedas for months, but not like this.
-*-
Bull can't breathe. Dorian-- this is his Dorian, the man he's loved for years, the man he's grown close to since they found each other again on Zhautas--
He's left him here all this time, not knowing, suffering. Bull closes his eye for a moment and squeezes Dorian as tightly as he dares.
"Forgive me," he whispers. "For not intervening sooner."
He walks past the prison, moving up through the castle. No one questions him. If someone does, he'll find an answer, but he cannot leave Dorian there a moment longer. Bull's mind is already racing to concoct a story, a reason for his taking possession of a Tevinter altus. He could tell them that his mind has broken. That he barely remembers who he is, never mind information of any use to the Qunari. But what is to keep them from deciding to simply kill Dorian?
Me, he thinks grimly.
-*-
Well, at least he understands. This is his Bull then, isn't it? Good. Then they can work together to find the portal that will get them out of here. Bull apologizes to him, and Dorian's breath hitches at the emotion in his voice. No, no. He doesn't want this. It isn't Bull's fault, is it?
...is it?
"It was a bit inconvenient," Dorian agrees weakly. Bull is carrying him through what Dorian recognizes to be the halls of Redcliffe Castle, without a doubt. Ironic, that; he'd seen Bull locked in a cell beneath this very castle in the dark future that hadn't come to pass. That was long before he'd ever considered Bull special to him. Indeed, it was before he knew him at all.
Or, well, it hadn't been before, exactly, since it had been the future, but timelines are funny like that.
"You couldn't have dropped by to pick me up yesterday?" His attempt at humor falls flat in the face of what he's experienced. He fears he'll lapse back into it the moment Bull lets him go. That he'll be gripped again by the isolation, the fear, the uncertainty of what is real and what isn't. And he's still got that collar on.
-*-
Bull wonders if he can get Dorian out of the castle. He has rooms here, but he hates the idea of staying. There are too many eyes and ears in the castle itself and it's too close to the local triumvirate. But Dorian is in no condition for that trip, and there will certainly be questions if he carries him all that way.
Bull avoids main thoroughfares in the castle, sticking to back stairs and quiet corridors. He doesn't know why he remembers his way around, but he does.
"I was afraid they would kill us both," he admits. "If I showed my hand, if I tried to place myself in the investigation without reason."
He had to wait. It's something he learned as a spy, but waiting meant letting Dorian suffer, and the knowledge eats at him. Bull aches to kiss Dorian.
"I won't let anyone take you from me again," he murmurs, his voice low and harsh. When they reach his small apartments, Bull settles Dorian on the bed.
-*-
"I understand," he says, as only someone whose trust is certain could. "I know you wouldn't leave me to--to that," a moment to swallow, trying not to think, now that he is in Bull's arms, about what had come before. "Not if there was any other way." He appreciates these quieter halls, back passageways, lesser-used stairs. The last thing he wants now is too many eyes on him. He wants the Bull, and the Bull alone.
"Perhaps I should have asked after you sooner. I worried that they had done something to you." He'd assumed incorrectly, he now realizes. It's a sobering thought, and one he still can't force his mind to examine beyond a surface level, murky as his thoughts still are. "But you aren't Tal-Vashoth here, are you?"
You are part of this, is what is implied. You made this happen.
He doesn't want to believe that the Bull--any version of him--is capable of this. But here they are. In a room, now. Small, but much more comfortable than the castle dungeon, at least. He reluctantly allows Bull to put him down, but reaches for his hand instead, more than a little terrified to lose contact completely.
-*-
"No," he answers quietly. "I am not Tal-Vashoth."
The words hold more weight than he ever thought they would, and so much goes with them now. He knows he has something to do with all of this: how could he not, given his extensive experience in this part of the world? The information he would have been sending back to his people like clockwork? The intimate details of weaknesses, points for exploitation?
Bull squeezes Dorian's hand before he moves away from the bed. He wants to draw a bath, certain that Dorian will want one; he makes sure to stay in the mage's line of sight at all times. There's a stone tub in the room and he know it will hold heat well. That will let Dorian soak for as long as he wants.
He's wearing the ropes of his station: they wrap around his chest and shoulders, down his arms. He doesn't have his eye patch. He's wearing vitaar.
-*-
Dorian's jaw sets. There it is, then. He has to wonder just what had led to this. What had to change to make Bull behave this way? To remain loyal to the Qun rather than to...to him. Or had they not been together here? Or is he simply letting his vanity give him an inflated idea of his own importance? Of course, in a choice between him and the Qun, Bull's people--
Thankfully, his Bull had not been presented with that ultimatum. Or if he had, he had chosen differently.
The sight of the bathtub is a welcome one. He'd been about to ask, but as usual, Bull anticipates his needs. He still draws in an unsteady breath when they part. Though he isn't so far away, he misses the contact immediately. It isn't enough just to see him. Dorian pushes himself up. His legs are shaky, but he manages the few steps it takes him to reach Bull again. He presses himself flush against his back, leaning his forehead against his spine, arms circling as far around his waist as he can reach. His hands rest against the curve of his stomach. The Bull is so solid, sturdy, present. Touching him is grounding. Bull is in many ways the only real thing here. What would he do without him, in this world or any other?
"I love you," he says, the hoarse words half-buried against Bull's skin.
-*-
Bull almost tells Dorian to get back into bed, but it's futile. Soon enough the mage is pressed against his back, and, selfishly, Bull is grateful to feel him there. One hand moves to cover Dorian's.
His fingers brush over the fresh scars. Deep, killing wounds. He remembers the pain.
He doesn't say anything, only reaches with his free hand to check the temperature of the water as it fills the tub. The words go straight through him, fill him, and his hand tightens over Dorian's.
"I love you," he answers, and with Dorian's head against his back, the man can probably feel the words as much as hear them. "I'm here, kadan."
-*-
He loves this. He loves when he is pressed so close to Bull that his words are tangible. He can feel them, and that makes him edge all the closer, though it's barely possible. A hand covers his entirely, and he centers himself. This is real. And this is real, what they have between them. He has never been loved like this. He has never trusted anyone to love him like this and mean it, but he thinks that Bull does. He thinks that Bull will stay with him, if he asks. Will go to Tevinter with him, will travel to another bloody planet for him, and want nothing in return.
Dorian wants to give him everything.
"Bathe with me?" he asks, and for once it isn't even an implication that Bull needs a bath. At the moment, there is nothing he'd like more than to lay in the warm water in Bull's arms. He won't be able to sleep, he thinks, while the poison is still in his body, but with Bull there to ground him in reality, he can at the very least relax without fear of what he might see.
-*-
"Of course."
Bull had considered offering, but he's uncertain of how much space Dorian needs or wants. Little, seems to be the answer, but he wants to be sure. The invitation soothes some of his frayed nerves but ignites other worries.
"I'm going to take your collar off. I know they've been dosing with you magebane..." Bull trails off, hating the words inside his mouth. But he speaks them - he needs to. "Don't use your magic, kadan. Whatever your ability or the temptation. They'll find out."
He isn't sure that he can protect either of them if anyone thinks that Dorian is capable of his usual expertise, or even anything near that. Ashamed, Bull can't quite bring himself to look at Dorian after asking that and instead focuses on getting the collar off.
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Returning to intimacy with Dorian is-- a relief in the face of everything. Something familiar, something that is theirs. He relishes their privacy, the walls between them and the rest of the world. For little moments at a time, he can forget everything he shouldn't remember. He gives more than he takes, but that has always been his nature in bed. He already feels quietly selfish for taking such comfort in Dorian's touch, the least he can do is make sure to indulge in every little thing his lover wants.
There is guilt in feeling that Dorian must be tethered to him whenever they are in public, but it is safer that way, at least for now. He knows other Ben-Hassrath agents are looking on, observing coolly. Dorian's willingness to play docile helps: no one seems to question that he has been pushed past a breaking point and needs time to recover if he is truly going to be of any use. No one doubts Hissrad's methods, not when they've proven so effective in the past. It's strange seeing Dorian in Ferelden styles, but it makes it easier to blend in: Dorian's personal style is meant to be noticed. Bull tries to find things that he knows Dorian will like: colors of fabric cuts, little things that, while not his style, might at least be an echo of it. More than anything, he wants to provide Dorian with some modicum of comfort while they try to sort themselves out.
His fingers brush the small of Dorian's back. It's an excuse to touch him as much as anything else, but it's also a quiet sign: he has this handled, everything is under control. He hates thinking of the word control in conjunction with Dorian's presence at his side, but it is an illusion they must keep up.
Hissrad. Liar.
Bull stands quietly as he listens to the tamassrans, understanding both lectures. He feels-- at home. As reluctant as he might be to admit it, there is something about all of this that feels like a balm to the loneliness he's felt for so long. All he need do is turn his head and he can see other people that look like him: he can hear his native language spoken. This is a life he could never imagine having again and he'd struggled to make peace with that long ago. But now that he is trapped here, he cannot help but find some comfort in it.
The child makes him smile. He was much the same at that age, and when he catches the little one side-eyeing them again, he offers a soft look and a nod toward the tamassran. He can feel Dorian lean into him and it's easy to slide his arm around the mage, holding him closer.
"Remind you of someone?" he teases quietly.
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Bull has no issue with touching him in public, even as intimately as this. Dorian has to conclude that it is, therefore, something that others are meant to see. It's still strange for him, but on some level, he actually enjoys it. He's never really gotten to do the performative aspects of a relationship like theirs, even to this extent. They had only recently decided that they were in an actual relationship at all. He wants to reach up, to wrap his arms around Bull's neck, urge him down far enough to kiss him just to feel his smile against this lips. But he refrains. That would be too much, he thinks. No one else in Qunari society does anything of the sort. That the two of them have a sexual relationship at all is odd enough when Qunari are meant to have those needs met by a tamassran. He isn't certain just how far their special status extends.
"Were you that large when you were his age?" Dorian wonders playfully. "No no, never mind--you had to be, to grow so absurdly enormous."
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His full size had been a surprise even to his tamassran. Bull wants to touch Dorian more than he is, but he knows he should draw the line here. For now, his had rests comfortably against Dorian's hip. Bull finds himself trying to guess what shape the little one's horns will take - they're only buds now, nearly hidden by a shock of white hair.
"What about you? A dainty child to the last?"
Not that there's much dainty about Dorian now. Sure, he's all the manners and refinement of his birthright, but Bull finds himself thinking of the strength of his thighs and legs, his back and arms. He shakes the thought off.
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He may look small next to the Bull, but he is tall, well-built, and physically strong. He knows that Bull admires this about him; most people do. It's rather the point. But the Bull's appreciation is certainly the most poignant, and sort he enjoys most, both generous in his verbal praise and showing his physical desire. Dorian delights in the hard grip of his hands and the outline of his teeth on the meat of his hips and ass and the thick muscles of his thighs and shoulders.
Especially satisfying when his thighs are spread wide on either side of Bull's waist, Bull's hands spanning the curve of his ass entirely. The size difference between them is thrilling to Dorian, yes, undoubtedly. Another part of what makes the sex so good.
"I'm certainly sturdy enough now to withstand your best," he says, and then with an arched brow adds, "or perhaps your worst?"
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Dorian will never see his worst. Not if Bull can help it. He wanted to feel Dorian's skin and resisted that, contenting himself with the way the mage feels tucked against his side. He considers a moment, absently listening to the tamassran lecturing the children.
"Do you want to meet them?" he asks, giving a faint nod toward the gaggle of children. They've all stopped writing and look particularly eager: the lesson is drawing to a close.
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The unexpected offer clearly startles him, and he blinks incredulously up at Bull. He's silent for a long moment, as if considering an option he never thought he'd have. "I--well, I wouldn't mind," is what he finally comes up with. Which is to say, I'd like that, but agreeing outright seems too soft. "But do any of them speak common?" He wonders. "Or anything apart from Qunlat?"
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Bull moves forward and crouches down, greeting them all rather tenderly in Qunlat before he shifts to the common tongue to answer half a dozen questions that had been launched at them.
"Dorian is human and that is a moustache on his face. Yes, maybe your horns will grow like mine. No, the Ben-Hassrath do not eat children."
He smiles and tips his head forward to let one curious youngster touch his horns; another approaches Dorian, bold and curious as he gently grips the mage's pant leg and looks up at him with large eyes.
In accented common the child asks, "Does it grow like that?"
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Before he can really give it much thought, the children are upon them. They absolutely rush Bull, who is clearly delighted by the attention. Dorian's told him so before, but it's so very obvious now, seeing him kneeling among a gaggle of tiny Qunari, answering their questions with good humor and letting them touch his horns; Bull would make a wonderful father. It strikes at a tender place in Dorian's heart just to witness the openness of Bull's expression, the joy there.
But then he's approached himself, somewhat to his surprise. He kneels as urged by that small grey hand curling into the looser fabric around his knees. He has to enjoy the little one's boldness, and finds himself grinning at the question. It's magic, he might say to a child in Tevinter with a conspiratorial wink. "Of course it does," he says instead, pinching one end of his mustache lightly between his thumb and forefinger. "If I didn't trim it, it would just keep growing round and round." He makes a circular gesture with his finger to indicate a spiral, and the child laughs. Dorian can't help but glance at Bull, still smiling. He has never had much exposure to children, but finds that he rather enjoys the precocious ones like this.
"Hissrad, Hissrad!" A small girl is exclaiming, straining to reach upward toward Bull. "Want to see from the top!" She lapses into Qunlat for another few words, but it seems to Dorian she very much wants to ride on Bull's horns.
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With a quiet grunt he gets down onto his knees. "Only two of you," he warns: the excited little girl and one of her companions rush closer. Bull carefully helps them to his shoulders, insisting the hold onto horns for balance as he gets back up. Despite the old injury to his leg, his ascent is careful and steady; he does it without his hands, as they are busy steadying the children on his shoulders.
Once he's standing, he feels the little girl's feet press into his shoulders as she stands up, too.
"It's so high!" she squeals. The other child, less bold, seems to be holding on for dear life. Bull wonders if he's afraid of heights, and if so, he was terribly brave to try in the first place. Bull dares a look at Dorian, smiling almost shyly due to his indulgence. But how could he say no to them?
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The boy Dorian has been speaking to seems rather disappointed not to be chosen to ride up high, so Dorian stretches his arms out. "Here now, I'll lift you," he says. "Come on." After only a moment of hesitation, he goes. Dorian heaves him up into his arms, and then onto his shoulders, with significant effort. Maker, these kids are big, and heavy. Once he's situated, however, Dorian rises back to his feet, gripping the boy's knees where they rest on his shoulders in order to steady him. Dorian isn't nearly so big as Bull, of course, but it's still a much higher vantage point than the boy is used to, and he exclaims something in Qunlat that seems excited and appreciative.
So here they are standing side by side with children hoisted onto their shoulders. This isn't a scene Dorian has ever imagined before now, but it doesn't feel out of place either. The boy on Dorian's shoulders reaches up to the shyer one on Bull's, tugging on his foot to get him to look down at him. With a smile, he begins chattering away in Qunlat. Whatever he says, the other boy responds favorably. He still holds onto Bull's horn for dear life, but he straightens up a little, even manages to look around.
"They all know you by name," Dorian observes, looking up at Bull curiously. "Do you spend that much time with them, or are you simply memorable?"
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He looks at Dorian again and smiles small. "I think I'm rather memorable," he says with a wry look. Missing one eye, massive, unique horns. How could anyone, even among his own people, mistake him? "And... perhaps I spend some time with them."
If he were a woman, he would be a tamassran, it's as simple as that. But he isn't, and so he can't be. Bull reaches up to steady the little girl happily flexing her legs on his shoulder as she bounces in place. He doesn't interrupt the tamassrans' duties, but whenever the children are out and about playing, and when he does not have anything pressing to do, he likes to be around them.
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The idea of Bull as a father hasn't completely left Dorian's mind since they'd discussed it several months ago, and seeing him like this brings Dorian straight back to that conversation. He remembers all too well their quiet discussion regarding Bull's feelings on his unknown children, how he'd begun to think about them as he spent more time in the south, observing families there.
Dorian reaches out to take Bull's closest hand, squeezing his fingers.
"The tamassrans must appreciate your help," he says gently.
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"I don't know about that," he says with a quiet laugh. "I think they blame me for riling them up."
He makes brief eye contact with a young tamassran and winks; she rolls her eyes at him and says something dismissive in Qunlat, with Hissrad featuring in there somewhere.
Slowly, he eases back down to the ground to release the two children standing on him. He's careful on his way back up, feeling a sharp twinge in his bad leg. Some days, even in his brace, it gave him trouble.
"We're being scolded," he quips, sounding not the least bit worried as he reaches to relieve Dorian of his giggling burden. "They have to go in for their snack."
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Alone again, he can lean back into Bull's side, once more stifling the urge to lean up for a kiss. Instead, he merely smiles, playfully raising a brow. "But what of us, Bull? Is it snack time as well?"
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"We could retire for a while," he says, his good eye gleaming. In all the time they've been here, he hasn't worn his eye patch. Bull's rough fingers brush over Dorian's hip. It seems inappropriate that watching Dorian being so good with children should make him feel anything other than fondness, but here they are. He wants to kiss Dorian. He wants to pick him up and toss him over his shoulder.
Bull aches for the freedom of the life they've been taken from.
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Dorian is not opposed to this, as he's certain the quirk of his lips makes clear.
He's curious, really, about just what it is that has Bull so eager. Something to do with him not being entirely terrible at handling imekari, clearly. It must be some sort of instinct triggered by the prospect of a partner (mate?) with children. Rather like the occasion several months ago where Bull had first knotted him--and not just once, but several times. Bull himself hadn't even understood why entirely, but this was around the same time they'd discussed Bull's potential offspring. And in bed, Dorian had been...
Well. He'd been receptive to the idea, and Bull had been very, very into that.
Dorian covers Bull's hand on his hips just long enough to squeeze it before he begins leading the way back toward their quaint little home. It is good that they have somewhere private here where they needn't keep up appearances. Being in public feels like walking a tightrope--he can give Bull affection, but not too much. He can talk, but not about certain things. He has his magic again, but he can't use it.
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Once it is, he pulls Dorian to him, picks him up and kisses him.
"Kadan," he murmurs, sounding almost dazed - intoxicated by the the man in his arms. Having Dorian here, and well, brings him more stability and comfort than any tamassran has ever been able to do. He wonders, almost frightened, if he has somehow outgrown the rituals of his people. But this-- this is real.
He hates that they have to hide themselves all over again, each for their own reasons. Each with dire consequences.
Bull adjusts his grip, one arm supporting Dorian while the other cradles the back of his head.
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His fingers rub at the base of Bull's horns as the qunari adjusts his grip, shifting Dorian over as his other hand rests against the back of his head, big enough to cover it entirely. Dorian is not small or light by any means, but Bull holds him easily with one arm. He is all strength and tenderness, and Dorian adores him for both. His grip firms on Bull's horns and he kisses him again, happy to have the freedom to do so.
"Bull," he murmurs, and steels himself to ask something he's wondered now for some time. "If you could have a family, would you want one?"
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The question startles him enough to make him pause and lift his head. His fingers stroke the back of Dorian's neck and he needs to actually consider the answer.
"Yes," he says after a moment. There's hesitation, like he isn't sure he's allowed to say something like that out loud. "I think so."
There is some part of him that wants to argue that he's had families: his people are his family. The Chargers are (were, in this world) his family. But he knows that isn't what Dorian means.
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It takes a lot, clearly, for Bull to admit to it, but it is the response Dorian had expected. Between their conversation about family, about Bull's existing offspring and watching him with the children, today, it's obvious that it would be something he'd desire, even if he doesn't think he could ever have it.
Dorian, for his part, has mixed feelings. On one hand, he is glad that Bull has admitted this, even just to him. It's so difficult to get him to say that he wants things, especially something so important. On the other, Dorian is given a stark reminder that something Bull desires so deeply isn't something he can ever give him.
"You're allowed, you know," he says softly, reassuringly, as he rubs a hand from Bull's horn down to his cheek, cupping his face tenderly in his palm. He wants this to be about Bull, not himself. "If that is what you want. You deserve it, amatus." Dorian is firmly of the opinion that Bull deserves to have anything he wants--few enough things as it is. "And I know that you would be good at it."
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"It isn't something that can be," he points out quietly. Bull doesn't think Qunari are capable of crossing with humans or anyone else - at least, he's never heard of a half-Qunari child, and the tamassrans don't attempt to cross Viddathari with Qunari. He can't have children with Dorian for other reasons. And he can't think about having a family here, under the Qun.
Still, it is nice to hear that Dorian thinks he could do it.
"But you would be good at it, too," he adds with a small smile. Bull knows well Dorian's anxieties about family, about fathers in particular. But Bull knows he's a better person than Halward, to start, and watching him with the children just now gave more insight.
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He's arranged comfortably over Bull's lap now--as comfortable as he can be, anyway, with his legs stretched across the width of Bull's--and his thumb strokes softly over his face, even as he chuckles at Bull's suggestion. "Me? Hardly. It's been rather the point to avoid having children."
More that it's been the point to avoid living a lie, and children in an obligatory sense was very much a part of that. He never wants to force on anyone what his father did him; the Pavus legacy and the cage that it becomes. But perhaps if that weren't a factor, and if it was with someone he loves--and someone who loves the idea, like Bull--
Impossible, anyway. Dorian leans in to press a gentle kiss to Bull's cheek, softening the sharp, dismissive edge of his words. Just because it is impossible, of course, doesn't mean that they can't play at it, or entertain the idea.
"I only want to make you happy," he says, looking Bull in the eye. "And at the moment, I rather hope what will make you happy is a nice, rough fuck. The way you've been looking at me--" Dorian's lips curl, amusement and encouragement. "I know there's something going through that great horned head of yours."
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But that's hardly anything they need to think about now.
He can't help the laugh that escapes him when Dorian steers the conversation back to what brought them this far in the first place. How could Bull have forgotten, especially now that Dorian's thighs are pressed against him? He gently squeezes the back of the mage's neck and kisses him again.
"How did you know?" he teases, his good eye bright as he starts working Dorian's clothes off. Stripping him from his Ferelden gear is a far cry from getting him out of the clothes he prefers to wear when he has a choice - fewer straps and buckles, for one - but Bull takes just as much pleasure in it. He's managed to find a few things that seem more suited to Dorian's taste, at least.
"I thought I was being subtle."
Bull strokes his fingers along the elegant curve of Dorian's neck, pushing fabric away once he had buttons undone.
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As Bull undresses him, opens the laces on his leggings and gradually devests him of his shirt--slowly, lovingly undoing buttons to reveal dark golden skin by inches--he trails his rough fingers along the line of his neck, just as the other still cradles the back of his head. Dorian's eyes fall closed and he leans into it, still smiling. Such a simple touch, but it makes him ache for something more definite. His hands slide along the length of Bull's horns until he feels them curve upward. His fingertips follow the rest of the way until they trace lightly--carefully--over the sharp points. Strange how familiar the sensation has become. Unexpected, mad. Perfect. His beloved.
He's overcome by a swell of affection so strong that he can't help but lean in to press a warm kiss to Bull's brow. Beneath his lips, deep furrows in the mess of scarred skin above his ruined eye.
"I never should have doubted you," he murmurs. "Bull--"
His thighs squeeze around Bull's with some effort, and he shifts to better settle in his lap. His eyes slide open, grey darkened by the way his pupils gradually expand. "I need you to fuck me," he says, no uncertain terms. "Leave marks. I want everyone to know how well you love me."
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The way Dorian touches him sends desire pooling through him like liquid fire. After that first encounter, Dorian never hesitated again. He reached for what he wanted, touched Bull wherever he pleased - everywhere that Bull let him. And how could he deny Dorian's touch anywhere when he ached for the intimacy it brought? His clever, elegant fingers never hesitated over the deep gouges of scars on his face or the lines of them elsewhere on his body, nor against the stubble of his beard and his hair, both kept shorn. Dorian never balked at the injuries that made him less whole, and in doing so, filled them.
Bull lifts his head to kiss Dorian soundly, fiercely, like he means to erase the apology from his lips and tongue. Dorian owes him nothing, least of all that. He is the one to be faulted for his doubt, not Dorian. Bull holds him closer and, in an surprisingly fluid turn, twists them to pin Dorian to the bed that dominates this part of their small home. A bed fit for a Qunari of Bull's size.
"Kadan," he whispers, sounding reverent. The Qunari have no gods, but Bull would worship this man until the end of his days. He could deny him nothing, not when Dorian spoke his own desire to him.
Bull pulls back only so that he can finish undressing Dorian and himself. He pauses, though, his eye bright.
"Should I keep the ropes on?"
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