Even as Bull kisses him, Dorian feels like his heart is being rent. Bull confirming their friendship--a word Dorian had used himself--shouldn't make him feel like this, but here he is, hurting far more than he ever expected to over this...dalliance with a Qunari spy. He wants more. He's tried to avoid thinking about it up until now, but last night had made it unavoidable. He wants more with Bull, and he'll never have it, and Maker, it hurts.
Still, Bull cares about him. Truly cares. That's something. That is, in a way, more. More than he's ever had, at least.
"There was someone in here?" Instinctively, he shrinks a little further into Bull's side, though he knows they're quite alone now. "Kaffas, why didn't you wake me? I might've put on something to cover my ass, at least."
Bull chuckles quietly. "Your ass was covered. I doubt she even saw you on the other side of me," he assures warmly.
He gives Dorian another soothing kiss and hums quietly.
"She came in to light the fire and replace the water in the basin." With a quiet, content sigh, Bull holds Dorian against him and kisses the top of his head. "Didn't want to wake you for nothing. You were dead asleep."
And if Bull notices the momentary--something--that passed between them, he doesn't acknowledge it. He can't. Whatever he might want, in the end, is irrelevant. The Qun must come first. For all his life to make sense, it must.
"At last, your ridiculous size becomes useful," Dorian grumbles, though he doesn't move away from Bull. Defiantly, he grips the sheet and draws it up further over his body, covering his shoulders. He knows that they'll have to get up soon, but the opportunity to laze about in a huge, soft bed like this with Bull beside him isn't so easily dismissed.
He lets his foot brush Bull's calf again beneath the covers, this time deliberately. He traces the curve of the muscle with his toes, then hooks them around, sliding his thigh over Bull's and pulling himself closer.
"What time is your appointment?" He asks, half dreading the answer. The thought of seeing Vivienne, and of having to sit through several hours with her, her tailor, and Bull being poked and prodded and sized and analyzed, doesn't sit well with him. But he imagines it doesn't sit well with Bull either--which is why he's agreed to accompany him. Moral support, and all that.
"Later this afternoon," he says as Dorian nestles against him. "I don't think she was inclined to be up early, either."
Bull strokes his fingers along Dorian's side, just enjoying the warmth of him against his side. He thinks he could stay here for hours. There's a knock at the door and Bull absently shifts his position to obscure Dorian more as a rather shy maid comes in with a typical Orlesian breakfast spread. Maybe twice as much, given the Bull's size and the fact that there is more than one person that will be eating.
He thanks the girl in Orlesian and she hurries right back out. Bull relaxes back against the headboard with a lazy sigh.
"Mmm, she brought coffee." He saw the pot on the tray, but now the smell starts to waft across the room.
Dorian feels a surge of relief as Bull pulls him closer at the sound of the knock. He buries his face against the Qunari's side as the door opens, only daring to peek up when he hears the sound of trays and glassware being set down. He sees the girl steal a glance toward the bed as Bull thanks her, but doesn't think she sees him, with Bull very much in the way. Still, he breathes a sigh of relief when she finally exits. Dorian doesn't mind others knowing about himself and Bull; it's far too late to pretend otherwise, anyway. But knowing is far less embarrassing than actually being caught in bed together.
The smell of coffee prompts Dorian to sit up, eyeing the steaming pot. "I don't trust coffee in the south," he grumbles. "But one must make do."
He kisses Bull's cheek before he slides out of bed. Naked, he crosses the room and pours two mugs of coffee, adding sugar only to Bull's, before returning to the bed with both.
Bull watches Dorian cross the room; he allows himself to thoroughly enjoy the view as a very naked Dorian Pavus pours him coffee and fixes it the way he likes. That fond look is still in his eye when Dorian returns to him with the mug. Bull accepts his carefully in one hand and the other gently catches Dorian so he can kiss him before releasing him again.
"Thank you. And it isn't so bad in Orlais. They at least have some appreciation for it. Fereldens just make sludge."
He feels the weight of Bull's gaze plainly enough. He counts on it, even, and enjoys it. Dorian does so love to be admired. By his estimation, he's more than earned the kiss that he returns to.
"That much is true," Dorian mutters, and gives the coffee a try. The flavor isn't as robust as he's used to, but it really isn't all that bad. Still, he makes a bit of a face on principle, even as he continues to drink it.
He used to have it much more often back in Tevinter--more often after dinner than in the morning, even. Just another bit of home to miss.
"Bull," he says softly, feeling a bit pensive still--slightly off, after his realization about their future (or lack thereof) together. "What was it like for you, when you first came south? Did you have the faintest idea about how to live among humans and non-Qunari? Or did you have to learn on your own?" He doesn't say: it must have been very lonely. He doesn't say: I think I understand.
Bull looks at his coffee as he considers his answer. Eventually, he gives a small nod of his head, as if granting himself permission.
"I'd lived around humans, elves, and a few dwarves before," he starts. "Viddathari on Seheron. But coming south, ostensibly as Tal-Vashoth was--"
He pauses, either trying to gather his thoughts or lost in the memory for a moment.
"I knew what I had to do," he says at last. "No one really expects even Tal-Vasoth to know how to live among other people, so it gave me some time to adjust. Didn't talk much for the first six months, just getting used to languages I hadn't practiced in some time."
Orlesian, in particular, had required some immersion before Bull felt comfortable speaking it again.
"Day to day things I learned on my own. No one messed with me too much, though they talked. They talked a lot when they thought I only understood every third word."
Though this was a decade ago, Dorian thinks that he can feel Bull's loneliness and frustration from that time lingering even now. He frowns at the idea of humans talking over and around him, thinking him stupid. But he isn't innocent in this matter. If he hadn't known from the outset of their acquaintanceship that Bull was Ben-Hassrath, he might have also believed him to be a huge, muscled simpleton for quite some time. What a mistake that would've been.
"They didn't accept you," Dorian murmurs. "Not remotely." With the hand not holding his mug of coffee, he reaches for Bull's hand, folding their fingers together. "Was there anyone who was kind to you? Who wanted to teach you?" The idea of Bull being entirely by himself is deeply sad. He can imagine what was said about him right in front of him. He can imagine Bull, teaching himself how to behave as a part of non-Qunari society, learning and adapting even as he was largely scorned.
"It still bothers me," he corrects quietly. Part of him can't believe he said it out loud. "But, shok ebasit hissra, Dorian. There is nothing to struggle against. The tide rises, the tide falls, and the sea remains."
The strange loneliness is the worst part. He has built a small family in the Chargers, but it isn't the same as having a people. There is no one in the Inquisition like Bull; there is no one in the Chargers like him. There is no one like him in southern Thedas. Other spies are all Viddathari. And he is not Tal-Vashoth. Bull can't blend in anywhere: he's too big, too noticeable, too Qunari. Even if everyone assumes he's Tal-Vashoth, he still stands out as the biggest one anyone has ever seen.
Dorian, for as Tevinter as he is, could pass unnoticed if he chose to. He could blend in, he could pass as Rivani or Nevarran.
No, for a decade, Bull has existed alone in foreign lands, playing a role.
Dorian has the sense to appreciate the rarity of the vulnerability that Bull chooses to show him now. It breaks his heart to hear him talk this way, but he recognizes it as a show of trust. Bull doesn't let others see what bothers him, and he certainly doesn't tell them about it. The Iron Bull is all about being untouchable; nothing gets to him. To know that it isn't true, to be picked as Bull's confidante, is a great responsibility. He's determined not to fuck it up.
Amatus, he thinks again. It's difficult to stifle as he sets his coffee aside on the bedside table so that he can lay his hand gently against his face. "Bull," he murmurs. "I..."
He what? How is he to finish that thought in a way that won't ruin both of them?
"I am so very glad to know you," he says, with such open honesty that he feels like he's showing some part of himself no one else has ever seen. "And I will always accept you. I do hope you'll remember that." In all his life, he never could have imagined he would be saying such things to a Qunari. But strangely, that only makes them more clearly true. They aren't based on some preconception, some idealization of a bond he'd hoped to have one day, but on feelings that have developed organically and strengthened on their own. He appreciates Bull not because he is anything like what he ever expected to want, but because Bull is so uniquely himself.
This is entirely foolish, and his pronunciation is probably terrible, but Dorian pulls from his mind a phrase that has stuck there since Bull had recited it to him in the Hissing Wastes. He'd gone over it again and again after that, even going so far as to look it up again himself to be sure he had it right. His voice is barely above a whisper. "Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. You are exactly as you should be, Bull."
Ridiculous--a Tevinter Altus reciting the Qun to his Ben-Hassrath lover. But perhaps this part of the Qun can be true, at least.
"Thank you," he says quietly. The sincerity is heavy in his voice and he turns his head to press a kiss to Dorian's palm. And then Dorian recites a part of the Qun to him and Bull closes his eye. His hand reaches up to cover Dorian's hand with his own.
"Kadan," he murmurs. That's all and he offers no translation.
Bull lifts his head and pulls Dorian down into a tender kiss. He lingers, then gives the mage a gentle push.
"Come on. Breakfast. Otherwise we'll be late and Vivienne while have my very considerable hide for new boots."
The Bull speaks only a few words in response, but Dorian feels the significance in each of them like a physical weight--not burdens placed on him by someone else, but responsibilities he wants. An honor bestowed. He's never heard Bull speak that particular Qunlat word before, not in all his guttural dirty talk during sex or sweet nothings after. There's a particular rhythm to it, and a clear significance. But Bull provides no translation, and Dorian doesn't ask. If he wanted him to know what it meant, he'd say so.
The kiss that follows is so gentle and sweet that Dorian lingers for a moment afterward, touched. It's no wonder he's fallen so deeply for this man. Whether or not it's true in the way he might want--and it can't be, surely--he feels loved.
The spell is broken soon enough, which is probably for the best. "And your horns for a hat," Dorian points out, still chuckling when he concedes to Bull's prompting and slips out of bed again, still not wearing a stitch. He retrieves his coffee from the night table and nurses it between both hands. "I'm still feeling quite exhausted from our efforts last night," he laments. "The only recourse is for you to hand feed me berry tarts and little scones while wearing even less clothing than you normally do."
Bull chuckles quietly. "Get back in bed, then. Or bring the tray over and then settle in. I'll make sure you don't starve."
Whatever had passed between them wasn't gone, but it was a strange relief to be able to move away from it. Bull doesn't know what will happen if or when he decides to examine those feelings more closely. He called Dorian kadan, like he's called Krem before, and yet nothing like the way he's used the word with Krem. The little Vint is his comrade, his friend, his second-in-command. Of course Bull cares about him, very deeply even. But the way he feels for Dorian is entirely different.
Bull finds himself grateful that they will have a distraction for the rest of the afternoon.
That is exactly what Dorian does, and they spend the next half hour chatting and laughing together as Bull attempts to feed Dorian every kind of food on the breakfast tray, to varying degrees of success. By the time they make themselves get out of bed, there are definitely crumbs on the comforter.
Possibly only by the Maker's grace, they are properly washed and dressed by the time Vivienne does arrive at their door, knocking promptly at noon with two sharp raps of her knuckles. "Are you decent, my dears?" She speaks through the door. "I should hope so, as your appointment is in less than an hour."
Frowning just a little, Dorian stalks to the door and opens it himself, just to prove that they haven't spent all morning fucking off--just most of it.
"Good afternoon, Vivienne," he greets as she sweeps into the room, cool and confident and impeccably put together as ever. "I understand if it's a nuisance, but I wonder if I might--"
"--accompany myself and the Bull to his appointment? Of course, darling. I expected it." She says it so dismissively, even as Dorian's brow furrows.
"Did you?"
"Why should I not? As his paramour and a proponent of fashion yourself, I thought you might provide some insight of value."
"I--well, one of those things is true, at least," is what Dorian manages, baffled and a bit dazed to hear that word aloud, referring to the two of them as though it's a given. This is what other people really think about them?
"Indeed," Vivienne agrees airily. "Now that you share a room, it's obvious to anyone."
"No," Dorian huffs, "I meant--vishante kaffas, we do not share a room!"
But Vivienne's response to that is merely an artfully arched brow and a sweeping turn away from Dorian towards the Bull. "I trust you are prepared to face the seamster's fussing for a few hours, Bull dear?"
Bull listen's with a faint smile, and he doesn't let it fall when Dorian' insists that they aren't what she says they are. No, they don't share a room at Skyhold, per se. But they're with each other often enough that they might as well.
Or not.
He finishes pulling his boots on, then carefully adjusts his brace.
"Yes, ma'am," he answers when she addresses him. He likes Vivienne: she makes sense to him, fits a mold that already exists in his head. And having a tamassran at that moment offers him some comfort.
He gets up with a quiet grunt and adjusts his eye patch.
"If I can handle getting fitted for armor, I can manage a tailor."
Notable that Bull hadn't reacted to Dorian's little back-and-forth with Vivienne at all. Does he truly not care if others think they're something they aren't? That's probably a stupid thing to wonder; of course he doesn't. They've talked about this before. But Dorian cares. If they aren't together, why shouldn't he correct people when they assume that they are? If he doesn't, he'll truly look the fool when Bull moves on without much fanfare, or takes someone else to his bed, or--
That line of thought drains his previous good mood very quickly, and so he makes every effort to put it aside.
"I am glad that your view is so pragmatic," Vivienne says, a hint of approval in her tone just as there always is when the Bull says something she agrees with. Dorian finds the way she treats him a bit patronizing, but Bull seems to feel otherwise, which is what really matters. Something about her reminding him of a tamassran. Dorian doesn't particularly want to know more than that. "What one wears to appear at court is armor of another sort, and must be crafted with equal care," she continues loftily, and though Dorian actually agrees with the sentiment, he nearly rolls his eyes anyway. There are times, admittedly, when he gets along well with Vivienne. At others, he finds her insufferable. There's little doubt that she thinks much the same of him.
But she does care about Bull in her way, so Dorian will do his best tolerate her today, just as she seems to be doing. Perhaps this could even prove enjoyable.
She tells them that she'll be expecting both of them downstairs in fifteen minutes, and as she's very much in charge of this whole production, Dorian doesn't argue. When she leaves, he turns to Bull with a tentative smile. "I hope you know I'm doing this for your sake," he says, "and I'll expect repayment in some form in due time."
Bull has a deep appreciation for who Vivienne is as a person and how she conducts herself; he understands her, even if they don't always share a view point. And he finds himself grateful for the way she takes charge - including the way she takes charge of him. She seems to recognize the need for it and, in her role, it suits her. It feels as natural to defer to her as it does to any other tamassran in his life.
When she leaves, Bull looks at Dorian.
"I know." He wants to offer Dorian a way out, wants to tell him that he doesn't have to come. But he also doesn't want to cheapen Dorian's offer by saying it. He offers a warm smile. "You can name any repayment you want."
Kadan.
Bull makes his way to Dorian and gently cradles his face, holding him still for a tender kiss.
Dorian is relieved when Bull smiles at him, a warm, bubbly feeling filling his chest when those huge hands cradle his face so that Bull can kiss him. Nothing's amiss, then.
"You may regret that offer," he teases quietly afterward, smiling softly even as he brushes another kiss to Bull's lips. His hands rest at his waist, fingers hooking under the wide belt there, tethering them together. "You'll be rubbing my feet for a month." As though Bull wouldn't do that on request anyway.
"Never," he says warmly as he strokes his thumbs over Dorian's cheeks. He grins at the suggested service. "I'll even paint your toes."
Bull leans down to kiss Dorian again. He lingers long enough to make them both breathless, but not so long that he starts getting too many ideas regarding what can be accomplished in fifteen minutes.
They make it downstairs unruffled and Bull dutifully follows Dorian and Vivenne through the familiar streets to the appointment. Bull ducks and turns his head to make it through the door without hitting his horns on the frame. At least the ceilings inside are much higher.
By the time they make it back downstairs, Dorian's mood is again much improved. Flirting and kissing will do that. What he feels for Bull is very much still on his mind, but so is his decision to just let things play out as they are. He's happy. Certainly, things could be better, but he's happy for now. That's enough.
He chats with Vivienne as they make their way to the shop, a surprisingly quaint looking two-story building with huge glass windows that let in as much of the early afternoon sunlight as possible. He turns just in time to see the Bull angle himself to get through the doorway, and considers for a moment how much he really takes for granted.
Vivienne speaks with the tailor, who immediately offers all of them wine--which Dorian, of course, accepts--and directs them to sit in the comfortably furnished front area while she fetches the mock-up she'd drafted to Vivienne's specifications. To her credit, she doesn't seem surprised that her client is a Qunari; but Vivienne had certainly informed her ahead of time. And honestly, who else would have measurements like that? The mages sit on either side of Bull on a long, plush sofa, and Dorian swirls the wine in his glass idly as he looks up at Bull sidelong, smiling.
"I can't wait to see the size of this jacket," he says. "Have you ever had to wear one before, Bull?"
Bull is surprised to see the main color - white - and he finds himself wondering if Vivienne intervened with Josephine to make styling choices. He can hear it now: something that will stand out, darling, but something dignified.
Bull gets up when the seamstress gestures for him to do so and he looks back at Dorian ruefully.
"When I'm cold enough," he huffs, though there's a smile tugging at his scarred mouth. "Nothing like this. Chargers don't get invited to a lot of soirees."
"This isn't the final product, of course," the tailor is saying as she directs Bull to stretch his arms back so that she can help him slide them into the jacket. She's far too short to actually help him put it over his shoulders. "The fabric you chose, Madame de Fer, will look much brighter--"
"I should hope so," Vivienne cuts in. "The sheen on this isn't nearly what I'd imagined."
Dorian hears the conversation, but he's so focused on Bull that he doesn't bother weighing in. He grins, chuckling softly. "Bull, didn't you tell me only last night that you went to an employer's party with Cremisius and Rocky? Were you bare chested there? Truly?"
Bull looks over his shoulder and gives Dorian a smirk. "Of course I was. Had to make an impression."
It what their patron wanted, in the end. They wanted to show off the brutal mercenaries they'd hired, and, that night, Krem had been the most civilized of the bunch. Bull is good at playing his part and sometimes he quite enjoys himself.
"Do you think they really would have wanted me all dressed up?"
"I wouldn't presume to know what anyone wants when they hire you." Dorian doesn't laugh aloud, but his eyes are dancing with it, and he brings his wineglass to his lips. It's the finest vintage he's had in months, truthfully, but he's thinking more about Bull--about the smirk on his lips and the way the fabric of the jacket draws tight across his shoulders when it settles there.
The seamstress--presumably standing in front of Bull, though Dorian can't see her--gives an annoyed huff as she apparently tries to pull the jacket closed. "Your shoulders weren't supposed to be this wide," she grumbles, and Dorian couldn't disagree more. The way the Bull's shoulders look now--Maker, he wouldn't trade them for anything.
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Still, Bull cares about him. Truly cares. That's something. That is, in a way, more. More than he's ever had, at least.
"There was someone in here?" Instinctively, he shrinks a little further into Bull's side, though he knows they're quite alone now. "Kaffas, why didn't you wake me? I might've put on something to cover my ass, at least."
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He gives Dorian another soothing kiss and hums quietly.
"She came in to light the fire and replace the water in the basin." With a quiet, content sigh, Bull holds Dorian against him and kisses the top of his head. "Didn't want to wake you for nothing. You were dead asleep."
And if Bull notices the momentary--something--that passed between them, he doesn't acknowledge it. He can't. Whatever he might want, in the end, is irrelevant. The Qun must come first. For all his life to make sense, it must.
But he can't stop wanting.
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He lets his foot brush Bull's calf again beneath the covers, this time deliberately. He traces the curve of the muscle with his toes, then hooks them around, sliding his thigh over Bull's and pulling himself closer.
"What time is your appointment?" He asks, half dreading the answer. The thought of seeing Vivienne, and of having to sit through several hours with her, her tailor, and Bull being poked and prodded and sized and analyzed, doesn't sit well with him. But he imagines it doesn't sit well with Bull either--which is why he's agreed to accompany him. Moral support, and all that.
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Bull strokes his fingers along Dorian's side, just enjoying the warmth of him against his side. He thinks he could stay here for hours. There's a knock at the door and Bull absently shifts his position to obscure Dorian more as a rather shy maid comes in with a typical Orlesian breakfast spread. Maybe twice as much, given the Bull's size and the fact that there is more than one person that will be eating.
He thanks the girl in Orlesian and she hurries right back out. Bull relaxes back against the headboard with a lazy sigh.
"Mmm, she brought coffee." He saw the pot on the tray, but now the smell starts to waft across the room.
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The smell of coffee prompts Dorian to sit up, eyeing the steaming pot. "I don't trust coffee in the south," he grumbles. "But one must make do."
He kisses Bull's cheek before he slides out of bed. Naked, he crosses the room and pours two mugs of coffee, adding sugar only to Bull's, before returning to the bed with both.
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"Thank you. And it isn't so bad in Orlais. They at least have some appreciation for it. Fereldens just make sludge."
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"That much is true," Dorian mutters, and gives the coffee a try. The flavor isn't as robust as he's used to, but it really isn't all that bad. Still, he makes a bit of a face on principle, even as he continues to drink it.
He used to have it much more often back in Tevinter--more often after dinner than in the morning, even. Just another bit of home to miss.
"Bull," he says softly, feeling a bit pensive still--slightly off, after his realization about their future (or lack thereof) together. "What was it like for you, when you first came south? Did you have the faintest idea about how to live among humans and non-Qunari? Or did you have to learn on your own?" He doesn't say: it must have been very lonely. He doesn't say: I think I understand.
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"I'd lived around humans, elves, and a few dwarves before," he starts. "Viddathari on Seheron. But coming south, ostensibly as Tal-Vashoth was--"
He pauses, either trying to gather his thoughts or lost in the memory for a moment.
"I knew what I had to do," he says at last. "No one really expects even Tal-Vasoth to know how to live among other people, so it gave me some time to adjust. Didn't talk much for the first six months, just getting used to languages I hadn't practiced in some time."
Orlesian, in particular, had required some immersion before Bull felt comfortable speaking it again.
"Day to day things I learned on my own. No one messed with me too much, though they talked. They talked a lot when they thought I only understood every third word."
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"They didn't accept you," Dorian murmurs. "Not remotely." With the hand not holding his mug of coffee, he reaches for Bull's hand, folding their fingers together. "Was there anyone who was kind to you? Who wanted to teach you?" The idea of Bull being entirely by himself is deeply sad. He can imagine what was said about him right in front of him. He can imagine Bull, teaching himself how to behave as a part of non-Qunari society, learning and adapting even as he was largely scorned.
He knows how it feels, at least in part.
"Did it bother you?" He wonders softly.
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The strange loneliness is the worst part. He has built a small family in the Chargers, but it isn't the same as having a people. There is no one in the Inquisition like Bull; there is no one in the Chargers like him. There is no one like him in southern Thedas. Other spies are all Viddathari. And he is not Tal-Vashoth. Bull can't blend in anywhere: he's too big, too noticeable, too Qunari. Even if everyone assumes he's Tal-Vashoth, he still stands out as the biggest one anyone has ever seen.
Dorian, for as Tevinter as he is, could pass unnoticed if he chose to. He could blend in, he could pass as Rivani or Nevarran.
No, for a decade, Bull has existed alone in foreign lands, playing a role.
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Amatus, he thinks again. It's difficult to stifle as he sets his coffee aside on the bedside table so that he can lay his hand gently against his face. "Bull," he murmurs. "I..."
He what? How is he to finish that thought in a way that won't ruin both of them?
"I am so very glad to know you," he says, with such open honesty that he feels like he's showing some part of himself no one else has ever seen. "And I will always accept you. I do hope you'll remember that." In all his life, he never could have imagined he would be saying such things to a Qunari. But strangely, that only makes them more clearly true. They aren't based on some preconception, some idealization of a bond he'd hoped to have one day, but on feelings that have developed organically and strengthened on their own. He appreciates Bull not because he is anything like what he ever expected to want, but because Bull is so uniquely himself.
This is entirely foolish, and his pronunciation is probably terrible, but Dorian pulls from his mind a phrase that has stuck there since Bull had recited it to him in the Hissing Wastes. He'd gone over it again and again after that, even going so far as to look it up again himself to be sure he had it right. His voice is barely above a whisper. "Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. You are exactly as you should be, Bull."
Ridiculous--a Tevinter Altus reciting the Qun to his Ben-Hassrath lover. But perhaps this part of the Qun can be true, at least.
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"Thank you," he says quietly. The sincerity is heavy in his voice and he turns his head to press a kiss to Dorian's palm. And then Dorian recites a part of the Qun to him and Bull closes his eye. His hand reaches up to cover Dorian's hand with his own.
"Kadan," he murmurs. That's all and he offers no translation.
Bull lifts his head and pulls Dorian down into a tender kiss. He lingers, then gives the mage a gentle push.
"Come on. Breakfast. Otherwise we'll be late and Vivienne while have my very considerable hide for new boots."
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The kiss that follows is so gentle and sweet that Dorian lingers for a moment afterward, touched. It's no wonder he's fallen so deeply for this man. Whether or not it's true in the way he might want--and it can't be, surely--he feels loved.
The spell is broken soon enough, which is probably for the best. "And your horns for a hat," Dorian points out, still chuckling when he concedes to Bull's prompting and slips out of bed again, still not wearing a stitch. He retrieves his coffee from the night table and nurses it between both hands. "I'm still feeling quite exhausted from our efforts last night," he laments. "The only recourse is for you to hand feed me berry tarts and little scones while wearing even less clothing than you normally do."
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Whatever had passed between them wasn't gone, but it was a strange relief to be able to move away from it. Bull doesn't know what will happen if or when he decides to examine those feelings more closely. He called Dorian kadan, like he's called Krem before, and yet nothing like the way he's used the word with Krem. The little Vint is his comrade, his friend, his second-in-command. Of course Bull cares about him, very deeply even. But the way he feels for Dorian is entirely different.
Bull finds himself grateful that they will have a distraction for the rest of the afternoon.
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Possibly only by the Maker's grace, they are properly washed and dressed by the time Vivienne does arrive at their door, knocking promptly at noon with two sharp raps of her knuckles. "Are you decent, my dears?" She speaks through the door. "I should hope so, as your appointment is in less than an hour."
Frowning just a little, Dorian stalks to the door and opens it himself, just to prove that they haven't spent all morning fucking off--just most of it.
"Good afternoon, Vivienne," he greets as she sweeps into the room, cool and confident and impeccably put together as ever. "I understand if it's a nuisance, but I wonder if I might--"
"--accompany myself and the Bull to his appointment? Of course, darling. I expected it." She says it so dismissively, even as Dorian's brow furrows.
"Did you?"
"Why should I not? As his paramour and a proponent of fashion yourself, I thought you might provide some insight of value."
"I--well, one of those things is true, at least," is what Dorian manages, baffled and a bit dazed to hear that word aloud, referring to the two of them as though it's a given. This is what other people really think about them?
"Indeed," Vivienne agrees airily. "Now that you share a room, it's obvious to anyone."
"No," Dorian huffs, "I meant--vishante kaffas, we do not share a room!"
But Vivienne's response to that is merely an artfully arched brow and a sweeping turn away from Dorian towards the Bull. "I trust you are prepared to face the seamster's fussing for a few hours, Bull dear?"
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Or not.
He finishes pulling his boots on, then carefully adjusts his brace.
"Yes, ma'am," he answers when she addresses him. He likes Vivienne: she makes sense to him, fits a mold that already exists in his head. And having a tamassran at that moment offers him some comfort.
He gets up with a quiet grunt and adjusts his eye patch.
"If I can handle getting fitted for armor, I can manage a tailor."
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That line of thought drains his previous good mood very quickly, and so he makes every effort to put it aside.
"I am glad that your view is so pragmatic," Vivienne says, a hint of approval in her tone just as there always is when the Bull says something she agrees with. Dorian finds the way she treats him a bit patronizing, but Bull seems to feel otherwise, which is what really matters. Something about her reminding him of a tamassran. Dorian doesn't particularly want to know more than that. "What one wears to appear at court is armor of another sort, and must be crafted with equal care," she continues loftily, and though Dorian actually agrees with the sentiment, he nearly rolls his eyes anyway. There are times, admittedly, when he gets along well with Vivienne. At others, he finds her insufferable. There's little doubt that she thinks much the same of him.
But she does care about Bull in her way, so Dorian will do his best tolerate her today, just as she seems to be doing. Perhaps this could even prove enjoyable.
She tells them that she'll be expecting both of them downstairs in fifteen minutes, and as she's very much in charge of this whole production, Dorian doesn't argue. When she leaves, he turns to Bull with a tentative smile. "I hope you know I'm doing this for your sake," he says, "and I'll expect repayment in some form in due time."
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When she leaves, Bull looks at Dorian.
"I know." He wants to offer Dorian a way out, wants to tell him that he doesn't have to come. But he also doesn't want to cheapen Dorian's offer by saying it. He offers a warm smile. "You can name any repayment you want."
Kadan.
Bull makes his way to Dorian and gently cradles his face, holding him still for a tender kiss.
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"You may regret that offer," he teases quietly afterward, smiling softly even as he brushes another kiss to Bull's lips. His hands rest at his waist, fingers hooking under the wide belt there, tethering them together. "You'll be rubbing my feet for a month." As though Bull wouldn't do that on request anyway.
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Bull leans down to kiss Dorian again. He lingers long enough to make them both breathless, but not so long that he starts getting too many ideas regarding what can be accomplished in fifteen minutes.
They make it downstairs unruffled and Bull dutifully follows Dorian and Vivenne through the familiar streets to the appointment. Bull ducks and turns his head to make it through the door without hitting his horns on the frame. At least the ceilings inside are much higher.
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He chats with Vivienne as they make their way to the shop, a surprisingly quaint looking two-story building with huge glass windows that let in as much of the early afternoon sunlight as possible. He turns just in time to see the Bull angle himself to get through the doorway, and considers for a moment how much he really takes for granted.
Vivienne speaks with the tailor, who immediately offers all of them wine--which Dorian, of course, accepts--and directs them to sit in the comfortably furnished front area while she fetches the mock-up she'd drafted to Vivienne's specifications. To her credit, she doesn't seem surprised that her client is a Qunari; but Vivienne had certainly informed her ahead of time. And honestly, who else would have measurements like that? The mages sit on either side of Bull on a long, plush sofa, and Dorian swirls the wine in his glass idly as he looks up at Bull sidelong, smiling.
"I can't wait to see the size of this jacket," he says. "Have you ever had to wear one before, Bull?"
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Bull gets up when the seamstress gestures for him to do so and he looks back at Dorian ruefully.
"When I'm cold enough," he huffs, though there's a smile tugging at his scarred mouth. "Nothing like this. Chargers don't get invited to a lot of soirees."
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"I should hope so," Vivienne cuts in. "The sheen on this isn't nearly what I'd imagined."
Dorian hears the conversation, but he's so focused on Bull that he doesn't bother weighing in. He grins, chuckling softly. "Bull, didn't you tell me only last night that you went to an employer's party with Cremisius and Rocky? Were you bare chested there? Truly?"
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It what their patron wanted, in the end. They wanted to show off the brutal mercenaries they'd hired, and, that night, Krem had been the most civilized of the bunch. Bull is good at playing his part and sometimes he quite enjoys himself.
"Do you think they really would have wanted me all dressed up?"
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The seamstress--presumably standing in front of Bull, though Dorian can't see her--gives an annoyed huff as she apparently tries to pull the jacket closed. "Your shoulders weren't supposed to be this wide," she grumbles, and Dorian couldn't disagree more. The way the Bull's shoulders look now--Maker, he wouldn't trade them for anything.
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