Bull can hear the nerves, too. His eyes are thunderhead grey and it takes him a moment to fully register what Dorian says. His hand slides along Dorian's jaw and cheek as the mage steps close, putting himself into Bull's space to good effect: it's enough to draw him out of his thoughts.
But it is not enough to put his mind at ease.
"If you haven't eaten, yes."
He is not particularly hungry, though he knows he should eat when it's offered. It's an old habit, old wisdom: never know when his next meal might be, especially in a place like Skyhold where interruptions abound. His thumb strokes across Dorian's cheek before Bull drops his hand and gently pulls away from Dorian's hand. He's been turning this moment over in his mind. There is no hiding that something happened out there in the training yard, but how much should he share, and with whom? The Inquisitor knows, of course, and in short order Leliana, Cassandra, and Cullen are all likely to be informed. Why shouldn't Dorian know?
Bull sits down on the edge of the big bed and stretches his leg out. The question Dorian isn't asking is palpable.
"It was a letter from the Ben-Hassrath."
That alone isn't news: Bull gets letters from Ben-Hassrath agents all the time. Though there's something in the way he says it this time: the Ben-Hassrath.
That Bull reaches for him in return is only a momentary relief. He's still distressingly unreadable. Dorian murmurs something about sending for food soon as he moves out of the way to let Bull pass, watching him seat himself heavily on the bed. Dorian hovers uncertainly near the door until Bull speaks again.
The Ben-Hassrath. He'd guessed as much. What else could it be? His steps are so light that he almost drifts to the bed, standing rather than sitting.
"You receive a fair few of those. I've imagined you must be exceedingly popular as spies go," he remarks with continued false levity. He's seen them himself more than once, though it had satisfied none of his curiosity; the code was utterly indecipherable.
He hesitates to reach out again only because it's become so difficult to tell if that's wanted. Would Bull prefer space? Does he want some Vint here asking about this at all?
But no, he reminds himself, he isn't just some Vint. He and the Bull have shared too much now for that, surely. "Something is different about this one, yes?"
Bull is quiet as Dorian closes the space between them again. He reaches to take one of Dorian's hands in his own and rubs his thumb over the familiar lines.
"The Qunari are proposing an alliance with the Inquisition."
Despite having said it once already today, the weight behind those words feels impossible. It's unheard of. It's absolutely unprecedented. The Qunari don't make alliances, don't offer them, and they certainly aren't known for compromise or sharing information. Bull being in the Inquisition is about as close as he thought they'd ever get to something like this, and even then, it's not entirely what anyone thinks it is.
He lifts his gaze to meet Dorian's, quiet and serious. There's something weighing on him beyond the fact that this is unheard of. Something nagging at his mind that he can't quite let go of. But he hasn't fully fleshed out the thought yet, either, and so he keeps it to himself.
Of all the things the Bull could have said that Dorian might have expected--or dreaded--that one hadn't been remotely near the top of the list. In fact, it hadn't been on the list at all, as it sounds ridiculously far-fetched. The Qun has never made an alliance with anyone. Surprise flashes across his face, open and obvious.
Dorian's fingers grasp at Bull's hand. If it seems ridiculous to him, it must seem impossible to Bull. Yet the way he says it is so grave, so certain, and the way he looks up at Dorian is just as heavy.
"I had no idea that they could--that you could do that," he says, still sounding incredulous. But questioning the situation, as it is, will do nothing for the Bull. And that is his priority. Dorian reaches for him with his other hand, bringing it up to cradle the familiar line of his jaw in his palm. His voice lowers, becomes even and serious the way it does when he's problem-solving.
"A heavy blow to the back of the head," he grumbles softly. It's not a good or helpful answer, but it is the one on the tip of his tongue. Bull sighs and tips his head into Dorian's warm touch. For a moment, that's all he does. He lets himself take some comfort - comfort he should not let himself have - in the familiar touch.
Everything could change. Everything has changed.
He lifts his head slowly and his gaze meets Dorian's.
"I need more information," he says at last. The offer is coming through the Ben-Hassrath, which strikes him as strange, but some part of him doesn't dare question why. An alliance makes things more complicated in ways Bull wasn't anticipating. It would also make some things easier: his presence, for one. But everyone already assumes he's Tal-Vashoth and that suits him.
Suddenly, Bull feels the weight of his years in his bones. He feels tired. He feels afraid. But he keeps it all to himself. He must. He cannot doubt. Shok ebasit hissra.
More information would be nice, but Dorian imagines that if they've been vague even with Bull, that must be deliberate. His thumb rubs at Bull's cheek, scratching through his stubble. It's strange to see him so uncertain. Bull always seems to know what to do. But not now.
Though he would never claim to understand the full implications for Bull, Dorian can imagine a few of the worries an alliance--or the rejection of a proposed alliance--might bring. It's a disruption to the Bull's entire life here, whichever way it goes. But he wants to understand better, to do whatever he can to make this process easier for him.
He assumes the Inquisitor hasn't yet indicated a decision one way or the other; Bull would have mentioned it if so. She'll likely be talking about this with her advisors long into the night. What he can do for Bull right now is to talk through this with him, and help him prepare.
"Everything that could go wrong. Everything that could go right."
He's being vague and he's doing it on purpose. There are things he can't tell Dorian. He isn't about to fall for a honeypot (even as his mind hisses that it's an uncharitable thing to consider Dorian) and he can't let himself spill any details. He nuzzles Dorian's hand and presses a kiss to his palm.
"I'm alright," he says at last. "Just took me by surprise, and you know how I feel about surprises."
Dorian's lips fold down at the corners, tightening. He can tell when he's being brushed off, even when Bull does it like this. He'd be a fool to believe that he's all right. But he knows this impulse all too well: to minimize and dismiss the things that really bother him. To not show that weakness or uncertainty even to those he's allowed close. He does it all the time. How often has he done the same to Bull, even? There are a hundred things that have hurt and confused and startled him that he doesn't wish to discuss. Ever.
"You don't want to talk about it," he murmurs, unaccusatory as he can. "I understand. Just..."
He shakes his head, and leans in to kiss the corner of Bull's mouth without finishing his thought aloud.
Bull catches Dorian's wrist to keep him from pulling away too soon. His other hand lifts, gently holding the mage's chin so that Bull can kiss him. There's an apology there, an apology that he cannot, right this moment, say more. Maybe he won't ever. But the way he compartmentalizes his life--
Has everything to do with Dorian. With his sanity. With the way he needs to work if he is to function at all. There are things he will take to the grave, most likely. And who knows how near or far that may be?
He eases back and brushes his thumb along Dorian's pulse.
As mollifying as the kiss is, there's a part of Dorian that isn't willing to relent. This is something huge for Bull, and it grates that he isn't being trusted to help him navigate it, after all they've shared. It's a hypocritical feeling, to be certain, when he himself resists opening up at every turn. Recognizing this for once, he doesn't push further. He returns Bull's kiss, and allows him his silence on the matter.
For now, at least.
"I think Sera will leave something awful in our boots tonight if we don't go and eat with her," he says. If there's anything that might serve as an actual distraction from heavier thoughts, it's time spent with Sera.
Bull chuckles and carefully gets to his feet. He tips his head down to kiss Dorian's hair. "Thank you," he murmurs. For letting him retreat, for staying with him anyway.
Down in the tavern, Bull is his usual self. Engaged and engaging, boisterous and bright. He has no trouble keeping up with Sera and, not for a second, does he let on the possibility that something else might be going on beneath the surface. Throughout lunch, the surface is all there is. And no one else seems any the wiser for it.
When it's over, Bull is keen to retreat back to his room and he murmurs a quiet invitation to Dorian before he heads that way.
What can Dorian do but follow? It had been intriguing and somewhat disconcerting to watch Bull at lunch, knowing something was bothering him but not being able to see it. If he hadn't already been aware, he would be none the wiser. How often has Bull pretended--effectively--to be completely fine when he was really hurting?
When they're alone again, he hesitates by the closed door. It's a rare situation in which Dorian can't form words, but he has no idea what to say. Is he supposed to act as though everything is all right, still? Can he try to broach the topic again?
After a little thinking, he determines that were he in Bull's situation, he would want to be treated normally. So he goes to the desk and picks up the book on top of a pile balanced on the corner--all his. "I presume you have some letters to write," he says lightly. "Shall I read aloud while you do?"
He likes listening to Dorian read. He takes comfort in the familiarity and intimacy of it, and it will help him keep his thoughts in order as he sends off a few letters. There aren't very many to write: he needs to wait for more information first. But he wants to reach out to some of his contacts, to see if they will tell him what they've heard, if anything.
Bull sits in bed, letting his left leg stretch out as he picks up his writing desk and rests it on his lap.
A smile flickers across Dorian's lips. He takes his place beside Bull on the bed, sitting up against the headboard with the book spread across his lap. Shoulder to shoulder, and once they're both settled, he flips to the page he'd last left off on and begins to ead.
It's a magical text, so probably a dull subject for Bull, but that makes it ideal to read while he's doing something else. He makes notes for himself as he reads, which occasionally necessitates pausing while he scribbles something onto a separate sheet of paper before he continues.
Passing time this way is familiar and easy, and Bull is finished with his writing before Dorian is finished with the chapter.
When he finishes, Bull puts his writing desk away. He'll send the letters later; for right now, he's content to listen to Dorian read. He sinks down until his back is flat to the bed, his bolster pillow comfortably under his neck.
He wants nothing more than to let this be his reality for a while. Nothing outside of this room, nothing beyond Dorian's voice and the warmth of his body.
"Stay with me tonight."
He rarely asks anymore, if only because it seems to be a given that Dorian will sleep in his bed. But he wants to ask now.
Bull's voice breaks Dorian's concentration. He looks up from the page he'd been reading, glancing beside him to where Bull has laid down, just listening. He feels something in his chest clench tight as he looks down at him. A hand raises to slide his parchment into the book, marking his page, then to close the cover.
It's been some time since Bull has asked him to stay. Perhaps he's never even used those words exactly. Dorian's gaze is soft, and he leans down to press a kiss to Bull's brow.
Bull reaches up to pull Dorian down further until he can meet him in a kiss. There is some part of him filled with anxiety over what this all means, and what it will mean for his immediate future. He shouldn't be taking so much comfort in Dorian's presence, in their bond. But how can he not, when Dorian has been such a rock?
"Good," he rumbles quietly. He can have tonight. Anything after this is uncertain. "Will you help me out of my brace?"
It's still afternoon, but Bull has no intention of going anywhere for the rest of the day; if Dorian has obligations, Bull will be waiting here for him.
The book slides out of Dorian's lap and onto the bed as Bull tugs him down into a kiss. He braces a hand on the pillow beside Bull's horn and takes another kiss for himself, lingering for a moment before he pushes himself back up.
"Of course," he says, and swings his legs from the side of the bed, passing around to Bull's side. "Sit up, then."
There isn't anything so pressing for him to do today that he'll leave Bull's side.
Bull runs his hand over Dorian's back before he pushes himself up to sit again. He rests his back against the headboard and sits still so that Dorian can work. He's been all over Skyhold today. It's hardly the worse he's done on this leg but he still feels it. The cold makes him feel stiff anymore.
"Thank you," he says quietly, and the way he says it suggests that he isn't just grateful that he has Dorian to help him get the brace off.
While Dorian can identify the loaded meaning behind the thanks the Bull gives him as he performs the now familiar task of removing his brace, he acknowledges it with merely a nod and a smile. They'll talk about it, he decides, when Bull is ready to do so. In the meantime, he's promised not to go anywhere.
"There," he says with satisfaction as he slides the brace away from Bull's leg, setting it in its usual place beside the bed to be put on again in the morning.
Without being asked, he rolls up the leg of Bull's pants past his knee, draws heat to his hand, and begins to massage the areas he knows tend to ache the most after Bull spends a day on his feet. Mitigating his physical pain is the least he can do for him now.
Bull breathes a sigh of relief as the brace comes off. He helps to get his boots off and then Dorian is rolling up his pants. He groans quietly and leans back again as heat sinks through his knee. Bull's head bumps against the wall and he relaxes as Dorian works. This is one of his favorite parts of the day, when they have time and space to do it. This gentle ritual that relieves the chronic pain that Bull has lived with for years. Most days he's alright, but he will never be completely hale again.
"What would you think if Tevinter suddenly reached out to the Inquisition?" he asks after a moment.
Dorian takes his time on Bull's knee, making sure the heat from his hands sinks in deep. He's done this so often that it's now almost routine, and his fingers remember what to do without having to consciously direct them.
Which is good, because the question Bull asks takes up most of his attention.
"I'd be expecting a knife in the back," he answers almost immediately. "My country doesn't make alliances. Far too much pride for that. We've always handled our own affairs, and let the south rot." Bitterness and contempt are heavy on Dorian's tongue.
He probably should have guessed that, whatever answer Dorian gave him, it would be tinged with contempt. Bull reaches to stroke his fingers down Dorian's arm.
"The Qunari don't either," he says quietly. "They conquer."
Whatever Bull feels about the way his people handle things is - or should be - irrelevant. But for more than ten years, they have been over there. No real interest in mustering an invasion, no real effort to push back into the south the way they had before. He'd let himself think there was safety in that.
Dorian's lips press into a thinner line as Bull voices his thoughts aloud--the first thought that had occurred to Dorian earlier. His hands continue their work, massaging down from Bull's knee along his calf, where the muscle takes a lot of strain.
"That is generally my impression as well. I am from Qarinus." The jewel of the eastern Imperium, and as such a regular target of Qunari raids.
He falls quiet for a moment, considering things like similarities and differences, their northern homelands, and the circumstances that have led them here. "You know, it's an incredible stroke of luck that we were able to meet." There's no need to elaborate on why; their nations have been at war for a hundred years or more. Natural enemies. Even Dorian had thought as much when he'd learned that Bull was not only a true Qunari, but Ben-Hassrath. "We could so easily have just...never known one another. Lived our lives on opposite sides."
Bull isn't so sure that it's luck anymore. Perhaps it was a mistake to let this happen. He doesn't want to consider that any deeper, but it keeps rolling around in his mind. He's gotten comfortable with Dorian in ways he hasn't allowed himself with others, and now his people have come crashing back into his life in a very big, very imminent way.
Lived our lives on opposite sides.
There is part of him that wants to point out that they are still on opposite sides. Dorian may not approve of what Tevinter currently is, but he believes in his country and is, in his own way, loyal to it. Bull, despite living as a Tal-Vashoth, is still very loyal to the Qun and the Qunari. Together or not, there is still a gulf between them.
But he says nothing and instead reaches to stroke his fingers through Dorian's hair and down along his neck. He focuses on the warmth sinking through his leg, the comfort the mage offers.
"Luck," he teases. "Lucky neither of us knows how to stay out of trouble."
Bull is here because of the opportunity it offered; Dorian is here because he believes he can help.
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But it is not enough to put his mind at ease.
"If you haven't eaten, yes."
He is not particularly hungry, though he knows he should eat when it's offered. It's an old habit, old wisdom: never know when his next meal might be, especially in a place like Skyhold where interruptions abound. His thumb strokes across Dorian's cheek before Bull drops his hand and gently pulls away from Dorian's hand. He's been turning this moment over in his mind. There is no hiding that something happened out there in the training yard, but how much should he share, and with whom? The Inquisitor knows, of course, and in short order Leliana, Cassandra, and Cullen are all likely to be informed. Why shouldn't Dorian know?
Bull sits down on the edge of the big bed and stretches his leg out. The question Dorian isn't asking is palpable.
"It was a letter from the Ben-Hassrath."
That alone isn't news: Bull gets letters from Ben-Hassrath agents all the time. Though there's something in the way he says it this time: the Ben-Hassrath.
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The Ben-Hassrath. He'd guessed as much. What else could it be? His steps are so light that he almost drifts to the bed, standing rather than sitting.
"You receive a fair few of those. I've imagined you must be exceedingly popular as spies go," he remarks with continued false levity. He's seen them himself more than once, though it had satisfied none of his curiosity; the code was utterly indecipherable.
He hesitates to reach out again only because it's become so difficult to tell if that's wanted. Would Bull prefer space? Does he want some Vint here asking about this at all?
But no, he reminds himself, he isn't just some Vint. He and the Bull have shared too much now for that, surely. "Something is different about this one, yes?"
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"The Qunari are proposing an alliance with the Inquisition."
Despite having said it once already today, the weight behind those words feels impossible. It's unheard of. It's absolutely unprecedented. The Qunari don't make alliances, don't offer them, and they certainly aren't known for compromise or sharing information. Bull being in the Inquisition is about as close as he thought they'd ever get to something like this, and even then, it's not entirely what anyone thinks it is.
He lifts his gaze to meet Dorian's, quiet and serious. There's something weighing on him beyond the fact that this is unheard of. Something nagging at his mind that he can't quite let go of. But he hasn't fully fleshed out the thought yet, either, and so he keeps it to himself.
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Dorian's fingers grasp at Bull's hand. If it seems ridiculous to him, it must seem impossible to Bull. Yet the way he says it is so grave, so certain, and the way he looks up at Dorian is just as heavy.
"I had no idea that they could--that you could do that," he says, still sounding incredulous. But questioning the situation, as it is, will do nothing for the Bull. And that is his priority. Dorian reaches for him with his other hand, bringing it up to cradle the familiar line of his jaw in his palm. His voice lowers, becomes even and serious the way it does when he's problem-solving.
"What do you need?"
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Everything could change. Everything has changed.
He lifts his head slowly and his gaze meets Dorian's.
"I need more information," he says at last. The offer is coming through the Ben-Hassrath, which strikes him as strange, but some part of him doesn't dare question why. An alliance makes things more complicated in ways Bull wasn't anticipating. It would also make some things easier: his presence, for one. But everyone already assumes he's Tal-Vashoth and that suits him.
Suddenly, Bull feels the weight of his years in his bones. He feels tired. He feels afraid. But he keeps it all to himself. He must. He cannot doubt. Shok ebasit hissra.
"It's in the Inquisitor's hands now."
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Though he would never claim to understand the full implications for Bull, Dorian can imagine a few of the worries an alliance--or the rejection of a proposed alliance--might bring. It's a disruption to the Bull's entire life here, whichever way it goes. But he wants to understand better, to do whatever he can to make this process easier for him.
He assumes the Inquisitor hasn't yet indicated a decision one way or the other; Bull would have mentioned it if so. She'll likely be talking about this with her advisors long into the night. What he can do for Bull right now is to talk through this with him, and help him prepare.
"What worries you most?" he asks gently.
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He's being vague and he's doing it on purpose. There are things he can't tell Dorian. He isn't about to fall for a honeypot (even as his mind hisses that it's an uncharitable thing to consider Dorian) and he can't let himself spill any details. He nuzzles Dorian's hand and presses a kiss to his palm.
"I'm alright," he says at last. "Just took me by surprise, and you know how I feel about surprises."
He has letters to write, but they can wait.
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"You don't want to talk about it," he murmurs, unaccusatory as he can. "I understand. Just..."
He shakes his head, and leans in to kiss the corner of Bull's mouth without finishing his thought aloud.
"Let's have lunch."
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Has everything to do with Dorian. With his sanity. With the way he needs to work if he is to function at all. There are things he will take to the grave, most likely. And who knows how near or far that may be?
He eases back and brushes his thumb along Dorian's pulse.
"Alright. Do you want to go down or eat up here?"
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For now, at least.
"I think Sera will leave something awful in our boots tonight if we don't go and eat with her," he says. If there's anything that might serve as an actual distraction from heavier thoughts, it's time spent with Sera.
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Down in the tavern, Bull is his usual self. Engaged and engaging, boisterous and bright. He has no trouble keeping up with Sera and, not for a second, does he let on the possibility that something else might be going on beneath the surface. Throughout lunch, the surface is all there is. And no one else seems any the wiser for it.
When it's over, Bull is keen to retreat back to his room and he murmurs a quiet invitation to Dorian before he heads that way.
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When they're alone again, he hesitates by the closed door. It's a rare situation in which Dorian can't form words, but he has no idea what to say. Is he supposed to act as though everything is all right, still? Can he try to broach the topic again?
After a little thinking, he determines that were he in Bull's situation, he would want to be treated normally. So he goes to the desk and picks up the book on top of a pile balanced on the corner--all his. "I presume you have some letters to write," he says lightly. "Shall I read aloud while you do?"
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"I'd like that."
He likes listening to Dorian read. He takes comfort in the familiarity and intimacy of it, and it will help him keep his thoughts in order as he sends off a few letters. There aren't very many to write: he needs to wait for more information first. But he wants to reach out to some of his contacts, to see if they will tell him what they've heard, if anything.
Bull sits in bed, letting his left leg stretch out as he picks up his writing desk and rests it on his lap.
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It's a magical text, so probably a dull subject for Bull, but that makes it ideal to read while he's doing something else. He makes notes for himself as he reads, which occasionally necessitates pausing while he scribbles something onto a separate sheet of paper before he continues.
Passing time this way is familiar and easy, and Bull is finished with his writing before Dorian is finished with the chapter.
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He wants nothing more than to let this be his reality for a while. Nothing outside of this room, nothing beyond Dorian's voice and the warmth of his body.
"Stay with me tonight."
He rarely asks anymore, if only because it seems to be a given that Dorian will sleep in his bed. But he wants to ask now.
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It's been some time since Bull has asked him to stay. Perhaps he's never even used those words exactly. Dorian's gaze is soft, and he leans down to press a kiss to Bull's brow.
"I'm not going anywhere."
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"Good," he rumbles quietly. He can have tonight. Anything after this is uncertain. "Will you help me out of my brace?"
It's still afternoon, but Bull has no intention of going anywhere for the rest of the day; if Dorian has obligations, Bull will be waiting here for him.
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"Of course," he says, and swings his legs from the side of the bed, passing around to Bull's side. "Sit up, then."
There isn't anything so pressing for him to do today that he'll leave Bull's side.
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"Thank you," he says quietly, and the way he says it suggests that he isn't just grateful that he has Dorian to help him get the brace off.
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"There," he says with satisfaction as he slides the brace away from Bull's leg, setting it in its usual place beside the bed to be put on again in the morning.
Without being asked, he rolls up the leg of Bull's pants past his knee, draws heat to his hand, and begins to massage the areas he knows tend to ache the most after Bull spends a day on his feet. Mitigating his physical pain is the least he can do for him now.
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"What would you think if Tevinter suddenly reached out to the Inquisition?" he asks after a moment.
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Which is good, because the question Bull asks takes up most of his attention.
"I'd be expecting a knife in the back," he answers almost immediately. "My country doesn't make alliances. Far too much pride for that. We've always handled our own affairs, and let the south rot." Bitterness and contempt are heavy on Dorian's tongue.
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"The Qunari don't either," he says quietly. "They conquer."
Whatever Bull feels about the way his people handle things is - or should be - irrelevant. But for more than ten years, they have been over there. No real interest in mustering an invasion, no real effort to push back into the south the way they had before. He'd let himself think there was safety in that.
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"That is generally my impression as well. I am from Qarinus." The jewel of the eastern Imperium, and as such a regular target of Qunari raids.
He falls quiet for a moment, considering things like similarities and differences, their northern homelands, and the circumstances that have led them here. "You know, it's an incredible stroke of luck that we were able to meet." There's no need to elaborate on why; their nations have been at war for a hundred years or more. Natural enemies. Even Dorian had thought as much when he'd learned that Bull was not only a true Qunari, but Ben-Hassrath. "We could so easily have just...never known one another. Lived our lives on opposite sides."
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Lived our lives on opposite sides.
There is part of him that wants to point out that they are still on opposite sides. Dorian may not approve of what Tevinter currently is, but he believes in his country and is, in his own way, loyal to it. Bull, despite living as a Tal-Vashoth, is still very loyal to the Qun and the Qunari. Together or not, there is still a gulf between them.
But he says nothing and instead reaches to stroke his fingers through Dorian's hair and down along his neck. He focuses on the warmth sinking through his leg, the comfort the mage offers.
"Luck," he teases. "Lucky neither of us knows how to stay out of trouble."
Bull is here because of the opportunity it offered; Dorian is here because he believes he can help.
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