aban_aqun | The Winter Palace

When Bull offers his arm, gentlemanly as anything, what can Dorian do but accept? He loops his own through and leans into Bull's side without hesitation, heart already pattering at the mere thought of being openly escorted like this.

"I can talk, you lummox!" Dorian protests, shoving playfully at Bull's arm, though he's shining even brighter with the compliment. Now that Bull says so, feels radiant. But really, it's the Bull who's breathtaking. Honestly, how dare he smile like that? How dare he look at him like that? It makes his pulse pound faster.

How ridiculous, when he sees Bull every day and sleeps beside him every night. But perhaps that's the magic of it. For the first time, Dorian feels like he might--just might--be able to call Bull his, or near enough to it. And he's proud of that, he realizes. Even if it's only temporary, this incredible man is with him.

"We must make a delightfully scandalous pair, mustn't we?" He asks with clear glee.

"I think scandal is putting it mildly," he muses. "If people knew about me, we'd be an international incident waiting to happen."

But everyone outside of the Inquisitor's inner circle believed Bull to be Tal-Vashoth. Still, someone as blatantly Qunari as Bull escorting a very Tevinter Dorian Pavus will make people talk. He anticipates a lot of conversations hidden behind fans and masks.

When they reach the doors where the rest of the party has gathered, being announced one by one, Bull very reluctantly releases Dorian. His hand lingers on Dorian's back and he leans down to say, "We'll find each other later."

From the curl of Dorian's lips, it's apparent that he doesn't mind the idea of being part of an international incident. "Indeed," he says brightly. "There are a number of magisters with connections among the Orlesian nobility. I don't suppose there's any way that word won't get back home."

If anything, his grip on Bull tightens. He only releases him when they have to separate near the doors to the grand ballroom, and even then, he lingers close, nodding in agreement. He'll do what's needed of him first and foremost, of course, but there is no way he won't also spend a little of his night enjoying the fine wine and decadent nonsense of the Orlesian court with Bull. Dorian is one of the first of their group announced, as someone with lord in front of his name. Even if the address isn't technically correct by Tevinter standards, it's the closest they have here in the south.

"Just a moment," he says quickly, and turns with a hurried step to catch Bull's arm again, pausing for just long enough to get up onto his tiptoes and plant a kiss on his cheek. They certainly aren't alone--indeed, the majority of their party is still there, waiting--but there isn't the time to hesitate or second-guess himself. He smiles as he releases him again, private and warm. "For luck."

And then he's through the doors, shoulders squared, chin up, and walking as confidently down the grand staircase of the Winter Palace as he does down the stairs of the library tower back at Skyhold. He is an altus of the Tevinter Imperium, after all; even the singular attention of the entire court of Orlais doesn't ruffle him. He'd never survive politics in Minrathous if it did.

The kiss warms Bull down to his core and he strokes Dorian's cheek before he pulls away.

He watches Dorian stride down the stairs, elegant and untouchable in his blue and gold and utterly unflappable Tevinter mask. It's better than the ones the Orlesians wear: it has the practice of surviving in a place where assassination is a method of social climbing.

Bull is announced toward the end of their party: he has no formal titles, no political ties. He makes his way down the stairs, subject to at least as many stares as Dorian had been. He likely has former clients in this room, and it's possible that rumors abound about him in some circles. Bull doesn't linger in the grand ballroom, instead finding his way to one of the wide corridors where people are lingering and talking. It's the perfect place to eavesdrop, and most people assume that someone like him isn't listening or is only interested in the food.

But he hears everything.

Everything.

His one consolation is that he can see Dorian out in the garden from his post.

Dorian spends the majority of his evening in that garden. He drinks, he listens to the music from the open windows of the ballroom, and he looks eye catching and dangerous. He doesn't talk much, because most people won't come within a ten foot radius of him; he doesn't hear much either, because most people's conversations turn to hushed whispers behind their fans when they draw near. Can't trust a Tevinter, after all. What conversations he does have are brief and predictably superficial, usually with younger courtiers looking to engage with the Inquisition's resident evil magister to garner a little safe scandal for the purpose of generating some gossip. Dorian is happy to play the role; the gasps of delighted horror at the tales his spins help alleviate some of his boredom.

The Inquisitor pops by every so often, and once Dorian has to distract everyone while she climbs the wall up a garden trellis. Luckily, he's good at that. But the most exciting part is, of course, out of the public eye entirely. The first time he sees the Bull since they parted, they rendezvous with the Inquisitor and Sera in a back hallway, where Dorian unceremoniously strips out of his midnight blue robe, leaving him in the simple leather breeches and linen undershirt beneath, and takes up his staff. They're anticipating a fight, and he can't return to the party in a bloodstained outfit.

"You aren't going to swing your axe around in that," he says dubiously, eyeing the already tightly fitted arms and shoulders of his jacket. "It'll burst."

"Eager to get me to strip down?" Bull gives Dorian a grin as he starts unbuttoning his uniform. "No, Vivienne would kill me. Thanks, Boss."

Lavellen has a parcel for him: his usual clothes. With so much white, there's no way he's risking Vivienne's wrath by getting blood on it. Even if there's a spell to fix that.

He leaves his uniform with Dorian's robes.

The plot weaves in on itself when they actually start investigating. Venatori, elven agents, blackmail and intrigue. Bull isn't remotely surprised. The fighting is a nice change of pace, actually. He's maybe more aware of Dorian's presence than usual: the mage isn't wearing any armor and is vulnerable to certain attacks. Bull keeps his eye on him.

But they can't stay away from the party for long. The Inquisitor is still trying to maintain a low profile and so they have to reappear eventually. Back in one of the kitchens, Bull carefully cleans blood off himself so that he can change back into the uniform he'd left behind. Thankfully, it looked like it was in one piece.

Dorian finds it all more exciting than anything he's done in ages. The intrigue, the drama, the scandal--it almost feels like he's back home. The fighting is fun too, close-quarters and clandestine, and it makes adrenaline pound through him like little else. By they time they regroup in a kitchen in preparation to reappear in the ballroom, Dorian is flushed and breathing hard, and he's certain his hair must be a wreck. Luckily Inquisition agents have left their discarded clothes where they could find them again, and Dorian has plenty of experience in putting himself back together seamlessly before returning to a party.

But before he tends to himself, he turns to Bull, who's in the process of wiping blood from his bare skin. He's seen him do this before, but this time it has an even more profound effect than usual. Looking Bull over now, he really, really would like to sneak him off somewhere and find a sturdy kitchen table to bend over. The two of them are already only half dressed. It would be so easy.

Alas, they can't be gone from the party that long. Instead, Dorian takes a rag and wets it, and begins to run it over Bull's skin. It quickly grows a soft shade of pink as he rubs it over his chest. "You don't have to be my shield, you know," he says conversationally, glancing up at Bull as he works. "I have barriers for that. Though I thank you for keeping my underclothes relatively clean."

Bull stills as Dorian joins his effort and runs a wet cloth over his chest. Warmth sinks through him and while it would be more effective if he were to keep helping, all of his attention is on Dorian's hands and the way he looks half dressed.

"Barriers can flicker out," he counters quietly. "And you aren't wearing any armor."

To be fair, neither is Bull, but at least he's Qunari and he does still have some vitaar across his shoulders and arms. Armor enough. Bull tips his head down and lets himself brush his nose through Dorian's hair. He smells good, especially after a fight.

Dorian doesn't mind being the sole one to clean Bull off. He wrings the rag out and wets it again. It gathers more blood as he wipes along the curve of a pectoral muscle. His hand looks so small against Bull's chest.

"Have a little more faith in my abilities, at least," he entreats, pausing when he feels Bull lean down. The brush of his nose in his hair and the warm puff of his breath are familiar, intimate. He wonders what he smells like to Bull. Something more than his perfumes and lotions and pomades? Dorian's hand rests over his heart. He can feel the massive muscle thumping hard beneath his palm, pumping blood to a thin cut across Bull's chest--one of a few he'd sustained--bleeding onto his freshly cleaned skin. Dorian wipes over the cut carefully, then presses down. He doesn't provide any magical healing, aware that Bull isn't fond of it, and also that he should be conserving his mana. Bull probably doesn't even feel the minor injury anyway, or the others like it. The battle rush must conceal it entirely.

Slowly Dorian leans forward, nestling beneath Bull's chin to nose against his neck and breathe in slowly. Bull smells like sweat, blood, leather. Oddly he doesn't find it unpleasant, no matter how much he normally complains. His lips purse into a gentle kiss at the hollow of his throat.

Bull rests a hand on Dorian's back and lets it slide down the familiar curve of his spine. He can feel Dorian's breath against his skin and his other hand lifts to tip Dorian's chin up. He meets the mage in a tender kiss with an edge of heat. His arm tightens around Dorian's back and his mind is already drifting to what's nearby. A long, heavy table. The butcher block counters. The floor.

He's about to pick Dorian up when he hears a loud wolf whistle.

"Ey boys! Not gonna fit back into your uniforms you keep that up."

Bull groans quietly and makes himself relax his hold on Dorian. He narrows his eye at Sera, who just cackles and hurries on her way.

How easy it is to give in to Bull. How eager he is to do it, pressing closer despite the blood still on his lover's skin and parting his lips at the barest brush of Bull's. The thick arm around his waist holds him tight. It's nearly enough to make him forget where he is--or at least make him fail to care. The excitement of the evening is running high through him, and a similar feeling in Bull calls to him, an irrefutable and magnetic attraction.

Rudely interrupted, of course, by Sera. Dorian hisses a particularly nasty curse under his breath as they break apart and makes a rude gesture at her retreating back. He's more annoyed than embarrassed, which is something, though it might be the reverse if it were anyone other than Sera teasing them.

The cloth in is hand is stained with Bull's blood. Dorian pulls it away, then wipes over the cut again. "She's got a point, you know," he says reluctantly. His eyes are dark as they meet Bull's. "We're supposed to return to the ballroom."

Bull growls something that sounds distinctly impolite in Qunlat as Dorian voices his own curses. He sighs and reluctantly lets go of Dorian so that he can finish cleaning. He meets Dorian's gaze and leans in to kiss him again.

"If we're not busy trying to survive a coup, I'd like to dance with you."

He means it. There's much of the night left ahead of them and Bull doesn't know what it will bring, but he wants to put the idea in Dorian's mind. He isn't sure what to expect, isn't sure it's something Dorian would actually want to do, but he says it all the same.

Bull gives Dorian one more kiss before he reluctantly pulls away. They need to get dressed again before their absence is really noted.

The cleaning is rather interrupted by the kissing, but Dorian hardly minds. There's a longing in the way their lips meet, an unspoken I wish we could. The promise of later, perhaps.

Being offered a dance, however conditional, brings a smile to Dorian's lips. So Bull had been serious those months ago back in Val Royeaux. He's thought about it more than once since, how it might feel to dance with Bull in front of everyone. Now all of the nerves and excitement and apprehension are brought to bear. Finally, it is a real thing that may actually happen tonight. He wants it now even more than he had then. He wonders if Bull knows how meaningful this is to him. His smile is relieved.

"I was hoping you'd ask." They kiss again, and Dorian truly doesn't want to stop. But they both have to get their clothes back on and Dorian has to put himself together again in a hurry. "You could have waited until we were both dressed to say it properly," he scolds playfully. "Now hurry and drink the rest of that elfroot potion or you'll be bleeding through your jacket." In the meantime, he begins to slip back into his own robes.

Bull downs the rest of the potion in question and sets the flask aside. He waits until he's certain that he's not bleeding anymore, then carefully changes back into the uniform. He watches Dorian as he does, simply enjoying the way the mage meticulously dresses himself again.

"I'll ask you again later. Properly."

When they're both presentable, Bull motions for Dorian to go ahead of him and he follows back out of the servants' passage. He can hear a bell ringing and he groans quietly. He isn't particularly looking forward to taking up his post again, if only because listening to people who think he can't hear them is getting tedious. But he'll stay the course. At least he'll be able to see Dorian from where he stands.

They part ways by the door that leads out to the garden.

Dorian's only comfort when he returns to that damned garden, apart from the spicy punch, is that he can occasionally see the outline of Bull's shoulders through one of the windows above. It's a striking silhouette even from here, for which he's very grateful, but he can't be seen glancing up too much.

He pays attention, but catches his thoughts drifting in one direction or the other. What if he and Bull had decided to put off their return to the ballroom for a few minutes longer? That table could have taken his weight easily. Or, the other way--what will it be like to dance in public with the man he...cares for? What will it be like to trace familiar steps across the floor of one of the most opulent palaces in the world with his wonderful and attentive Qunari lover? What sort of gossip will make it back home?

But this time, barely an hour passes before he's called inside. This time it's Josephine retrieving him, directing him to the second floor halls above the dancefloor. They want everyone in place in case something happens as the Inquisitor takes her turn. She leaves him quickly to collect Varric, but that's just as well, because Dorian already sees Bull.

It wouldn't do to rush to him, so he keeps his steps measured but purposeful. Bull stands with his back to a wall near one of the tables laden with desserts, so predictable it makes him smile. There are several groups of courtiers gathered around the hall. Dorian's Orlesian isn't perfect, but he speaks enough to be conversational, and certainly recognizes the words vacant and stupid and oxman, especially when used in the same sentence. And especially when the speaker is looking directly at Bull over her fan and the other masked nobles around her are laughing among themselves.

The anger he feels is sudden and hot. How long has Bull been putting up with this? All evening?

"Iron Bull," he calls, making his voice loud enough to be heard above the music and general chatter. It takes him several more steps to reach him, and he makes no indication that he even notices the edges of gowns and expensive boots he treads on as he pushes through the crowd. "Here you are at last," he says warmly. Without hesitation, he gets up on his tip-toes to wrap his arms about Bull's neck and guide him into a kiss. He can feel the number of eyes on them, hears more than one shocked gasp, and it is both exhilarating and vindicating. He lets it last several moments longer, and his hands smooth over Bull's shoulders and down the front of his jacket as he sinks back onto his heels. "How handsome you are," he says with pride, and in very deliberate Orlesian. "Shall we go? Lady Josephine tells me that she requires the Inquisitor's inner circle."

Like everything the Bull does, even the predictability has a purpose. The running commentary he can hear from various courtiers bothers him, but, as ever, he makes no indication. He's been dealing with it for ten years, one more night is not going to break him. He knows that for as long as he's in the south, it won't stop. People will make assumptions, including that Bull isn't multi-lingual.

He looks up when he hears Dorian's voice, and it takes everything he has not to melt into a smile as the mage strides through the crowd. The kiss surprises him, and that is a difficult feat. He leans down so that Dorian doesn't have to strain himself getting up onto his toes. He can hear the gasps and the sudden flurry of conversation. Everything in Bull softens as Dorian speaks to him in Orlesian.

"Yes," he answers. "We shouldn't keep her waiting."

He lets Dorian lead him away, the beast to Dorian's obvious beauty.

"Thank you," he adds in Tevene.

The sheer sadistic delight Dorian experiences when the people around them realize that Bull can speak perfect Orlesian will keep him satisfied for months, he expects. Everyone nearby is suddenly abuzz with shocked and scandalized conversation, and the two of them, arm in arm, part the crowd like a hot knife through butter. Dorian might as well be floating, he's so pleased. Bull thanks him in his own language, and Dorian grins.

"May their words choke them," he says, a common if rather vindictive Tevene oath. Perhaps common because it is so vindictive. The viper is the symbol of his country for a reason.

Yet his heart still aches for Bull. He knows that he's likely used to it, having lived as a Qunari in the south for a decade. But it must be unpleasant still, even hurtful. Though he knows it comes far too late, Dorian feels protective and furious. They are lucky, he thinks, that all he had done was make them look like the fools they are. He squeezes Bull's arm. "I'm sorry," he says, still in Tevene for the purpose of maintaining a truly private conversation. "I wish I had thought to come to you sooner. I would never have allowed these simpering creatures to hide behind their masks and say these things about you."

"I'm used to it... but I appreciate the intervention." More than he can say, really. Bull is content to stay by Dorian as they re-enter the ballroom. He keeps them on the upper floor and watches the Inquisitor spin around with the duchess. He releases Dorian's arm so he can lean on a balustrade.

"What do you think?" he asks with a nod toward the dance floor. Everyone is watching, of course. The court is interested in the Inquisitor and how well they play the Game. Bull's impressed so far, actually. Vivienne is pleased, he knows that.

Dorian leans beside him, bracing his arms on the balustrade. His pulse is still racing with the thrill of having kissed the Bull openly in front of a not insignificant number of Orlesian nobility. He's never done anything like that before. Until five minutes ago, he'd never have imagined that he could do anything like that. But he'd wanted to make it clear just how much more Bull is than what they'd assumed him to be. Even if Bull dismisses it, it still makes him angry.

Now, he turns from Bull to the floor below, where Lavellan and Florianne dance among a tide of other metal-faced courtiers. "Of her?" he asks. "I'm impressed that she hasn't tripped, actually. I helped Josephine teach her this one. It wasn't good."

Bull chuckles quietly. "I can't believe I missed that - where were you all hiding?"

He's sure they were tucked away somewhere to preserve the Inquisitor's dignity. He shifts his weight, returning his full attention to the dance floor. He thinks absently of being there with Dorian later, assuming Dorian doesn't change his mind. Bull hopes he'll be able to pleasantly surprise the mage. But business first.

"No, I meant Florianne."

"Oh," he laughs. "She'll put a knife in someone's back before the night is over. But we can't accuse her of plotting against Celene or with Gaspard without proof."

How bizarre his life has become in a year's time. How utterly unthinkable that he lives in a castle in the Frostback mountains, that one of his best friends is a Dalsih elf and leader of a religious movement, that he's spent months traveling the southern wilderness fighting demons, darkspawn, and his own countrymen. But perhaps the most surprising part of it all is that he had just kissed his lover of nearly half a year, a Qunari spy, in front of a hall full of Orlesian courtiers and not felt an ounce of hesitation or shame. And that he looks forward to dancing with him in front of everyone else later this same night. That he doesn't doubt for a moment that Bull can dance any of these needlessly complex Orlesian waltzes as gracefully as any pretty young lord.

Dorian looks away from the dancers to watch Bull instead, to note his expression as his bright, keen eye observes the complex political machinations of the Game. How strange that he should find such a perfect counterpart in this man. But how grateful he is that he has. He puts a hand on Bull's arm and leans closer, though he's confident that no one else here speaks Tevene.

"What's your read on the situation, Ben-Hassrath?" He asks, smiling.

Bull's quiet for a moment as he considers his answer.

"Florianne is part of this somehow. I don't know her motive yet, but she's close to the empress and Gaspard. She wants power, even in that mask I can see she resents Celene."

What would she do to get it? Would she be willing to throw Orlais into turmoil for gain? What gain? There are still too many pieces moving for Bull to see the full picture, but it's coming together.

"She is in her brother's shadow and Celene's. I've heard people talking - she isn't high ranking despite her birth and her brother's military fame. She arranged these talks, bringing both Gaspard and Celene to the same place." Bull shakes his head and stands up straight with a heavy sigh. "She's part of this somehow. She's pulling strings."

"If this were Tevinter she'd already have tried to have someone assassinated," Dorian says mildly. He knows the type very well. They're his peers, after all. Bull's assessment is in line with his own, as he'd expected. Maker, how anyone can think Bull stupid--

Well, he supposes that's all part of Bull's cover. They would hardly make that mistake if they knew he was a spy. Or would they?

The dance ends, and the Inquisitor bows deeply to Florianne before hastening from the floor. Dorian has the feeling they'll be called on again soon. "You know," he says lightly, "this is the longest conversation I've had in Tevene since I left home."

Bull stands straight as the dance ends, anticipating that they'll be off to investigate again pending the results of that conversation. He looks over at Dorian and offers a softer smile.

"I'll speak to you in Tevene whenever you like." Bull doesn't mind. It's one of the first languages he learned alongside the common tongue and it's the one he's spoken longest outside of Qunlat.

He reaches and gently catches Dorian's chin to brush his thumb over it. An affectionate gesture, something he might not have dared before Dorian kissed him in front of half the nobility.

There is a part of Dorian--a large one--that would like to kiss Bull again right now. But once had been quite enough to prove his point, and he can still hardly believe he'd done that. He smiles up at him now and makes no move to dislodge his hand. Though it's a simple thing to offer to speak Tevene with him, it's also incredibly kind. But he's come to expect that sort of thing from the Bull.

Though Lavellan has left already, the dancing goes on. Dorian glances back toward it almost wistfully. But of course, there's more intrigue yet.

Their little company fights several more quiet skirmishes in the back hallways and gardens of the Winter Palace, uncovering clues and secrets that expose Florianne's connection to Corypheus and eventually--to Dorian's quiet amazement--reunite the lovers Celene and Briala, who make a powerful statement alongside Lavellan about the future of Orlais.

It's all rather exciting, frankly, and with the empress saved and the entire court in the Inquisition's debt, Dorian can finally let himself really enjoy himself. Having poured a glass of wine and already finished half, he congratulates Lavellan thoroughly once again, and receives an exuberant hug for it that he'll never admit that he actually finds quite touching. Afterward he looks for the Bull. There isn't anyone else he would rather share a drink--or the rest of his evening--with after all of this. He stations himself near the refreshments with an extra drink in hand, knowing he'll turn up eventually.

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