The Winter Palace

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.

Bull finds Dorian after the dust settles. He smiles when he notices the mage holding an extra drink and he lightly touches Dorian's arm once he's close enough.

"That for me?" he asks, voice warm and quiet. Florianne's reveal hadn't surprised him, but he hadn't expected her to be so fully aligned with Corypheus, desperate enough to think she might get what he promised her.

There's still potential for instability in Orlais, but it won't be completely compromised. Bull doesn't know how well the populace - or the court - will take to having Briala so close to the empress. Bull thinks, though, with some political savvy, they could make it work. If Celene can improve relations with elves in general, it might bode well for her reign.

But he doesn't want to think about any of that now. Not when Dorian looks as beautiful as he does. Not when the danger is passed and the night is theirs.

Just as he expected, Bull comes to him eventually. He smiles coyly up at him, and drifts closer almost without meaning to, drawn in merely by the Bull's presence. "Oh, no. It's all for me," he teases, even as he hands it over. "I deserve to celebrate, you see. We've won a grand victory, and I've managed to tolerate the sneering and sniveling of the Orlesian court all evening without being drunk at all. I intend to change that very soon."

To demonstrate, he raises his glass to his lips and drinks generously. "But I suppose it is more fun with a companion." His eyes are bright, reflecting the thousands of dancing flames illuminating the ballroom, and he wants nothing more, really, than to spend the rest of this night with Bull.

"You've managed to keep your jacket in good order," he notes, and absolutely uses the observation as an excuse to lay a hand against Bull's chest.

"Couldn't risk surviving the night just to have Vivienne kill me for getting blood on it or ripping it," he says with a dry smile. Bull takes a drink from his glass, appreciating the taste but mostly the company.

Bull hesitates as he gets lost in how Dorian looks. It's now or never, he realizes. If he doesn't ask now, the moment is gone.

In Tevene, he asks, "Would you dance with me?"

It isn't how Dorian imagined it. Because he had imagined, much as he'd hate to acknowledge that. But how could it be? He couldn't have imagined the warmth and focus with which Bull looks at him, like he's the most impressive thing in the whole palace. He certainly couldn't have imagined that request in his own language from someone he actually gives a damn about dancing with. All of it is still so surreal. It's nearly impossible to believe that he actually gets to do this--to have this.

"Yes," he answers. What else? "I've been waiting all night."

Bull smiles and promptly downs his drink. Maybe uncouth, but he has more important things he wants to do. He sets the glass aside and offers Dorian his hand.

This time, he escorts Dorian all the way to the ballroom. It's no small thing to do this and he knows it. When they reach the dance floor, Bull turns to face Dorian and draws him close. He's grateful it's a waltz - it's one of the few dances he actually feels confident leading.

He can already feel the eyes turning their way. Not only the Orlesians, but he catches sight of members of their own party looking surprised or concerned.

Uncouth, certainly, but Dorian does it too. The two of them really are so different and yet in some ways, perfectly alike. Dorian sets his own glass down beside Bull's with a barely restrained grin, and puts his hand in the Qunari's much larger palm.

Anticipation coils in his belly, growing with every step. By the time Bull puts his hands on him to lead him into the dance, that feelings has bubbled all the way up into his throat. Yet nervous as he is, he's equally elated. Leading, following--Dorian can do both equally well, and knows all of the dances popular here nearly as well as he does the ones in Tevinter. He likes dancing very much. It's an incredibly silly thing, but he'd always harbored some hope--some fantasy, more like--that he might one day do it with the man he loves. Just like this.

He loves Bull. That much has been evident to him for some time. With his hand on Bull's bicep rather than his shoulder--awkward, to reach that far--he looks up at him and smiles. He loves how the fine fabric of his jacket is soft beneath his palm, Bull's skin warm beneath. And he loves Bull's face, his neatly trimmed beard, his bright, shining new eye patch. He looks fine and handsome tonight--but then, he always does. Dorian loves him as much covered in blood and sweat, shirtless, and after weeks together in a tent, as he does now. Whether in the glittering ballroom of the winter palace or beneath the light of the moons in the Hissing Waste, it makes no difference.

That Bull wants to dance with him here and now--that matters. He follows his lead with little thought for movements which come naturally to him. "How did you get this idea in your head?" he asks. "Wanting to dance?"

"How often am I going to be at the Winter Palace in a uniform?" he asks with a wry little smile. But it softens into something much warmer as he meets Dorian's gaze.

"I thought you might like it," he admits. "And I knew tonight might be difficult... I wanted to give you something you'd enjoy."

He wanted to make Dorian smile. The realization that this man's smile means so much to him is a little earth shaking. Bull has spent a considerable amount of time thinking of ways to make Dorian's life a bit brighter: getting Varric to find cocoa, leaving pastries he likes in his nook of the library, keeping a bottle of wine in his room that he happens to know Dorian prefers, having Josephine mention to the one of the merchants at Skyhold that there were those that might appreciate a supply of kohl or nail lacquer. Small things to make a life away from home more bearable. Things that might put that small, almost secretive smile he loves so much on Dorian's face.

Love.

He loves Dorian.

"All for me, then?" Dorian sounds vaguely amazed, looking up at Bull as though he almost can't believe he's real. And truly, he does seem too good to be true. He's doing this--dancing with him here, in front of absolutely anyone--because he thought it would make him happy. Dorian is stunned. He is stunned and grateful and so, so happy.

His chest tightens as he smiles, small and genuine and just for Bull. He wants to bury his face against his chest and be wrapped in his arms, to sway with him in their own dance. But the way he squeezes Bull's hand will have to be enough to convey that wealth of emotion.

"You were right," he says, just loud enough to be heard over the music. "I--" He he draws a breath somehow through that overwhelming, cloying feeling. "I didn't know how much I wanted this until you asked." He can't possibly overstate how much this means to him. It isn't exaggerating to say that he'll remember it for the rest of his life. "Thank you, Bull." With all the Tevene they've been speaking he very nearly says something else. He wants to, he realizes. He wants to say that word aloud to Bull, to call him by that name, to claim him that way. Perhaps he'll even have the courage to do so tonight, after everything he's already done.

"You're welcome, Dorian."

Always.

Bull leads them effortlessly through the rest of the dance, and as many after that as Dorian wants. He knows people are watching them, knows there are likely whispers all around the ballroom, but he doesn't care. The only part of his world that matters right now is the man in his arms. He only hopes that this won't come back to bite Dorian later. He thinks he catches sight of the Inquisitor at one point, but Lavellen certainly doesn't seem perturbed. If anything, she's smiling.

Vivienne cuts in just once so that Lavellen can have a spin with Dorian.

And as the night finally catches up to Bull, he waits to reunite with Dorian an leans down to speak in his ear.

"What do you say we retire?" he offers quietly. "See if I can grab someone to bring food up to your room or mine."

Dorian remains on or around the dance floor in some regard for the next few hours, and he spends all of it but a dance or two with Bull. He's quite pleasantly drunk by the time Bull proposes they turn in--not that anyone who didn't know him would be able to tell, as he neither stumbles nor slurs. He does laugh and smile more openly, and tends to ramble on topics of his particular interest even more than usual.

"What a wonderful idea," he approves at once, tilting his chin up to smile warmly at Bull. "Mine," he requests. "Get your things and meet me there." They go up together, bidding goodnight to the friends that still remain, and separate at Dorian's door.

By the time Bull returns, Dorian has been able to make it through most of his evening routine and is lounging luxuriantly in the center of the wide feather bed wearing nothing but a soft emerald green velvet robe and drinking straight from a bottle of Antivan red.

Bull changes otu of his formal wear and into something considerably more comfortable. He catches one of the staff in passing and quietly requests some food be brought up to Dorian's room. He suspects the mage is going to need it.

He lets himself into Dorian's room and he can't help but chuckle when he sees Dorian luxuriating in bed with a bottle of wine.

"You look like a lush," he teases warmly. "Decadent. I'm having food brought up."

Bull is grateful for the size of the beds: most of them are nearly big enough to accommodate a Qunari, even if that wasn't their original intent.

Bull's arrival prompts Dorian to sit up enough to actually lean against the headboard--or the pile of pillows propped against the headboard, at least--if only so that he can raise his bottle in a toast without risking any of it spilling.

"I should be offended," he says with a sly little grin, not sounding very offended at all. "But I'm prepared to forgive you if you hurry and join me." With his free hand, he pats the bed beside him demonstratively. "Drinking alone simply isn't as enjoyable."

That, and he wants to touch the Bull's bare skin. He's missed it tonight, even as he enjoyed the figure Bull cut in his fine jacket.

Bull nudges his boots off at the end of the bed - he left his brace in his room - and eases onto it to join Dorian. He takes a moment to arrange himself, grateful that the Orlesians appreciated beds that are ridiculously proportioned. At least, Orlesians that could afford it. It's not the first big bed he's seen in this country.

He welcomes Dorian close as soon as the mage tumbles against his side. Bull steals the bottle of wine away just for a taste before he passes it back to Dorian.

"Am I forgiven?" he rumbles warmly.

Naturally, the mattress shifts beneath his weight when Bull settles down on it, causing Dorian to topple against him. He doesn't even make an attempt at avoiding it, instead using it as an opportunity to snuggle against him, ducking beneath his arm so that he can lay his head against his broad chest. The bottle passes back and forth between them and Dorian takes another swig.

"Hmmm," he hums, pretending to consider. "I may have another task for you to that end." He stretches his legs out on the bed, his knees brushing Bull's thighs as he curls against him. "I hurt all over from all the dancing we did. You might see to that."

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