[ The demon that managed to get its claws into him nearly had the last laugh, as it turned out. Fucking demons. Managed to ruin everything.
Not that the trip into the Fade had gone well. It still resided rather firmly in the 'things we wish never actually happened' category, and while everyone seemed to have made it out more or less in one piece, and less one very big nasty demon...
Things got complicated when that wound got infected. More complicated when he nearly attacked Adelaide in a fear-and-pain induced rage. And that was before the fever hit. Somehow, they all got back to Skyhold, thought it seemed a blur thinking back on it.
And now? Now things just felt hazy and too-warm and son of a bitch, but this wasn't how he was going down. He refuses, outright. He'd say as much too, if he could manage to get out of bed.
[ Bull might almost think he were alone in the room, if not for the fact that he is a literal spy, and Dorian can't even be inconspicuous in sitting quietly in Bull's blindside. His perfumes and oils are familiar to sensitive qunari noises, somewhat less astringent than the potions and tinctures used to help combat infection. Because rather than deciding whether to hover between Bull's quarters or attend to his work, Dorian occasionally brings his work here. There's a book in his lap he is barely reading, fidgeting with the fine paper between two fingers and ruining a corner as ink seems to run away from him.
He'd been somewhat close at hand, too, prior to Skyhold. They'd had to watch Bull closer in the worst of his fevers. Dorian had, on more than one occasion, woken up to finding he'd fallen asleep on his vigil, someone having thrown something rough-spun but warm over him.
The dust has been beaten from his clothing. He's still brown as a nut from all that sun.
Something in Bull's breathing changes, indicating wakefulness, and Dorian looks up, closing his book with quiet hands. ]
[ Even caught in a feverish haze, he knows. He senses him there all too easily and turns his head by faint degrees. Dorian's still here. Had he left? He must have, at some point. It'd be sweet of him to stay at his side like some doting...
But that's ridiculous. Still sweet, though. Knew he was squishier than he let on.
There's a faint crease in the corner of Bull's mouth, tugging tiredly. ]
Hey.
[ As though they're meeting out in the courtyard, and he's not lying here trying to fight off the poison in his blood with everything he's got. Because that's just how it is. He'll live. Probably. More likely than not, at this point. ]
[ Dorian puts his book aside, a hesitation in his lean forward before he gets to his feet and wanders for Bull's bedside. There have been times he's left the other man's side -- because the healers needed the room, for instance, or to take his meals, or attend to something Inquisitionish and go somewhere he can in fact be useful as opposed to completely unable to--
Anyway. He's still spent a lot of time not away.
Dorian picks up a candle, and uses it to light a few of its unlit fellows, brightening the room a little more. It's simple courtesy that he doesn't use magic. A little flatly, the tone he takes when he is reluctantly being sincere; ] How are you feeling?
[ He's aware enough at least to note little things. Not using magic when Dorian lives and breathes the stuff? Definitely one. The flat tone that means he's being serious is another. Can't be that bad, though. If it was, there'd be a lot more witty banter.
So he's worried, but not too worried. Prognosis must be fairly good, then. Bull takes a deeper breath, though it earns a faint twinge at the corner of his eyes. ]
Damn thing still stings. Should go...work that off in the training ring.
[ That brings about a monosyllabic huff of a laugh from Dorian, a tilted look side along. Iron Bull pls. He finishes with the candles and opts to sit on the edge of the mattress, hands kept contained to his own space despite this gesture of intimacy and presumption. ]
Manful displays of extreme vitality can come after you get any sort of appetite back. Declare a ravenous hunger, then we'll talk.
[ He'll never watch Bull in the kind of detail that Bull watches him, but he spies little twinges readily. He also spies the silvery quality eking back into Bull's tone. Dorian hasn't much experience with discerning the vitality of qunari hide, but he'll take sheen over the ghastly muddy clay colour he'd been in the worst of his fevers.
Dorian is, meanwhile, tense around his eyes, his mouth. ]
[ There's a rumble that could be agreement, or simply approval at the idea of food. Really, it could go either way. Right now, he wasn't certain he could get it all down and keep it down, but that'd fade. He'd be on his feet before they knew it.
Nevermind that he wasn't certain exactly how much time had passed. The last thing he clearly remembered was getting out of that damn mess, and then things just sort of stretched into a blur. A faint knot appears in his brow as he looks towards Dorian, now close enough to reach out and touch.
[ They could touch, only Dorian isn't sure whose comfort it would be for, and so doesn't, hands on his knees. Ideally, he would like a glass of wine around now, but the best he might do is take from the jug of water to Bull's left, and he refrains. He's refraining from a lot of things, apparently.
Including not losing his mind by-- ]
You truly pick your moments, you know. [ Never mind. ] That moment being in the middle of the desert, having fallen into the Fade. The perfect time to get a piece taken out of you and try to shrug it off like a flesh wound. Don't fuss, Dorian, it's nothing, he says. Work it off in the training ring, he says. You--
[ Because he is. Pieces missing or not, he'll be up and moving around again eventually.
There's some note of surprise there that he tries not to broadcast, surprise that Dorian is this tense. This worried. There's a sharpness there that only surfaces when he's truly feeling cornered, worried or anxious. The realization eases some of the lines around Bull's eye as he stares up at the mage, the corner of his mouth creasing in a smirk. ]
[ That sharpness hasn't completely dulled, nor retracted, but humour and tension tend to dance on similar edges where he's concerned. He looks away, as if to provide Bull some relief from his glaring by focusing instead on the candles nearby. ]
I suspect you'll be showing off your latest scars within the week.
[ Ridiculous.
And still alive. It's easier to play at angry than it is to acknowledge its undercurrents, not the least of which being frustration that he should care at all. That it would hurt, if Bull were not still alive. That it's hurt already. ]
[ One massive hand moves, slowly, to cover Dorian's where it rests against his knee. Just that. A quite little gesture, the warmth of his palm covering finely-boned fingers and soft skin, calloused by the use of his staff. Bull's thoughts feel heavy, hazy still, but there's no hesitation in the movement. ]
It's alright, kadan.
[ It feels like the easiest thing the world, the term spilling off his tongue. It fits, in ways he's not yet sure how to define and not thinking too clearly on right now. Doesn't have to. The word fits, bone deep, it feels right and comes out in a weary breath. ]
[ Dorian hasn't enough qunlat in his memory banks to understand perfectly how it translates, but he can sense what it might mean, gaze dropping down to where Bull's hand covers his own. He blinks, harder than strictly necessary, before turning that hand at the wrist just enough to grip back, fingers curling around the meat of Bull's palm.
Quiet, for once.
He'll credit Bull that this display isn't the result of a fever. ]
No, you're-- very present. Solid, [ he says, quieter, the energy of flash-in-the-pain temper sapped away, but his tone has gentled too. ] Heavy. Dense. And I'd always imagined these qualities as being what protects you from all that hacking and slashing. It's something else when you slip away, undreaming, unresponsive. Bricking you in. Like there wasn't anything in the world that could rouse you.
Except, perhaps, a dragon, but we hadn't any of those on hand, [ is where he forces a little more life into his own tone, finally dragging eye contact back over, up from Bull's scarred knuckles. ]
[ He takes another deep breath, trying to rouse himself further, enough to clear his head and talk. They don't talk much, not like this. Not raw and open and honest. They've had fleeting discussions before this but there's always been something there, blocking the way.
It's not there now. Seems a piss poor opportunity to be wasted feeling like he might fall right back asleep again. ]
[ The words are automatic. The subtle creases at his eyes that connote a smile are not. Dorian can see Bull try to rouse himself, and protest starts to fill in his lungs, and is let out as a wordless sigh. Bull's ability to string a sentence together is fairly valuable after the fevers, and despite the fact that if Dorian were a healer, he'd be telling Bull to rest, he says nothing.
After all, he isn't a healer. Raising the dead is what he does. Still, he slips that hand out from under Bull's to rest gently on an uninjured patch of torso, a physical suggestion to take it slowly. He isn't going anywhere either.
He feels it, a little, too. This ease. This ease he's wanted, and is equally afraid of. ]
[ Dorian's right to be afraid. Maybe he should feel a little more fear, a little more caution. The situation's definitely not ideal, given who and what they are...
And yet the fever's oddly helped to put things in perspective. Suddenly, the fact that Dorian is safe and whole makes all the difference in the world. He thinks, maybe, he might have even gone back and faced those demons again if it meant ensuring that fact.
Which is a little silly, perhaps. Still. He's prone to that now and again. With a quiet rumble he settles again under Dorian's hand, eye drifting shut once more. ]
[ Protest -- ridiculous protest, considering Bull isn't exactly making a death-defying leap of logic, there -- rises, and is quelled before it can form words, or make an attempt to play it off. Dorian sighs, resigned. ]
I won't hold it against you. Much.
[ That hand on Bull's chest kind of lays there as if unsure of what to do with itself as the other man obeys its urging, laying back, closing his eye. Bull's particular kind of heat, emanating through his hide, is ever tempting even now, but bandages and the threat of healers kicking in the door keep Dorian where he is.
His thumb sweeps an arc, idly. Kadan has a certain rhythm to it. Repeat it, ka-dan, ka-dan, ka-dan, and it sounds like a heart beat. ]
[ He does, in fact. Knows there are things that would terrify him, and while standing in the fade and fighting a shit load of demons ought to frighten everyone, Dorian's got deeper fears tucked away. He knows there are at least a couple with strings back to him.
That bothers him. Not that he knows that, because he makes it his business to know anything that could be useful, that's the way you're trained in the Ben-Hassrath, but--
[ There's something in that -- the assertion itself, and the idea that Bull knows something more about Dorian than Dorian knows himself -- that makes his heart twist. His eyes smile even as he looks down, where his hand is resting on Bull's chest, as if testing the thrum of the larger man's own heartbeat. ]
Let's not test that theory any further, [ he says, settling his tone into familiar frivolity. ] There's only so much I can take in one summer.
[ He should withdraw. Bull is tired, only newly coherent. Still-- ]
[ You know, Dorian's not bad looking on most days. But there's something about the little crinkle at the corner of his eyes he only gets when something amuses him. Not the pretend laughter that means he's silently scoffing at something, the real kind. Dorian's like that, feigning one emotion when he feels another, like the flourish of a street magician's scarf to distract from the real trick at work.
He'd hate that comparison, he thinks with an inward chuckle. ]
Yeah, big guy?
[ He's brave, but he shouldn't have to deal with this shit, he thinks. Just because he can handle everything that comes with getting involved with him doesn't mean he should have to. If it comes to that...if it ever comes to that...
He's fucked no matter what happens.
There's a faint tightening of his fingers over Dorian's. ]
[ Big guy and then that tiny tightening of Bull's grip over his hand and his heart twists and it's not as though Dorian isn't keeping up. He knows what he's doing, which is falling for someone, which is having entirely inappropriate feelings for someone, but there is some strange lurch -- ka-dan -- in which this knowledge intersects with the possibility that Bull might be falling for him.
Which has also happened to him before, and it's usually been a mirage. ]
You should get some rest, [ he says instead of whatever he was going to say next. ] The real sort of rest, not the feverishly unconscious kind. If you're good, I'll meet you on the sparring field myself.
[ Maker, what is he talking about? Anything, really, desperately attempting not to have some other necessary conversation while Bull is half-asleep. It seems like a bad time to end this. It can be postponed.
Despite himself, Dorian moves in to kiss him. The magician's scarf flutters. ]
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Backdated to Post-Fade
Not that the trip into the Fade had gone well. It still resided rather firmly in the 'things we wish never actually happened' category, and while everyone seemed to have made it out more or less in one piece, and less one very big nasty demon...
Things got complicated when that wound got infected. More complicated when he nearly attacked Adelaide in a fear-and-pain induced rage. And that was before the fever hit. Somehow, they all got back to Skyhold, thought it seemed a blur thinking back on it.
And now? Now things just felt hazy and too-warm and son of a bitch, but this wasn't how he was going down. He refuses, outright. He'd say as much too, if he could manage to get out of bed.
That...that might take a while, actually. ]
no subject
He'd been somewhat close at hand, too, prior to Skyhold. They'd had to watch Bull closer in the worst of his fevers. Dorian had, on more than one occasion, woken up to finding he'd fallen asleep on his vigil, someone having thrown something rough-spun but warm over him.
The dust has been beaten from his clothing. He's still brown as a nut from all that sun.
Something in Bull's breathing changes, indicating wakefulness, and Dorian looks up, closing his book with quiet hands. ]
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But that's ridiculous. Still sweet, though. Knew he was squishier than he let on.
There's a faint crease in the corner of Bull's mouth, tugging tiredly. ]
Hey.
[ As though they're meeting out in the courtyard, and he's not lying here trying to fight off the poison in his blood with everything he's got. Because that's just how it is. He'll live. Probably. More likely than not, at this point. ]
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[ Dorian puts his book aside, a hesitation in his lean forward before he gets to his feet and wanders for Bull's bedside. There have been times he's left the other man's side -- because the healers needed the room, for instance, or to take his meals, or attend to something Inquisitionish and go somewhere he can in fact be useful as opposed to completely unable to--
Anyway. He's still spent a lot of time not away.
Dorian picks up a candle, and uses it to light a few of its unlit fellows, brightening the room a little more. It's simple courtesy that he doesn't use magic. A little flatly, the tone he takes when he is reluctantly being sincere; ] How are you feeling?
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[ He's aware enough at least to note little things. Not using magic when Dorian lives and breathes the stuff? Definitely one. The flat tone that means he's being serious is another. Can't be that bad, though. If it was, there'd be a lot more witty banter.
So he's worried, but not too worried. Prognosis must be fairly good, then. Bull takes a deeper breath, though it earns a faint twinge at the corner of his eyes. ]
Damn thing still stings. Should go...work that off in the training ring.
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Manful displays of extreme vitality can come after you get any sort of appetite back. Declare a ravenous hunger, then we'll talk.
[ He'll never watch Bull in the kind of detail that Bull watches him, but he spies little twinges readily. He also spies the silvery quality eking back into Bull's tone. Dorian hasn't much experience with discerning the vitality of qunari hide, but he'll take sheen over the ghastly muddy clay colour he'd been in the worst of his fevers.
Dorian is, meanwhile, tense around his eyes, his mouth. ]
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Nevermind that he wasn't certain exactly how much time had passed. The last thing he clearly remembered was getting out of that damn mess, and then things just sort of stretched into a blur. A faint knot appears in his brow as he looks towards Dorian, now close enough to reach out and touch.
There's a thought. ]
...everyone get back alright?
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[ They could touch, only Dorian isn't sure whose comfort it would be for, and so doesn't, hands on his knees. Ideally, he would like a glass of wine around now, but the best he might do is take from the jug of water to Bull's left, and he refrains. He's refraining from a lot of things, apparently.
Including not losing his mind by-- ]
You truly pick your moments, you know. [ Never mind. ] That moment being in the middle of the desert, having fallen into the Fade. The perfect time to get a piece taken out of you and try to shrug it off like a flesh wound. Don't fuss, Dorian, it's nothing, he says. Work it off in the training ring, he says. You--
You're ridiculous.
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[ Because he is. Pieces missing or not, he'll be up and moving around again eventually.
There's some note of surprise there that he tries not to broadcast, surprise that Dorian is this tense. This worried. There's a sharpness there that only surfaces when he's truly feeling cornered, worried or anxious. The realization eases some of the lines around Bull's eye as he stares up at the mage, the corner of his mouth creasing in a smirk. ]
Better me than you.
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[ That sharpness hasn't completely dulled, nor retracted, but humour and tension tend to dance on similar edges where he's concerned. He looks away, as if to provide Bull some relief from his glaring by focusing instead on the candles nearby. ]
I suspect you'll be showing off your latest scars within the week.
[ Ridiculous.
And still alive. It's easier to play at angry than it is to acknowledge its undercurrents, not the least of which being frustration that he should care at all. That it would hurt, if Bull were not still alive. That it's hurt already. ]
no subject
It's alright, kadan.
[ It feels like the easiest thing the world, the term spilling off his tongue. It fits, in ways he's not yet sure how to define and not thinking too clearly on right now. Doesn't have to. The word fits, bone deep, it feels right and comes out in a weary breath. ]
I'm not going anywhere.
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Quiet, for once.
He'll credit Bull that this display isn't the result of a fever. ]
No, you're-- very present. Solid, [ he says, quieter, the energy of flash-in-the-pain temper sapped away, but his tone has gentled too. ] Heavy. Dense. And I'd always imagined these qualities as being what protects you from all that hacking and slashing. It's something else when you slip away, undreaming, unresponsive. Bricking you in. Like there wasn't anything in the world that could rouse you.
Except, perhaps, a dragon, but we hadn't any of those on hand, [ is where he forces a little more life into his own tone, finally dragging eye contact back over, up from Bull's scarred knuckles. ]
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[ He takes another deep breath, trying to rouse himself further, enough to clear his head and talk. They don't talk much, not like this. Not raw and open and honest. They've had fleeting discussions before this but there's always been something there, blocking the way.
It's not there now. Seems a piss poor opportunity to be wasted feeling like he might fall right back asleep again. ]
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[ The words are automatic. The subtle creases at his eyes that connote a smile are not. Dorian can see Bull try to rouse himself, and protest starts to fill in his lungs, and is let out as a wordless sigh. Bull's ability to string a sentence together is fairly valuable after the fevers, and despite the fact that if Dorian were a healer, he'd be telling Bull to rest, he says nothing.
After all, he isn't a healer. Raising the dead is what he does. Still, he slips that hand out from under Bull's to rest gently on an uninjured patch of torso, a physical suggestion to take it slowly. He isn't going anywhere either.
He feels it, a little, too. This ease. This ease he's wanted, and is equally afraid of. ]
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And yet the fever's oddly helped to put things in perspective. Suddenly, the fact that Dorian is safe and whole makes all the difference in the world. He thinks, maybe, he might have even gone back and faced those demons again if it meant ensuring that fact.
Which is a little silly, perhaps. Still. He's prone to that now and again. With a quiet rumble he settles again under Dorian's hand, eye drifting shut once more. ]
Didn't mean to scare you.
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I won't hold it against you. Much.
[ That hand on Bull's chest kind of lays there as if unsure of what to do with itself as the other man obeys its urging, laying back, closing his eye. Bull's particular kind of heat, emanating through his hide, is ever tempting even now, but bandages and the threat of healers kicking in the door keep Dorian where he is.
His thumb sweeps an arc, idly. Kadan has a certain rhythm to it. Repeat it, ka-dan, ka-dan, ka-dan, and it sounds like a heart beat. ]
I don't scare so easily, you know.
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[ He does, in fact. Knows there are things that would terrify him, and while standing in the fade and fighting a shit load of demons ought to frighten everyone, Dorian's got deeper fears tucked away. He knows there are at least a couple with strings back to him.
That bothers him. Not that he knows that, because he makes it his business to know anything that could be useful, that's the way you're trained in the Ben-Hassrath, but--
Bull snorts softly, eye cracking open again. ]
You're braver than you think.
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Let's not test that theory any further, [ he says, settling his tone into familiar frivolity. ] There's only so much I can take in one summer.
[ He should withdraw. Bull is tired, only newly coherent. Still-- ]
Bull.
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He'd hate that comparison, he thinks with an inward chuckle. ]
Yeah, big guy?
[ He's brave, but he shouldn't have to deal with this shit, he thinks. Just because he can handle everything that comes with getting involved with him doesn't mean he should have to. If it comes to that...if it ever comes to that...
He's fucked no matter what happens.
There's a faint tightening of his fingers over Dorian's. ]
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Which has also happened to him before, and it's usually been a mirage. ]
You should get some rest, [ he says instead of whatever he was going to say next. ] The real sort of rest, not the feverishly unconscious kind. If you're good, I'll meet you on the sparring field myself.
[ Maker, what is he talking about? Anything, really, desperately attempting not to have some other necessary conversation while Bull is half-asleep. It seems like a bad time to end this. It can be postponed.
Despite himself, Dorian moves in to kiss him. The magician's scarf flutters. ]