[ 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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no subject
[ 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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]