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Rebuilding Kirkwall, even after several years of work, still goes stone by stone, brick by brick. Hightown, with money to throw around, saw the most of the restoration, but between the Hawke and Tethras fortunes, the continued Starkhaven aid, and some damn charitable Inquisition donations, progress in Lowtown and Darktown has come along as well. And there’s a steady stream of former residents of Tevinter who keep showing up and getting hired by the relief effort. Funny, how enthusiastic they get after settling in.
Part of the Inquisition donations involved loan of the Chargers. The kids had gotten restless with the stability of the far south, the last holdouts of both Venatori and red templars pretty much taken care of. Yeah, a couple skirmishes broke out around the Orlais-Ferelden border, and there were always new cells of freeman of the Dales – bandits on the edges of the desert, wyverns and varghest nests to uproot, sometimes even a dragon to clear out. But even the reduced Inquisition forces were capable of dealing with that. So if Cullen wanted a strike team, the Chargers got the job. But this is better.
They’d taken to manual labour with relish. Even Skinner, who got cranky without a good fight – but then, there’s not exactly a shortage of fights in Kirkwall. Lately they’ve been working in the alienage, which got her pretty fired up. Helps that with Hawke doing most of the coordinating, they’re not just rebuilding the place, but improving it. The idea’s been that an apartment should be big enough that the Bull can get around without scuffing the walls with his horns, with enough natural light that Dalish isn’t going around stubbing her toes.
It’s hard work, hardly a problem, but by the day’s end they’re all tired and ready to hit the Hanged Man. The Bull sticks around for a bit. Dalish’s new friend, who’s got one half the run of the alienage reconstruction, is lighting lamps with her staff. They glow with a warm, steady glow. Dorian’s got the same trick, for his late night research sessions, or when he’s with the Bull in the evening. Better than smoke all over the room, he says, even though he likes the smell. It’s a good memory, a nostalgic one, and the Bull hangs around to watch Merrill make her rounds.
When she finishes she traipses her way over to where the Bull’s leaning against one of the walls. Merrill’s almost always smiling, in good spirits even more than that, but she beams at the Bull. The Chargers all took to her immediately, the Bull no exception.
“Isn’t it pretty?” Merrill says, with a bit of a bounce. “People used to get nervous about it, before the fight, but I think they like it now. Makes it easier to get around. Safer, too.”
The Bull raises his arms to rest the base of his skull against, a light stretch and something softer than the clay to lean his head on. “Sometimes seeing magic thrown about all casually like that makes people wary. Takes ‘em time to be sure it’s not directly dangerous.”
A momentary pause in the smile as Merrill’s eyes widen, solemn somehow. “All magic is dangerous.” But then the smile returns, quick as it left. “But so is fire!” She watches him for a moment, still smiling, but studying Bull all the same. “Does it make you nervous?”
Perceptive of her – that or she caught on about Qunari and magic leading up to the invasion. The Bull smiles back. “Used to,” he replies, “but I met a couple mages who eased me into it.”
He thinks of Vivienne first. Just like a tamassran with her horned headpiece, sharp sternness, and constant expectation of not just the Bull’s best, but his improvement. Like everything else in her life, she keeps tight control of her magic. And then the Adaar, who mostly used her magic defensively and to strengthen the bladed polearm she used as a staff. Out of battle she only drills with it, holding lightning close to it while going through her forms but never letting it escape. It’s all muscle memory with her, clean and deadly. She casts spells sparingly, all the more potent for her restraint.
And then Dorian, of course, the showboat. A ‘Vint mage seemed like a great example of magic used in awful ways – and to be fair, he still is. Just not by his own actions. Powerful, dangerous, sure. But self-aware. He got the hang of boundaries long before the Bull had any personal reason to make sure he understood. And… well, going to sleep and waking up with a mage in your bed would acclimate anyone, eventually.
There, that sharp stab of longing. This isn’t even the longest they’ve been apart, but apparently that doesn’t change anything. Apparently this is normal. Krem’d just patted him on the arm, completely without sympathy, and told the Bull he’d better get used to it.
Merrill is saying, “That’s good! I think people forget sometimes that mages are just other people. They’re mean, they’re kind, they protect people, they take advantage of people. It’s just that they have this extra tool to do it all with.”
The Bull says: “Yeah. Anyone’s dangerous with a weapon.”
They walk to the Hanged Man together. According to Varric, the place used to be more of a dive, kind of place you could reliably find a crooked guardsman or an old pirate, but he says it with a wistful voice. It’s not exactly a high-end establishment now, either, but mostly it’s labourers who drink there now, too tired to start much of a fight. Hell of a spot to find a game of Wicked Grace, though. Oh, they’d given him some narrowed eyes for a while, still wary of a qunari in their midst – until word somehow got out the Bull was Tal-Vashoth, thanks, Varric. Apparently there’d been a fair number of deserters over the four years the old Arishok had kept them there.
Not many left, these days. The ones who turned bandits had mostly been cleared out, apparently thanks to Hawke and her associates. Meraas sometimes shows up when he’s not off fighting for hire. Now there was an unlikely friend.
He’s here at the Hanged Man tonight, and nods at the Bull in the way that means he’d like to chat – hasn’t got the hang of boisterous or relaxed yet. The Bull’s working on it. He grabs a pint and then heads over to sit at Meraas’ table, over in the corner of the right hand wall and the side of the fireplace.
“Iron Bull,” Meraas says, and even manages a smile. He’s learning, even if it’s slow going.
“Meraas,” the Bull replies, matching his solemnity, but grinning over it. “Back from Ostwick way? Heard there was a good fight up there.”
Meraas nods, nudges his own pint in, hopefully, the spirit of a toast. “It was a worthy battle. I worked alongside some Vashoth mercenaries – I did not realise there was such a large presence of them here in the Free Marches. They have many generations, and families in the human way.”
He takes a drink, and smiles again, more convincing this time. “I met a man with the same name as your Inquisitor. He reminded me of your Dalish, though, and offered me a regular spot in his own company.”
The Adaar mentioned a cousin a few times, with a fond tone with a wry twist, who fit the bill. “Ozkud Adaar?” the Bull offers, and Meraas nods slowly. “I hear the Adaar line got damn big since the first ones defected, but if it’s Ozkud, he’s first cousins to the Inquisitor. I hear he’s good with a weapon, though,” and the Bull leers a bit, because that’s the other thing the Adaar said about him.
“His knifework impressed me,” Meraas allows. “And he is… very friendly. In that way he also reminded me of you.” More progress – his voice turns sly, his smile crooks. “I have been considering his offer.”
From across the room Varric yells about buying into a game of Wicked Grace, and Meraas makes another small gesture with his ale. “Go show those small ones the true strength of the qunari. Especially that dwarf.” Meraas scowls. “He keeps winning all my pay.”
The Bull salutes, then ambles over to the table, where Varric’s set up shop with Skinner and Rocky, a man in a guard’s uniform with an honest face, Merrill, and a few unfamiliar faces that must be some of Varric’s unofficial spy network. Or, possibly, some friends he picked up with the relief effort. The Bull squeezes himself onto a bench between Rocky and Merrill – and then Dalish shows up to drape herself over Skinner’s and Merrill’s shoulders.
It’s a tough round, but Merrill’s constant enthusiasm overrides any tells she might have had otherwise, and she cleans up to Rocky’s outrage and Varric’s applause.
“Knew you had it in you, Daisy,” he says, and Merrill ducks her head, bashful.
--
Early mornings, the Chargers train with the city guards. It’s nothing they don’t know, but they are a mercenary group, and getting lax on their practice spells trouble for everyone. Plus, the guard-captain Aveline reminds him a bit of Cassandra, and she’s a redhead.
“Keep your feet planted!” she bellows above the sound of wooden swords hitting shields. Stitches, whose foot’s been shifting each time the Bull slams his shield, winces and steadies it. Makes him lean against the strike, ground himself and move from the core, the way the Bull’s been teaching them all for years. He grunts an approval, and Stitches grins, catches the next swing and even knocks it back.
“Not bad for the team medic,” Stitches says.
“Can’t talk and block at the same time,” the Bull replies.
--
“How come we always get the southern beaches, Chief?” That’s Rocky, another cheerful griper, clambering over a sand dune which really shouldn’t have him in such a good mood. It’s taller than he is. And as if sand weren’t already treacherous footing, this grain was fine and completely dry. Krem’d already skidded down one of them, and the Bull’s ankle isn’t doing much better.
“You want a pitched battle on this kind of ground?” the Bull shoots back. “Guess maybe you could hope the enemy has worse footing than you?”
Grim grunts, which probably means he’d like to see the bandit with better footing than him, but he also has his boots planted beneath the sand. Good strategy. Not comfortable at all, though; the Bull’s boots have already filled with that shit and he’s been avoiding each dune a like an angry tamassran.
Neither Dalish nor Skinner have complained, but then, they’re all but barefoot. Makes it easier. The Bull would have his shoes off in an instant if it weren’t for the brace.
Still, Rocky’s got a point – it’s a great view, and makes a good place for a walk at least. Which is half of the point of this venture, to get them out of the city for a bit. The other half’s that Aveline keeps yelling about raider attacks on the Wounded Coast, with her guard already spread too thin trying to assist with the relief effort. Not really in the spirit of a day off, but if the Bull knows his Chargers, they’re all itching for a fight just as much as he is.
It’s a quiet morning, just the gulls and the waves and the wind. But the Bull knows raiders, they won’t be making much noise if they’re not in a fight already. That’s why he’s got Krem climbing rocks with his spyglass, scouting ahead. Well, that and the insubordinate grumbling that Krem makes no effort to keep quiet. Good thing the Bull never gave a shit about that. It’s damn hilarious every time.
“Got something around the side of this hill,” Krem calls down. “Can’t tell if it’s our fellows, but something’s got them cranky.”
“Up the hill, then.” The Bull jerks his head up the slope, a rough path outlined between granite outcroppings and thick green plants that jut up like tiny spears. Couple sprays of the yellow flowers with the swollen leaves. There were similar plants on Seheron, along the coast.
Looking down from the crest of the hill, they can all see the camp, and Krem’s spyglass confirms that these are definitely their raiders. Tracked ‘em all the way from the smuggler’s cut, not a short hike. But worth it, in the end. Aveline’s gonna be pleased.
It’s not the hardest fight in the world. They catch the raiders off guard after Skinner takes care of their scouts, leaving the remaining raiders at a disadvantage. From that point it’s just taking them down before they get too many hits in, and the fight’s over within ten minutes. There’s a shallow cut along the Bull’s bicep, Stitches’ cheekbone has started swelling around split skin, and Rocky claims a twisted ankle, but that’s about it. Stitches passes around some salve while Krem checks for survivors and Skinner loots the camp. Dalish just stands around looking pretty, while Grim stands around looking grim.
“Think Aveline’ll put in a good word for us, get us our own rooms for once?” That’s Krem, grumbling some more, pulling his knife out of one dead man’s chest.
Rocky slaps a hand to his chest and staggers back as if shoved. “I’m hurt, Aclassi. Cuts me real deep. I thought we had something special.”
“That’s why I don’t smother you in your sleep when you start snoring,” Krem fires back, and Dalish starts snickering. She had that arrangement before she and Skinner started fucking on the regular, at which point no one wanted to share with either of them. So Krem got demoted to lodging with Rocky, and the Bull got his own room. Unless they were in barracks, or some fancy inn, in which case the whole company tried to cram as many into a room as possible, rather than buy the whole place out. Nights like that, there was a lot more incentive to find someone else’s bed to crash on.
Not something to worry about here, though. Long before the Chargers showed up, someone converted the empty warehouses by the dock into rough living spaces. As the rubble was cleared from the streets and abandoned marketplaces, the construction workers built additional structures outside, which is where the Chargers all sleep now. There’s enough of them to have their own side of a wide square overlooking the harbor itself. Not home, but something like it.
Krem takes off his boots one by one, dumps an impressive amount of sand out over one of the dead raiders. Sounds nice, but the Bull doesn’t bother; they’re only gonna fill up again on the hike back to Kirkwall.
“I do believe I could get used to this,” Dalish declares, and stops to pocket a few bits of jewelry that Skinner thrust her way. “Next time, though, we ought to bring a picnic.”
--
Fenris makes it back to Kirkwall just in time for a summer storm. He’s got a dark look on his face and a weary band of stragglers behind him, but they don’t look Tevene. The Bull lurks outside the building they’re getting situated in until Fenris stalks back out to get drenched all over again.
His expression does clear up when he sees the Bull. He’d started out wary, but Varric had already assured the Bull that Fenris acts like that around anyone new. An evening at the Hanged Man passing battle stories around with some of the other mercs-turned-laborers put paid to that, though – apparently Fenris likes killing ‘Vints even more than the Bull does.
They’re not bosom buddies or anything, but Fenris makes for as good company in the tavern as a fight. That thing he does with his fist is pretty freaky, but after working with the Inquisition it’s not so much of a problem. Pretty satisfying to see it turned on some slave hunter creeping around Darktown, too.
“Bad run?” the Bull asks, because Fenris is the kind of guy who does business first.
Fenris nods and makes a disgusted noise that could rival Cassandra’s. “We never made it to Tevinter. After finding some slavers on the road, we followed their trail back to their base of operations.”
“Hence the smaller crowd you brought back,” the Bull says.
That gets a sigh. “There were… not as many survivors as I would have liked.”
The Bull claps him on the shoulder. Fenris and touching don’t always go well together, but the shorter the skin contact, the better it went over, and the first time the Bull’d tried it, before he’d known better, Fenris had inclined his head in what Merrill insisted meant “He likes you! He’s just not very good at saying it. Otherwise he would have knocked you over onto the floor, and Nora would’ve had to clean up another bloodstain.” Merrill had shaken her head. “She hates having to do that.”
They stand in friendly if not contented silence for a while. Fenris wipes sodden hair out of his face, pushes it back to drip all down the back of his neck. Guess it doesn’t matter, what with how soaked the rest of him is. The Bull flicks water out of his eyes, and Fenris glances over at him for a moment. “I don’t suppose Isabela’s returned yet,” Fenris says.
It’s the Bull’s turn to sigh. “Nah, nothing yet.”
“Here’s hoping she’s had better luck than I,” Fenris replies, and then they both look out over the water of the bay, past the remains of the Gallows, where no ships are in sight at all.
--
Varric’s waving his mug around, splashing Hawke with the Hanged Man’s best whiskey. “What you need is, Tiny, I’m telling you, what you need–”
“Said that already,” Hawke interjects, and then hiccups. She leans away from Varric before the mug comes back her way.
They’re all a bit trashed. Tomorrow got declared a day off, which probably meant “let’s get as drunk as possible and not have to work with a hangover” in Hawke talk. Seemed more and more appealing by the hour, as the rain continued through the workday and had them all moving stone blocks again rather than try to work with wet wood or mortar.
“You were saying, Tethras?” The Bull fixes Varric with his best stop-fucking-around face, but Varric just chuckled. “What do you think I need?”
Varric leans over the table to stage-whisper. “You need a good lay!”
The whole table starts laughing, the Bull included, even though sober it’d probably be a lot less hilarious. As is, Hawke’s pounding the table, and Dalish has her arm over Krem’s shoulders, giggling helplessly. The Bull times it until everyone’s calming down, and then says, “Well, if you’re offering…”
Varric, who’d been taking a satisfied drink, spittakes all across the table, setting everyone off again.
“Take him up on it, go on!” Krem yells, way too drunk for things like inside voices. “Chief’ll treat you right! Ask anyone!”
Wiping his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, Varric surveys the gathered drunkards around their table and beyond. He stands up on his chair. “All of you,” he shouts, “hands up if you’ve ridden the Iron Bull!”
He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but when the Bull turns around there’s not a single fucking hand in the air. No one around the table raises theirs either. “Damn,” he says. “That bad?”
“Oh, Maker.” Stitches starts laughing again. “Never thought I’d see the day the Iron Bull went monogamous.”
The Chargers all toast to that, prompting the rest of the table, but the Bull sits this one out. It – it was never that he meant to. Dorian, when in the same place as him, has always been demanding enough to monopolise the Bull’s time, and when he’s out with Isabela saving Tevinter from itself…
“Think about me when you’re fucking other people,” Dorian had said, pulling his mouth off the Bull’s dick for a moment, pupils blown, mouth swollen and wet. “Pretend I’m there, getting off while I watch.”
“Didn’t think you were into that,” the Bull had replied, casual like he wasn’t breathing heavy and flexing his thighs and ass just to keep himself from shoving his dick back into Dorian’s face.
“Not if I’m actually there.” Dorian had smiled, and raised his lips back to the Bull’s leaking head. “I simply want to make sure that when I return, you’ll be desperate to have me in person.”
“Count on it, Kadan,” the Bull had said, grinning, and then Dorian’s mouth was full again so that was the end of that conversation.
But the Bull didn’t think about him while fucking other people, because he hasn’t fucked other people. Most days he doesn’t even think about it, too exhausted from another day of hauling bricks and mixing mortar either in the hot sun or the chilling rain. Or the morning fog, if it’s an early start. He’ll get himself off, and yeah, he thinks about Dorian then. It’s not like he’s been going out of his way not to have sex, but. Here he is.
Rocky pokes his head. “Gonna have to agree with my fellow dwarf,” he says, comically serious. “You’re long past overdue for a little slap and tickle.”
“Not if you keep calling it that!” Dalish calls back. She’s still leaning on Krem, a bit more heavily now, and they’re both swaying in place. Skinner next to them has a wicked smile, probably one more overbalance away from shoving them both over.
Hawke gets to her feet, leaning on Varric’s shoulder – no one’s standing on their own tonight, looks like. “Second poll!” she yells. “Raise hands if you want to ride the Iron Bull!”
“I’ve hit a new low,” says the Bull, chuckling. “Now the Champion of Kirkwall’s playing wingman for me.” Then again, a good half the bar already has their hands up before he turns around, and a few more join them after that. “Guess it has its perks, though.”
After a thumbs-up to the crowd, Hawke drops heavily back into her chair. “There you go, Bull. Enough fish in the sea to make some fisherman very happy.”
“As it were,” Krem adds, completely unnecessarily.
The adoring public’s an ego boost, for sure, but – and here’s the really horrifying part – he’s not interested. Maybe he’s too drunk to get it up, maybe he’s having too much fun, maybe he wants to chat someone up first. But Varric’s got this knowing smirk, and Skinner just fuckin winked at him, because they all know the real reason. Of course they do.
“Nah,” the Bull says, “I’m good.”
Thing is, he’s not lying.
--
Late in the night, it’s just the Bull and Hawke, both of them having slowed down when Grim, without any fanfare, passed out face first in a puddle of spilled beer. The edges of sobriety prick at the Bull’s brain, a helpful warning. Last call was hours ago, though, so he endures it.
“Funny story,” Hawke says, drawing spirals on a dry spot of the table with the dregs of Varric’s last ale. “Isabela’s just like you that way.”
The Bull snorts. “We’ve got a couple things in common, yeah.”
“I mean the monogamy thing,” Hawke clarifies. She dips her hand back into the mug to retrace the spiral as it starts to fade again. “We never made an agreement to be exclusive, just committed. And we weren’t exclusive, not at first, but… it just sort of happened.”
She smiles all goofy, the lover’s smile – the Bull should know, from how many times he catches himself making it. “Somehow I can’t really see that,” he says.
Hawke snorts. “It’s not like we don’t fuck other people! We just do it together, now. It’s not the same otherwise.”
Think about me, Dorian had said, like it wasn’t already a certainty. Even after all this time he still needs to say these things, no matter how well he knows the Bull’s devotion to him. No matter how trusting he is in them. Some old hurts never heal completely. Hell, the Bull should know.
“Can’t see Dorian being into that, either,” he admits. “He likes having all of my attention.”
Another laugh out of Hawke. “I’ll bet.” But she gets serious again, leaving off her spirals to study the Bull’s face. “And you like giving him what he wants.”
“What he needs.” It’s an old joke, something that used to be a hard line in the sand before Dorian came along to leave footprints all over it. Dorian needs to change Tevinter. The Bull needs to work. But they want each other, together, as often as possible. And that’s important too.
Hawke, of course, misses the context. “That too,” she says. “What I mean, though – maybe it’s about that. Cause you like doing the service thing, I remember you telling me. It’s not just about getting yourself off. I figure if that were the case, you wouldn’t be in this position now.” She quirks one side of her mouth. “A lot of other positions, maybe.”
The Bull’s turn to snort. “Yeah, you have no idea.”
--
The rain lasts the better part of a week, and then they bring out all the lumber they threw into buildings with roofs or under pitch-coated canvas. It all got damp anyway, so the first day they leave it out in the streets that get sun to dry. The top stone blocks of unfinished walls need to dry as well, so it’s back to bandits and hauling rock around. Aveline has them all carving rough granite one day – Hawke’s old mine finally opened for business again, recently, with a full complement of supervisors actually equipped to handle undead, massive spiders, and the occasional dragon.
The Bull’s walking back down to the docks with a load of dry wood when he spots the ship turning through the narrow passage through the bluffs and into the bay. It’s too far away to see the colors flying, but he knows the shape of it, and his heart leaps up out of his chest like something out of one of Varric's novels.
He doesn’t bother to run. It’ll be a while before the Siren’s Call II makes it to the docks, and even then there’s the business of signing with the harbormaster, tying the ship off. So the Bull keeps walking, breathing into the adrenaline that’s telling him to drop the wood and sprint. Krem, with his own load of lumber, keeps shooting him knowing looks, but the Bull’s too elated to give him shit about it.
Burdens set down, the Bull hesitates by the quay long enough that Krem shoves him. “Don’t bother going back to work, Chief,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You’re not gonna get anything done anyway. I know that look in your eye.”
“Aw, you always know what to say to a fellow,” the Bull replies, grinning.
Krem rolls his eyes again, steps away. “Save it for your own fellow.” Shaking his head, he walks back up the steps toward Lowtown.
There’s not exactly anything for the Bull to do in the meantime. When he approaches the docks the workers there wave him away, and shoot him dirty looks when he doesn’t fuck off entirely. The Bull doesn’t give a shit. The ship keeps inching closer, growing in size and clarity through the haze over the water. The fog’s rolling in, overtaking Isabela’s ship. So what? So Dorian’s darkened face won’t be all gold from the afternoon sun? That’s some romance novel crap, and it’s a nice fantasy, but the Bull would take it in absolute blindness if it meant Dorian coming back to him.
Anticipating a fight he’ll feel like this, wound up and ready to run in or strike as soon as the opportunity come along. And he’s been here before, is the thing, because this isn’t the first time Dorian’s been gone. Just the longest. But here he is, too worked up to move, because otherwise he’s gonna start knocking dock workers and their cargo into the sea and that won’t be good for anyone. But he’s gonna vibrate out of his skin like this, so close the anticipation is crushing his chest—
A hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and the Bull whirls around – but it’s just Merrill, looking concerned. “They’ll be here soon,” she says, soothing, and Bull breathes out and tries to get a hold of his screaming nerves. “It’s been a while, I know. I miss Isabela a lot, too. And I like Dorian – he’s a good person. It’s good that they’ve been looking out for each other. I think they need it.”
“Yeah,” says the Bull, and tries not to feel guilty about not being there for Dorian to need. It’s how it has to be for now. It’s almost over. He smiles down at Merrill, and doesn’t have to force it at all. She just beams back, like always.
“I think Hawke and Fenris will turn up soon. And Varric,” she says. “The welcome party, as usual.”
At some point the Bull had been absorbed into it. Hard not to, showing up to wait for Dorian and knowing Varric already, but he hadn’t expected to get on so well with the Champion of Kirkwall and the menace of Tevinter. Maybe he should’ve. Varric tends to have a good eye for people, and he’s known ‘em far longer than he’s known the Bull.
Merrill waits with him, scuffing her foot at the blocks of stone making up the walkway. She bumps her shoulder against his elbow from time to time, or talks about old antics back before Hawke was the champion of anything, other than bad luck, it sounds like. Hawke shows up with both Varric and Fenris in tow in the middle of the one about some dwarf who thought he could bribe the Arishok into selling him gaatlok – the Bull had started laughing toward the beginning and hasn’t recovered when Hawke comes over to whack him on the back.
“Telling stories about me again, Merrill?” she asks, mock-stern, but Merrill only smiles wide and innocent back.
“But they’re such good stories!”
The Bull regains his composure in time to wave her off. “Just keeping me from doing something rash,” he says, and Fenris snorts.
So they’re all there when the Siren’s Call II finally docks. The dock workers glare at the Bull before he can even take a step forward, and he grumbles but doesn’t go start trouble just yet. For one thing, it’s just some of the sailors on deck who cast on, and after them come the refugees, clinging to each other and staring in uncertain awe. Sometimes it takes ‘em a while for freedom and safety to sink it. The Bull’s seen it before, probably will see it again, but it’ll never stop the fondness that settles into him. The Tevinter campaign might be moving at a crawl, but with every new wave of escapees, something’s being done. It makes a difference. It makes the Bull so goddamn proud.
And then they’re out, and being guided on shore, and the Bull doesn’t need the shove from Varric to stride forward, Hawke right behind him, glaring any resistance from the dock workers away. They’re at the end of the quay – they reach the boat – the cabin opens—
Hawke hangs back but the Bull doesn’t bother with the restraint, walking up to the side of the ship to reach out a hand to Dorian, help him down before kissing the life out of him. Dorian’s laughing against the Bull’s mouth, pulling at the Bull’s harness, standing on the balls of his feet to kiss the Bull back just as hard.
“You do know how to welcome home the returning hero,” Dorian says, pulled back only enough for the Bull to hear his words. “How I’ve pined, these long months.”
No point in replying with words, so the Bull just kisses him again, running hands over Dorian’s back, his shoulders, his throat, the back of his head. Dorian’s hands come up to the Bull’s face and hold on tight.
They don’t part, exactly, just untangle their faces to look over at Hawke and Isabela, who seem to be beating them at their own game. Isabela’s got both hands on Hawke’s ass like she’s never gonna let go again, and Hawke keeps making these soft little sounds.
“Dorian,” the Bull says, “I think we might be getting old.”
“Nonsense,” Dorian replies, smiling and smiling and smiling.