A/N - I am such a fangirl when it comes to the Iron Bull. First of all, I usually loathe emphasis on definite articles in proper names (I'm looking at you Buckeyes). But, for the Iron bull, it just works.

Disclaimer - If I owned Dragon Age Inquisition, I would fix all the stupid bugs, like the mosaic piece in the Hinterlands that no one can get to, because it's embedded in the freaking rock wall. Thanks for that Bioware! You're really doing a number on my completionist OCDness.


Shaky crap. Her hands were implements of delicate might: a flick of the wrist, a flex of digits, and she could rain elemental ruin upon her desired target. And yet, when it came to the most simple and basic of tasks, one that her fingers should instinctually orchestrate, she floundered time and time again. The vitaar and its application were so fundamentally Qunari, very much an integral part of her race's existence and survival. The innate immunity and ability to absorb certain poisons were undeniably useful traits, particularly for those raised Tal-Vashoth, and her parents had easily realized the war paint's importance. They reluctantly understood that it was one part of Par Vollen's culture that she had to know, one of the very few things of the Qun that, if preserved, had some value.

All the time, all the effort, all the care she could muster, and the best result she was capable of was a passable quasi-vitaar, one that would serve its purpose but looked amateurish. The unhorned of Thedas would never suspect its quality, but any of her race would know it instantly. Before Haven, the ongoing, familiar joke amongst the Valo-kas had involved her utter lack of skill in this regard, about how her fellow mercs would rather have a blind nug paint their faces. She had taken the good-natured ribbing in stride, even when it admittedly stung, and she had found a creative way around her shortcoming. Onok was a fearsome fellow mercenary, and only her passion for sex surpassed her hunger for battle. She was also gifted with the poison paint, so they bartered services—Onok gladly applied her vitaar while she took care of any "health" issues that might arise from a busy night.

But, that was before the Temple of Ashes and the Conclave, before the entire world had gone to shit. The Inquisition's genesis had been a turning point for her in a number of ways, some more life-altering than others. Without her clanmate, she had been forced to practice, spending whatever free moments she had with her pots, hoping that maybe the powers the Anchor bestowed upon her included face painting. Much to her dismay, it did not, and then the Iron Bull had come along to expose her.

Her eyes caught her reflection in the mirror, and she could see the splotchy imperfections in the strokes on her cheek. Grabbing a cloth, she wiped the work off of her face bitterly, sighing under her breath. For better or worse, hiring the Iron Bull and his Chargers had changed the status quo, and the addition of another Qunari amongst the ranks had rankled her for a number of reasons. Not only was he a consistent reminder of a world that loathed her very existence, he had taken on the mantle of Tal-Vashoth falsely, as a double agent for the Ben-Hassrath. It annoyed her to no end that he willingly accepted such a scornful existence; and on top of that, he had found his niche amongst the outcasts, making his assumed fate all his own. She envied that, terribly so, especially since she had just found her place within the Inquisition when he joined, reminding her of a certain acceptance that she would never achieve. Not that she ever pictured herself following all of the Qun's strict guidelines or living up to its exhausting expectations. Never would she be given the chance to convert, and even if the impossible occurred, Par Vollen could kiss her ass. Tal-Vashoth may be a slur to them, but to her, it meant freedom.

Free, but strange—the creature that looked back at her through the glass was an oddball, the sore thumb that had always stuck out. Mix one part towering frame with two parts horn, and add a healthy sprinkle of magic—the result was six foot five inches of pure terror. A saarebas, if birthed in Qunandar, she was both mage and Qunari, and a rarity amongst rarities in Orlais and the Free Marches. Even within the patchwork mesh of Thedas' citizens that the Inquisition comprised, she was still a misfit. She had learned long ago that she would be a perpetual loner, to wear her one-of-a-kind status as armor, a way to deflect some of the heartache and headache that accompanied such a status. Even the Iron Bull had been almost cuttingly quick to point out that she wasn't a true Qunari. It was a familiar sensation, the realization that even members of your own race could and would reject you. She had years to learn how to cope, to dull that troublesome ache until it receded into a dark and lonely corner of her mind.

Ironic, then, that now the "real" Qunari had been stripped of his precious Par Vollen. She would never tell him, but she pitied him for the loss, even if she had never known life under the Qun. She had had the benefit of peace and time to sort through the turmoil of rejection, but he had neither luxury. The danger in pretending to be something else was that, one day, you woke up and actually were something else; and, if she had to guess, the Iron Bull was Tal-Vashoth long before the events of the Iron Coast. It simply took a reminder of his old life to force him to embrace the new one, but his subsequent abandonment had left him rattled, whether or not his prideful ass would let him admit to it.

She knew what he was going through, better than anyone else in Skyhold, which is why she felt she was more than qualified to give Bull some counsel. So, she had made the foolish mistake of going to the Herald's Rest two evenings past to speak with him, and got the sight of a lifetime—broad shoulders and even broader horns, hovering over a crimson crown of hair and pale small breasts. She stopped dead in her tracks, realizing too late what she had stumbled upon, panicking in equal parts shame and guilt. Heat crept across her body, an inferno as his head came up, crystal blue eyes meeting hers, and the bastard had the nerve to grin at her. He never faltered; there was no hesitation, no acknowledgement of her presence save for the staring down he gave her—the gaze unapologetic, hungry, asking questions she could not answer.

Stroke, swipe, down and out, the line she left around her eye wasn't her worst work, so she would leave it for now. Maybe thinking about Bull wasn't the best mental material when she was trying to focus, and she had definitely tried to steer clear of the one-eyed wonder after his little show—with very little success. Their working relationship was an interesting mixture of harmless flirting, misplaced distrust, and friendly one-upmanship. They both enjoyed a good battle, albeit with entirely different methods of attack, but that didn't stop them from keeping a kill count for comparison's sake. Neither of them knew when to back down from a fight, be it with weapons or words, and of course, she enjoyed annoying him to no end. For his part, he seemed to like the challenge, or at least the coin it earned him.

A knock interrupted her stew, and the source of her disquiet came strolling up the stairs as if he owned the place. He sauntered his way over to her desk, stopping nearby, "Hey boss."

She lowered her brush before speaking, "You know...most people wait for a response after knocking."

Too late, she realized her blunder, as his reaction was lightning fast, zero hesitation. "You don't."

Wow, she really walked right into that one, and she tilted her head back, sighing while staring at the ceiling. It was well past time to nip this ridiculousness in the bud. "I had no idea that room was anyone's quarters, Bull, so I didn't even think to knock that night. I'm sorry…"

Hands up, he offered, "Whoa, Boss. I was only teasing you; I didn't actually expect an apology. Besides, I think you got an eyeful and a lesson."

They laughed it off, but just the thought of her "lesson" brought fire to her cheeks. She didn't understand why it had affected her so, after all, it was hardly the first time she had seen such behavior, especially living in a mercenary camp. Best not to think about it now, however. "True, but you didn't come here to remind me of that. What did you need?"

"Well, I came here to chat with you about the Chargers," and he paused, waving his hand toward the jars on her desk, "But, by the look of things, you may need my help more urgently."

She ignored the jab, steering the conversation toward his merc band and the results of their recent missions. She thought that maybe he had forgotten the vitaar, but as soon as he could, he circled back, "A little unsolicited advice, you should ditch the brush. Use your fingers to apply the poison."

She did not need a lecture from him, especially about this. "Thanks, but I'm good. "

His gaze never left her face as a smirk formed on his lips, and they sat there, neither flinching, when she finally threw her hands up. "Fine. So, it's horrible. Not everyone grew up with a Tamassran up their ass, teaching them how to blow their nose and paint their face."

His roar of laughter made her smile despite her inadequacy, and he shook his head, "Try it will you? It's more natural."

Rolling her eyes, she dipped the tip of her index finger in a pot, running it across her jaw line. The mark left did seem smoother, even if not quite as crisp. Tilting her face in the mirror, "Well...at least it's not any worse."

"Watch…" he offered, and all too late, she realized that his voice was coming from behind her. It was his finger, dabbed in poison, that she stared at in the reflection as it ran up along her other cheekbone. Large and lithe, his arm hovered in her periphery, floating delicately above her shoulder, and her body tensed involuntarily when her brain realized the path the paint would take. Across her temple, his nail grazed the base of her horn, and she bit her tongue to keep from groaning.

Murmuring, he teased, "Like that, boss."

The words swirled in her head, and it took her a moment to realize that he wasn't asking her a question. She found her voice, "I see…"

A demonstration, she thought, and nothing more, but then she saw his smile. Save for the grin, Bull appeared mostly unaffected, and he could have easily been drinking a beer or killing a demon. She disliked that cool exterior, that Ben-Hassrath shell he used to mask his feelings. His finger stopped tracing her face, "Then show me…"

His body was too close behind her, and his words, well, they weren't explicit but there was something in his tone. Lifting her right hand, she dipped her finger in the nearest pot, and moved it toward her face. Her arm shook slightly, and it took all her composure to resist jerking away when his hand enveloped hers. They were her weapons, and when restrained in any form, her anxiety rose a thousandfold. She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly—being helpful, she reminded herself, Bull was just trying to teach her. Three calloused fingers wrapped around her wrist, while his thumb and index finger split across her palm to guide her. The tip of her digit made contact with her forehead to continue the line, but he held back, "Gently...Adaar. You're applying paint, not swinging a staff."

Tuning him out, she concentrated on the warpaint and her patterns. It was strange, the application with the pad of her finger as opposed to a brush, but it did seem more natural, more connected. Once she seemed to have a grasp of the technique, he let go of her hand, and when finished, she actually had a mostly-passable vitaar.

"Not bad…" he spoke from behind her. "In Par Vollen, an imekari of age is taught first to apply the vitaar by hand. A brush is a later addition, only if the wearer chooses it, and it is mostly used for the finer details."

She nodded, turning in her chair to face him. "Well, there's one thing that the Qun managed to get right."

He chuckled, "Next time, I'll teach you a few more tricks, and if you keep improving, maybe I'll even let you practice on me."

That potential reward sent her mind racing, and the only conclusions it quickly came to were entirely fun but complicated ones. It would be for the best if there was no next time. "Bull, I appreciate the advice, but I don't think…"

He cut her off, "That you need help? Of course you don't. It's a good thing that I know better."

The finality of his statement, and the absolute but hated truth of it, silenced her as he crossed the room, pausing on the top stoop of the stairs. His eyes, they were focused on her, staring at her in the same way they had the night she found him on top of the barmaid, and a chill danced across her body. "See you tomorrow, Boss."

"Night, Bull," she finally managed, as she watched his retreating form disappear slowly from view. He was trouble—deep, in-over-her-horns type trouble, but she was never one to shy away from a problem, especially not one built like the Iron Bull.