Seeing the prisoner had broken the boy. The Iron Bull felt the distinct crawl of fear make it's way up his spine, siphoning upwards from the pit of his gut. The boy broke between silence and screaming and sometimes rage. The rage was the most frightening thing—it was in his rage that the boy seemed less the boy that he was and more the demon he had been, and demons could get in your mind and twist things up pretty bad.
Especially if they were demons that your boss championed, befriended, and even loved in a weird father-like sort of way. The Iron Bull shook his head. Boss had some crazy ideas, all just waiting to come bite them in the collective ass.
"I want to help!"
They were back at the screaming part now, with the boy pacing in the center of Josephine's office, hands pulling at his hair. He'd been shouting something along these lines since seeing the prisoner hours earlier. The Iron Bull leaned against the only door out to the main keep, raising an eyebrow any time the boy came near.
"I can solve it. I just need to help!"
"For the love of all that is good, Cole, will you shut the fuck up?" Dorian didn't look up from the fireplace. He sat slumped in one of Josephine's ridiculous chairs, curled over the tender wound across his gut. One of their magic healers had seen to it, but Dorian still moved as though he had become old in the last two days. "Why don't you help me by keeping your mouth shut, or silently thinking over the problem, or, I don't know, jumping out of the fucking hole on the way to the war room? Anything that will make your voice become a completely separate entity from my awareness, I thank you kindly, will be the most helpful thing you could ever accomplish."
"Hey now, Sparkler—"
"Oh, no. No, no, no—not one word to me, Varric. Don't test this friendship. I'll say things so horrible your ancestors will spin in their graves, and I'll mean every damn word."
Varric sighed, looking back at The Iron Bull and rolling his eyes for effect. The Iron Bull shrugged at him, though it was easy to see the hurt underneath the dwarf's exaggeration. He wore it like a second coat—or a blanket, more like, wrapped tightly around his shoulders and dragging him down.
"Hey kid," Varric said as he hopped up from the second chair, "Let's go talk in the tavern. Get our thoughts together. We'll talk to Fenris when the time is right. Let's give him some more time to recover."
The boy stared at Varric. "It should be a small thing, but it sticks in the lung and pulls the life away."
"Yep. Just what I was going to say, kid. Come on."
The Iron Bull moved away as the dwarf pulled open the door, Cole close on his heels. The door closed behind them, bringing on a silence better defined by the crackling of the fire. The Iron Bull took Varric's abandoned seat and looked into the flames, running the past few days through his mind.
An assassination attempt on the Inquisitor—embarrassing, to say the least. Never mind that The Iron Bull had once touted himself to be the best body guard there was; the very fact that some capable nut-job was able to slip through Skyhold's defenses and spend hours hiding in the Boss's own closet was enough to make the Inquisition hang its head for a good long time. Rumors were already flying around, half of them blaming inside sources and fictional turn-coats.
One rumor was made all the worse for the consequence that it was mired in. Varric and Cole had been gone to Kirkwall for a good long time after defeating Corypheus; they'd only come back to Skyhold one day before the attack. The link between Varric and the tattooed elf was literally written fact, leaving the dwarf to suddenly find that the ground beneath him had gone thin.
"Bull, pass me that bottle over there. The full one."
The Iron Bull stood and grabbed a bottle off of the mantle, taking the second one for himself. "Glass?"
Dorian's eyes twinkled in the firelight as he shrugged. "The lovely Lady Montilyet will already have my head for drinking her wine. Why stand on formality?"
The Iron Bull chuckled but got a glass anyway. There was something about the image of Dorian chugging from a full bottle of wine that led directly to the image of many things bursting into flame, breaking, and generally ending up in chaos. A delightful notion, usually, but not in Josephine's office. "Here. Try not to make a wreck of yourself."
"Hah! This from the man who tilted up a cask not three nights ago. Brilliant." Dorian received the glass and bottle with a wince, taking a moment to read the bottle's label. He frowned, but poured a full portion anyway.
The Iron Bull smiled as he sank back into the chair, sprawling his feet out towards the fire. Dorian was Good People. A Vint and a damned brat, but sweet despite it all. As beautiful inside as out, The Iron Bull had decided, save for a slight tendency towards cruelty. The Iron Bull would be lying if he said that Dorian had never crossed thought as a possible point of interest—but fortunately no one had ever asked, so The Iron Bull had never needed to lie.
"I can't believe she's making him talk to every damned noble that happens to have their puffed sleeves within our walls. They all just want to say, 'Ooh! I was there! How terrible! The Inquisitor looked just awful!'" Dorian sat up enough to tilt back the glass of wine, throat moving as he drained it from full. The Iron Bull raised an eyebrow and took a swig from his own bottle.
Dorian wiped his mouth. "I mean, it is true. That glowing bastard planted another scar on our dear Herald's head. I'm still trying to think of a way we can comb his hair to hide it. You know, he can't just walk around like that, looking like some common ruffian." Dorian filled and downed a second glass before beginning to pour another. "I know you all think I am mad but it was the one thing Vivienne and I agreed on, so you know it must be true. People look to, well, looks. You can have the sharpest mind in Thedas and no one will listen if it looks like you should be herding druffalo. The only time you can get away with that sort of thing is if you're old—or a powerful darkspawn, I suppose. I dare say we aren't either of those. Not yet, anyway, with regards to age. I am in my prime, even if half the people I encounter seem to think anything over twenty-five is elderly. The Herald needs to come to understand this—he needs to stop acting like he can wear nothing more than a burlap sack and clogs."
The Iron Bull shrugged, taking another pull from his bottle. It was fear prattle, nothing more. He'd seen Dorian and Boss get into a hundred arguments over nothing, just because they were afraid for each other's safety. They both had that bully response—get them in a corner and they became sharp. Never the victim when they could be the aggressor.
"How kind of you to let me talk to myself, by the way. I make for great conversation."
The Iron Bull gestured at the door. "You just yelled two guys out of the room for talking to you."
Dorian shifted, wincing with the motion. "One of them is a screaming horror and the other is best friends with the lyrium junkie that tried to relieve the world of my—of the Inquisitor, thank you. Let's not mention that I would have been back in the room hours earlier if Varric hadn't tempted me to a game of Wicked Grace. So yes, their very voices are anathema to me in every way. How astute of you."
"But you want me to say something? This isn't some sort of peculiar Vint trap?"
"Well, you'll just have to test it to see, won't you?"
The Iron Bull tilted the bottle up until there was nothing left. "You fought well," he said with a smack of his lips. "Even with the element of surprise that would have been a near impossible battle."
"I—thank you." Dorian stared into his glass, his hair falling forward over his forehead. The past two days were written all over him, manifesting through the prominent shadow of stubble on his jaw, the paleness to his skin, and the smeared lines of kohl from rubbing his eyes.
"You know—" Dorian's voice caught and he cleared his throat. He sipped at his wine and stared into the fire. The Iron Bull let him. Patience always led to greater revelations.
"You know, Bull, there was a distinct moment when I thought I had gotten the person I adore most in this world killed. It was not a comfortable feeling."
A quiet settled between them and The Iron Bull's thoughts drifted towards the comforts of the Qun. They hit against a hard wall, an impulse that he had planted the moment he watched his world explode before him. That was what loving someone meant, regardless of the sort of love. The Iron Bull got it. He felt it ten times over for his guys.
"I often disparage others over their use of excessive blood magic and their unhealthy obsessions with demons, especially over something so...sentimental as affection. But, odd as it is, I think I would have done anything to keep our dense-headed, over-read and over-opinionated Herald alive. Anything." Dorian looked over to Bull, a half smile under red eyes. "That's horribly selfish of me, isn't it?"
"Don't you pride yourself on being selfish?"
Dorian snorted and took another sip of wine. "I suppose I do. Maybe selfish isn't the word—maybe it's desperation. Or, I suppose, temptation. Yes—that's what bothers me the most. I have never before been tempted to do something evil. I suppose "evil" is a poor, tawdry way to put it—I mean truly grievous: pain for pain's sake, fear to feed fear. I've never wanted to slowly bleed a person and gain their strength in order to win a duel, or cram a demon down my own throat in order to add a wing to my house. I make quite a social living off of mocking those that do.
"But," Dorian said, swirling the wine in his glass, "I wanted this man to hurt. I wanted him to die screaming. He would have, if you hadn't broken down the door."
The Iron Bull still didn't truly understand what he had seen upon bursting into the room, Sera behind him. An elf, glowing and screaming on the ground, Dorian rigidly prone, seemingly bleeding to death with a hand out stretched. The Iron Bull hadn't asked for clarification. He and Sera had the same mind: most magic was something a well placed boot could handle and the rest wasn't worth thinking about. The less they knew, the better they would sleep. "I could have made an earlier entrance if the door wasn't locked, you know."
Dorian gave another snort and drained the glass. "You spend a lifetime in Tevinter living against the grain. Let me know how many doors you leave unlocked after that adolescence."
The Iron Bull laughed. "You Southerners and your moral hangups. I will never understand the point."
"I am not a Southerner. And the point is that I habitually lock doors when I enter a room in which I intend to enjoy myself. It is a matter of propriety, if nothing more. I have learned my lesson and will first scope the room for assassins from now on, I assure you."
"I am sure Cullen will supply more than a few people to do that for you." The Iron Bull tossed his bottle into the fire, wincing for a moment as he realized that Josephine would likely disparage such an action. "It's not temptation."
"I'm sorry?" Dorian was focused on filling his final glass. He tossed the bottle with the same nonchalance as Bull, though it bounced off of a piece of wood and rolled away. "Whoops."
"Wanting to hurt someone to protect those you love—that's not temptation."
"Well, it's not honorable. Nor sensible."
"No. It's a reflex. The way we fight—we learn not to listen to the old reflexes, the fight or flight tendencies that keep us moving as kids, as rookies. We learn to make ourselves brave; we teach ourselves methods that rarely fail and make those our new reflexes. It's how we survive the sort of life we lead. But sometimes we're faced with something like this, something we haven't trained for. We have to go to the old reflexes. Listen to the gut instead of listening to what we've learned."
"That doesn't sound like the Qun to me, Bull."
"No, not really."
"So is that what you did when you saved the Chargers? Listened to your gut?"
"Yeah."
"Too much time around us Southerners. Getting addled." Dorian shook his head. "Sorry, that was rude of me. If it's any consolation I've always thought you did the right thing. Krem is one of the best men I know and Dalish is a brilliant archer—or duelist, or whatever it is she tells everyone, I don't remember. She's good at what she does. I can only assume that the rest of them are just as worthy."
"Yeah, my guys are the best there are." It didn't make the Qunari on the dreadnought any less worthy. It didn't change the fact that The Iron Bull's entire life was now devoid of—but there was that wall, keeping him from falling in too deep.
"You know what, you raise a good point. Listen to my gut—my gut says that our dear Inquisitor and Lady Montilyet aren't going to be back any time soon. It says that Cassandra and Cullen are going to frown and grunt until our prisoner dies of boredom. It says that you, me, and Sera need to go talk to the prisoner our way. Right now."
The Iron Bull snorted, only to push himself up as Dorian suddenly wobbled to his feet.
"Don't you snort at me. Picture it—picture Sera off the leash. Can you imagine?"
The Iron Bull could imagine. The whole charade would likely die at the tavern door. "What you need right now is more rest."
Dorian frowned, swaying slightly. "How dull. I expected more from you, of all people. Where's your sense of adventure?"
"Right where it should be. Yours has probably been knocked around a bit."
Dorian nodded slowly, drooping a bit under the growing effects of the wine. "I suppose you may be right. I think my insides are still sliding about in the wrong directions."
The Iron Bull snorted a laugh and stood. "I'll help you to your room."
"The Inquisitor's room, if you could be so helpfully scandalous." Dorian held to The Iron Bull's proffered arm and slowly balanced himself. "I do ask that you search that idiotic balcony over the bed for me. Monsters in the closet I can handle, but I get enough of them falling from above in the workplace. Can't bring that sort of thing home, can we?."
The Iron Bull gently led Dorian and opened the door. "Don't worry," he promised, "I'll even check under the bed."