The attack was unexpected.
A group of Venatori, coming at the party from behind, Dorian barely had enough time to fall behind with Vivienne while River and Bull slashed through sudden hordes of enemies with impressive speed
Their collective power seemed to give them an advantage, the sheer number of enemies surrounding them would likely kill anyone else. Bull's large axe took out the mercenaries in twos and threes, while the speed of The Inquisitor's arrows and clouds of grey blue smoke left them confused and easy to take out with a blast of ice from Vivienne's direction. Vivienne?
A scream, or rather a disgusted yell, emanated from his side. Dorian whipped his head around faster than he assumed his body able. A fast knife wielder had slipped past the other two, was invading the mages' space, cutting her off as she attempted to step back to gather room to wield her staff correctly.
Dorian quickly turned, throwing fire at the thug's chest. Vivienne made use of the distraction, gathering herself before firing again, making quick use of the man. She turned, then, likely to make some witty comment or pompous remark, but her eyes widened almost obscenely upon seeing him. "Dorian!"
He didn't throw up the barrier fast enough.
The axe viciously smashed into his shoulder before he could stop it. Meat and bone crumbled under the force, splitting skin and leaving him screeching at the impact. Dorian's staff had rolled from his land, bouncing as it hit the floor. Dorian screamed, pushing forward with both hands on the brutes chest, a surge of energy shooting through his bare fingertips and spreading, roasting, scalding through the man's armor and skin. Dorian pushed further, the face and body now coated in fire, crumbling into ash. Dorian collapsed as the Venatori did, crying out at the impact on his shoulder and hip on the rocky ground.
The rest of the Venatori were finished off, he could tell, River wouldn't be fussing over him as much as he was if there was still danger around. He had been rolled onto his good side, head supported by soft hands, fingers gently running through his hair before holding his head still. Rivers' face was close to his, panicked mutters of 'it's alright' and 'you'll be okay' at his lips because he was always too nervous . He had a cut above his eye, blood over Vallaslin, red as his hair. It would scar. A shame, really. Dorian reached out to touch it.
"He's bleeding out, we must get him to camp quickly," he heard Vivienne say through the haze of agony and voices. She crossed both hands over the gash, applying pressure.
He screamed, rolling, trying to get away from the source of the agony and failing, writhing as River tried to hold him down. Dorian yelled again as his arm was forced into the socket, throat raw and voice broken, completely and utterly incoherent.
A large hand on his hip grounded him, a weight keeping him from losing himself in the pain, a voice, quiet until now. Horrifically calm and kind in the face of everything . "C'mon, Dorian, you'll be alright, just relax for me."
Dorian didn't have enough time to question. Didnt have enough strength to comment on the way 'Dorian' had replaced 'Vint' or the disgusting sappynes that came from Iron Bulls grounding force. And so he obeyed, even as Rivers small hands were replaced by larger ones, stroking his hair as he was lifted to lay on muscled thighs. Dorian felt himself losing consciousness.
The muscled chest he lay against was warm and comfortable, deep breaths lulling him back to unconsciousness the several times he awoke on their journey to camp. His arm had been secured to his chest by a scrap of fabric, sliced from River's long coat, and he was wrapped in the cool white of Vivienne's cloak, now covered in bloody red patches. He felt a pang of guilt in his chest, quickly forced away by burning pain. He tucked his face against Bull's chest. Tried to sink into the agony and forget. His thoughts were slow, thick and unstable like Fallow Mire rivers. Dorian rolled his eyes deliriously, tongue too thick to speak, counting the birds in the sky before giving up and digging his face into the leather strap at the Iron Bull's shoulder.
"He's pretty delirious, Boss," Bull had rumbled, hoisting Dorian closer. His knee. Dorian was by no means light, carrying his fair share of muscle and weight. And Bull's knee still aches when he pushes it too far. He'd seen Bull on his knees enough times to know that first hand. The thought stuck Dorian hard, a clarity through the fog. Reaching up, he groped blindly about Bulls face until his burnt hands glossed over the scars on Bulls jaw. Bull looked down at him, his expression soft and deliberately readable. Dorian wanted to scream.
"You're knee," he wheezed, voice strained.
"Don't you worry about that."
Dorian fumbled about for words, hand slipping from Bulls face to grip at the meat of his shoulder.
He felt thin fingers on his forehead and subconsciously moved into the touch, their coolness a pleasant contrast to the burning hot.
"We need to get him back to camp," Vivienne had said, pulling back, voice firm and confident, "or the blood loss will kill him." Dorian panicked, tensing.
Bull breathed out, slow and even and deliberate. Dorian could feel it through his entire body, rattling his brain in his skull. He matched it, a light through the fog, stilling his tumbling thoughts. Consciousness receded, floating in and out like waves on the Storm Coast. His fingers were twitching, he could feel the flicker of the tips against his abdomen, but he couldn't feel his hand.
"Oh for fuck's sake!"
Dorian slammed his fists down, causing the bowl in front of him to rock and wobble, falling off the dresser and drowning his robes in water. He swore again. His dominant hand, the hand holding the blade he intended to drag across his skin, was shaking.
He was standing, crumpled robe hanging off of his hips, chest bare, glaring into the mirror. A fine layer of stubble gripped his cheeks, around his jaw, leaving him growling in frustration. Dorian scratched his face, disturbing the layer of gel he'd shakily applied. Turning in the mirror, Dorian eyed the scar tissue on his shoulder, ugly and raised and pink. Every slither of self control was tested, then, Dorian wanting so badly to send a hurling ball of fire through his own reflection.
River had offered to help him, of course. Ever supportive, he was the type of person that asked you how you were and meant it. Dorian had refused, pride playing a part, but also the fact that, looking at the pointy ears and clean face, the closest face the Inquisitor had come to shaving were the demons he beheaded. An accident waiting to happen. Dorian didn't care for the risk.
Solas is an elf. Varric will tease. Blackwall doesn't look like he's ever seen a razor. Can Cole even grow a beard?
Lifting the blade again, he stilled his trembling wrist with the grip of his opposite hand. He brought the blade down, slow, angled, just gracing his cheek.
A sharp, spasming pain in his shoulder. Dorian dropped the blade and winced at the small wound on his cheek.
"Havin' fun without me?"
Dorian didn't need to look, he'd recognise the voice anywhere. He still did. Made eye contact with Iron Bull and instantly regretted it.
"I'm not quite in the mood," he said, trying to keep his tone light and joking, "don't you have some barmaid to ogle?"
"No." Bull's tone was serious. Taking everything Dorian thought he said and knew he meant and exposing it, clear as day. Dorian didn't know how he felt about it. "I wanted to come and see you."
The reassurance was almost worse. The way Iron Bull tried to convince him that he was someone others wanted to be around beyond sex or information. The way Bull said it like he believed it to be true.
Dorian didn't comment. Gentle words were far too hard to come by to complain. Bull was still waiting for his consent.
"Fine."
Bull came in and made himself comfortable, watching Dorian from the end of the bed while he lathered his face again and lined the blade up. There was blood on his face.
"Let me," Bull said, the tone commanding but also open. Dorian had the option to say no and that gave him pause.
"Heh," he chuckled after a time, self deprecating and not caring, "it's the damn shoulder. Put me out of my misery while you can. It'd be a public service."
Bull caught the joke and smiled, though still looked like he was forcing back commenting on the nature of it. He took the blade in his big hands and placed it to the side, before grabbing a rougher cloth and submerging it in the warm water. He asked Dorian to lift his head up. Dorian didn't want to meet his eyes.
"Could have tilted my head for me. Not very sexy of you."
"Don't be cheeky." But he placed his finger under Dorian's chin anyway, guiding his head to the side.
Kaffas.
"Starting now."
"And here I thought I'd start greying."
Bull smiled, a little bit more easy going than he had been before. It made Dorian's chest feel weird.
Bull wiped his face with warm water. Then lathered the gel onto his skin. The domesticity made Dorian twitchy.
"You're alright." As if those words were just any. Bull glided the blade down over his face. Careful, precise, steady. Rinse, repeat. He took his time to do it right. Bull always did. Dorian didn't know if he loved or hated it. He wanted to melt under the attention, to run away, to make some ridiculous comment, to spit an insult.
"And done," Bull rinsed his hand and the blade, using the residue water to curl Dorian's moustache into its usual style.
Bull placed both hands on his shoulder and squeezed. Then walked over to the bed and sprawled himself across the sheets.
Dorian stood still for a moment. Hesitant, raw. He wondered if he should put his clothes back on.
Bull pushed through his thoughts as always. Read his mind.
"Hurry up and come over here, I need your advice on something."
Oh.
End.