Archive of Our Own ^beta

He hated the suit they shoved him in. It was altogether too tight, the buttons like little lashes across his chest, the collar wrapping up over his throat and trapping him to the chin. Josephine had chosen the crimson velvet, claiming the color to be stately and noble. To Cullen, it spoke too intimately to the spill of fresh blood.

Perhaps they were right to dress him in such a color. Surely, though, it was not becoming of the Inquisitor's assertively kind nature.

There was a touch of nails where his neck met his hair. The ends were sharpened to a point, like talons. Their drag along his scalp made him shiver, and the woman took it as encouragement. She spun a lock of his hair about her finger and pulled. As she retracted her touch, laughing, Cullen wondered if she took with purpose from him a strand of hair. If she was planning to slip it later from her pocket and use it in a potion to bind him to her forever.

A man in a vulture’s mask leaned over, beak against Cullen’s shoulder as he slid a palm over Cullen’s backside. Cullen flinched in his blood-red velvet. He couldn’t hit his way out of this one. He had to be good. For Josephine, and Leliana, and the men serving under him, counting on him to serve proper face at the Winter Palace.

Don’t yell, he told himself. Take it well. And yet: “Did you… just touch my bottom?” Cullen pressed himself against the wall as they pressed themselves onto him. It was a retreat with no real hope of escape. It was a prolonging of the inevitable.

Don’t toy with me, he thought venomously. An old echo, deep inside: If you want to kill me, then kill me!

His back to the wall felt familiar. Felt like Kinloch. The stench of waste and magic intermingled and slipped his nostrils in a putrid burst. Cullen’s throat contracted; he held in the threatening gag. Maker, don’t let them see, he prayed.

“Perhaps your bottom simply found in my hand a cozy resting place. There’s no shame in it.” There was tittering, but there was no pain to follow it. Not yet. Cullen waited, stomach tense. Freezing spells were a favorite amongst the abominations. They said it made his skin look pretty, all blue and blotted. One was especially fond of draping ice-sickles across his neck like jewels. She had wrapped her finery upon him, all the way up to the chin.

Cullen swallowed, just to see if he could. The collar pulled tight.

The vulture gripped Cullen’s chin, tilting it this way and that, as if for inspection. “Is that what you’re looking for, dashing Commander? Someone to touch you? It must be tiring, all alone up in that tower, forever pushing papers. Perhaps you just need a hand.”

“What I need,” Cullen said, slapping the vulture’s hand away. “Is some air.”

Around him, the faces stilled, then began a steady march toward anger. He couldn’t see them, covered as they were in clay and porcelain, but he could feel it--the agitation. The build of it. He got good at doing that early on. Kinloch wasn’t good for much, but it was good for that.

“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? Here we are, trying to please you--” A few women let out high, anguished sighs. One fluttered her fan in dismay. “And yet you treat us so harshly! Were the rumors true? I had chosen not to pay them heed, for they painted you in such a cruel light. Ungracious—a brute, you see. Here at the Winter Palace, we appreciate warriors, but only those who remember those they serve. Now,” The man held out a hand, icy-blue ring perched high on his second knuckle. “I know you serve the Inquisition well… don’t you, Commander?”

Cullen took that hand, that foul hand, and bent to press a kiss across it in penance, because the vulture was right: for the Inquisition, Cullen would serve. Touching this vulture, though he felt like frost, was the least Cullen could do. Should do.

A hand--big, warm--pressed upon his back. It stayed high, between his shoulders. A safe place. It was the touch of one respected warrior to another. It made him relax, and that made it dangerous. Cullen looked up. And up.

The Iron Bull grinned down at him, the light of the chandeliers catching in the craggy scars littered upon his face. He wore them well, thought Cullen. An odd thought to have, here and now, but no less true for the strangeness of it. If Cullen himself had so many, he was sure that the scars would end up wearing him.

The Iron Bull turned to the vulture. “The blame is mine. I wore him out last night in the practice ring. He told me that he needed to prepare for this, that he was serious about meeting you all, but I wouldn’t listen. Felt I had to learn some defense for when I was put in the field and the demons came knocking. You know us Qunari; we love to fight. Guess it got to my head.” Here, The Iron Bull scratched gently at a horn, smiling in an ‘aww shucks’ manner. You liar, thought Cullen wonderingly. Yet the court cooed, as if in admiration of an unruly animal performing an unexpected trick. “The Commander was nice enough to indulge me. He’s… let's say he’s real generous that way.”

Before the vulture could withdraw his hand, The Iron Bull grasped it and placed a kiss upon that icy-blue ring. Cullen watched the man flinch, as he had flinched, and felt satisfaction sharp in his gut.

“Commander?” The Iron Bull prompted. The noblemen and women were looking at him, but the vulture wasn’t really a vulture anymore--he was just a man, his power taken with a kiss, and his posse were only a man’s pets.

Cullen stared hard at the deep fissures carved into The Iron Bull’s cheek, where it looked like The Bull had taken a spray of gravel to the face. He licked at the scar cutting through his upper lip in sympathy, and said: “I have been training. The Iron Bull is right. I’ve been training my whole life for this, to fight for something I can serve without reticence, so forgive me if I’m tired. Forgive me if I require a minute of air. Surely the gracious court of the Winter Palace would not deny a weary man a moment’s peace before he returns to war?”

Fair-weathered they were, the lot of them, because the pets shook their leashes and turned to stare down the man in the vulture mask, until he bowed out gracefully. “Kind sir and...Qunari,” The man sniffed. “May the lights of the Winter Palace guide your heavy hearts to rest.”

Vague threat aside, he turned tail and fled.

“Been awhile since I cleared out a space so quickly.” The Iron Bull said, watching the rest of the nobles scatter, then reform into new, shinier groupings. So easily they did this. Cullen, who wanted to be a Templar from eight years of age, who still had his lirium kit, empty though it now was, failed to comprehend their sudden adaptation.

The Iron Bull exhaled a great puff of air. The red suit stretching across his shoulders bunched, unable to contain the sheer breadth of him. Josephine and Leliana had the thing special-made, The Bull’s portions being… what they were. Yet the collar had burst open at some point between their entrance and the present moment, the proud line of The Iron Bull’s neck unwilling to be collared. “Wanna go grab some of that fresh air? There’s only so much alcohol that can make these power plays bearable, and the booze here is the bubbly shit that doesn’t even get you drunk.”

“I should stay.” Cullen said.

The Iron Bull looked down at him. His expression was kindly, yet it lacked a certain intimacy Cullen associated with true friendliness (not that he had enough experience to gauge whether his judgement in this case was either fair or unfair). Cullen straightened his posture under the weight of the blasted suit as The Bull continued to peer at him. He had the distinct feeling that his words were confirming a suspicion of The Iron Bull’s, that with their utterance he was erasing a question mark next to The Bull’s first impression notes on Cullen’s character.

Cullen sent up quick thanks to The Maker, glad that he had talked little to The Iron Bull before he had become Tal Vashoth.

“You’re the type of guy who feels like he has to do everything, huh?” It was a statement more than a question. Cullen didn’t know why The Bull had phrased it like one. Perhaps he thought to shield what he assumed were Cullen’s delicate sensibilities. Whatever the reason, it rankled.

“These people? They don’t want to talk to you, and I think you already know that. Not about anything important, anyway. You could ply them with arguments on why they should support the Inquisition, but they’ll just gloss over your words while trying to trick you into a verbal fumble or into a fancy bed. It’s fine to not give them the opportunity, to leave the schmoozing to the Inquisitor. People have their own niches. That’s why we got all sorts at Skyhold. Hell, you don’t see Josephine strapping into armor and taking to the field.” Here, The Bull laughed.

It was a rough, pleasant sound. A sound that Cullen linked with life before Kirkwall, back when his fellow soldiers were always just and he would never need to doubt them. A silly time, for an ignorant boy playing at being a man. It had proved false, going forward. This would prove false, too. The Iron Bull came to them as a spy.

“If everyone has their ‘niche’, as you call it, then what exactly is yours?”

The Bull smiled at him. He seemed amused by Cullen’s surly distrust. “Mine, right now, is finding a spot of fresh air.”

-

In the late sunset, amidst potted lilac on a balcony bathed in cream and gold, Cullen saw a rare sight: The Iron Bull’s singular eye widening, ever so slightly, before dipping back into its usual, relaxed curve.

“I thought about what you said.” Cullen leaned his arms over the balcony’s edge next to The Bull, letting that simmering something in his gut unspool as the scent of flowers caressed his nose. “I’m willing to give it five minutes.”

The Bull chuckled. “Five whole minutes, huh? I’m impressed.”

“You should be.” Cullen said. “I’m really pushing the boundaries, here.”

The Iron Bull raised a brow.

“I can joke.” Cullen said, face heating. “I am capable, despite rumors to the contrary.”

“Good to know, about your capability.” The Iron Bull’s face was quietly delighted. The mischievous look of a boy teasing contrasted with the grisled, battle-worn exterior held a certain charm. Cullen kept his face to the sky, let the cool air calm the surprised flush from his face.

“Four minutes.”

“Four minutes.” The Iron Bull volleyed back. He held up his right hand, palm flat. The pinky had been cut down to the first knuckle, giving him the appearance of holding up only four fingers.

Cullen chuckled. It was a joke in bad taste, and Cullen was bad for liking it, but The Bull didn’t seem to mind. He had been the one to make the joke, after all. Perhaps it would be alright—if the laughter was kept in this moment, between the two of them.

“Tell me,” Cullen said. “Why did you… do what you did back there? What did you have to gain?”

Saccharine cheer could be heard beyond the glass doors at their backs, knocking intrusively against the fragile panes, but it seemed so very far away, small even, as the sky turned a blue so dark it may as well have been black and the stars unfurled into the inky vastness like newly budded flowers. The wind whistled in Cullen’s ear, a heartbreakingly lovely thing. He closed his eyes and breathed for the first time in... The first time.

The Bull nudged a bit closer. Culllen could feel it in the sudden rise in heat at his side. “Your question is—“ Spotted laughter. “Difficult to answer. I get the feeling that my response wouldn’t please you.”

“I’m not one for pleasantries, as you’ve pointed out.” Cullen said. “Don’t attempt to protect what you believe are my ‘delicate sensibilities’.”

The Iron Bull turned to face him, leaning one broad forearm against the balcony’s edge. “I don’t like assholes who think it’s their right to touch someone who doesn’t want it. That’s the main thing.”

Cullen swallowed, the vaguest hint of decay pressing on the back of his tongue. He could feel excess blood flow into his face, morphing his complexion, twisting it away from whatever rosy hue upon which it had previously settled. He assumed it matched his suit now. Cullen sighed. He turned to face The Bull, mirroring their bodies.

“I see now why you didn’t want to tell me. I don’t like to think of myself like that.” As That Someone. It wasn’t as if he denied that he was That Someone, some of the time. He knew he was. It was what being That Someone meant: vulnerable, out of control, too hesitant to strike when the target needed striking. Not the type of person who should lead the most paltry of military organizations, let alone those of the Inquisition.

“Most don’t.” The Iron Bull said.

Cullen squinted, waiting, he realized, for the stirrings of a lecture. This was where Cassandra told him that he wouldn’t judge another in his position if they happened to be That Someone, so why judge himself so harshly? It came up often enough during the tougher withdrawal days that he could pin her argument almost word for word. She thought that if she kept saying it he might someday understand, as if she just hadn’t explained it well enough. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that though he knew she held a winning hand, that her argument was sound and just, it didn’t matter. Logic alone wasn’t enough to make something true to the mind. He was sometimes That Someone, and it was shameful for no other reason than because it was him. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but it was his, and Cullen had sworn to bear it along with the rest.

The Bull let Cullen squint at him for a long time. He didn’t even appear bothered by it. Could he know Cullen’s feelings? The thought was disquieting.

“You know,” Cullen said. “I kind of want to throw a pot of lilacs at your head right now.”

“This is where I say ‘I told you so.’”

“You can say that, but I still would have wanted to know. Any other reasons?”

The Iron Bull squinted back. They stood there, squinting at each other, two sides of the same hesitantly interested coin, before The Bull’s lips pulled up into a slow, rakish grin. Cullen’s stomach did a maneuver that was vaguely inappropriate, and he crushed it back to stillness with great prejudice. Now was not the time. If there was a time for… such things, then Cullen had failed to experience it.

“The side benefits were pretty nice.” The Iron Bull said. “Messing with nobles is always a good time.”

“If only Josephine understood the pleasure.”

They smiled at each other: The Bull freely; Cullen with a sincerity laced in hesitance. The ruddy heat on Cullen’s face tampered back down into something manageable, if not comfortable. He was still pink; he could feel it. He could feel The Bull feeling it.

“Five minutes.”

“What?”

“Your allotted time off the clock. Congratulations, you’ve managed to relax for the span it takes to talk about the weather.”

“We didn’t talk about the weather.” Cullen said, slowly. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to stay out here, with the stars and the flowers and The Bull. The realization made him sweat.

“That we did not. However, I’m not opposed to it, if you ever find yourself with five minutes to spare.”

Cullen walked to the balcony door. His hand pressed upon the door’s gilded handle. The party no longer felt far away. In a moment, it would be here, the little space they had carved out swept up in the whims of others. “I’m not much for small talk.” Cullen muttered.

“Don’t imagine you are. It’s just an offer; feel free to take it or leave it.”

“When you were speaking to them, earlier… I know you were humoring them, but why did you mention defense when you said you asked to train with me? It was specific. More specific than dealing with them called for.”

The Iron Bull chewed at the inside of his cheek. Cullen watched as the craggy skin rippled under the lamplight. “That was a quick read, about my word choice.”

“You didn’t expect it of me.” Cullen knew his methods seemed crude and boorish in comparison to the Inquisition's other advisors. He was the one stumbling his way through court politicking since they stepped foot in the Winter Palace, after all. It wasn’t personal. There was no reason for him to take it as such.

The Iron Bull strode towards him. With his stature, it only took him four small steps to reach the balcony’s doors. “You’re no cookie-cutter, even if your appearance suggests it.”

“Should I take offense?” He asked, even though, with the expression upon The Bull’s face, the answer could only be--

“Definitely not.” The Iron Bull said. “Between you and me, it’s a favorite combination of mine.”

The Iron Bull’s words stroked past friendly. Intent dripped—the air taking on a condensed, hungry quality—yet The Bull proved he was unwilling to let it spill over without word. He hovered above Cullen, but he didn’t touch him. He looked at Cullen like… like he wanted, but he didn’t cajole or beg. Take it or leave it; like a handup--friendly, but without inherent expectation.

The Bull wouldn’t cry foul if Cullen left him hanging. That, along with the lilacs and the stars, made Cullen want to reach out for the hand offered. Maybe he’d extend a fingertip in return, just one. Just once.

“You’re dangerous.” Cullen said.

“When I chose to be. So are you. I don’t think we have reason to be dangerous to each other, unless you’re into that.”

“I don’t know what I’m into.” Cullen said. His lungs contracted--too fucking honest
--before he added: “Not with you, anway.”

“That’s for us to figure out. And hey, whatever happens, I’ll get my chat about the weather.”

Cullen snorted. “I suppose that’s not too much to ask. And I’ll learn why you think you need defense lessons.”

“Sure will. If you set a time.”

Just once. “A week from now, an hour after the main hall’s supper. Bring your favorite weapons and I’ll bring my best shields.”

Cullen yanked open the balcony’s door, shattering the tail-end of the moment, and slipped back into propriety. He left upon the gilded handle a sweat-slicked handprint, like a haphazard present. He was filled with the surety—uncomfortable but manageable—that The Bull would know. And he would only reaffirm that knowledge when he pressed on the handle himself, and he felt the sticky-desire left upon it ooze into his pores.

So be it: let Cullen be caught red-handed. The idea of revelation brought with it fear, brought with it relief.