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“I really wouldn’t want to bother your…” Cullen seems to be mulling over his next words, as if choosing them carefully could be the final catalyst that would make Bull kick him out of the van. “partner,” is what he finally settles into, his eyes still fixed on the dashboard, hands wrapped around the sleeves of the dwarfing sweatshirt Bull lent him what seems like months ago.
“If by partner you mean my kid, sure. I don’t think Krem would mind you taking the couch for a couple of nights,” Bull chuckles under his breath, the sound of the wiper and the insistent pattering of rain against the hood being the only noise aside from his voice inside the car.
There’s quiet for a couple of seconds, then an almost imperceptible, “Oh, I—I see…”
They drift back into silence, streets illuminated by the orange glow lamplights cast in between thick curtains of rain. This silence though, has a different quality to it than the one they had previously settled into; Cullen had been hammering his leg up and down—a nervous habit or a sign of something else, Bull doesn’t know—lip caught in between his teeth as his hands fiddled with the drawstrings of the hoodie. His back is now relaxed, no longer huddled forward, eyes fixed somewhere out the window as they pass residential home after residential home, thick puddles of mud forming over pristinely mowed lawns.
When Bull pulls up the driveway, Cullen’s eyes blink owlishly at the pink-painted door of the garage, a stark contrast to the neat white and blue ones of the rest of the buildings in the neighborhood. No lights are on, Krem’s bus must have gotten stuck in traffic, which is no surprise due to the pouring rain.
They manage to get to the front door without getting too wet, keys already prepared in Bull’s hand get into the lock in a swift motion, letting them into the inviting warm darkness. Bull catches Cullen watching as he shuffles around the entrance; watches Bull not having to duck to get through the door because of his horns, watches him switching on the light and pointing to a corner for Cullen to leave his wet ratty sneakers, offering him the worn blue slippers Bull always has ready for this kind of occasions.
“C’mon in, reckon you could take a hot shower while I ready everything for dinner,” he says offhandedly, switching on a couple more lights as he goes; living room first, corridor leading up the second floor next. “Imma go grab a couple of things,” he shouts, climbing the stairs two at a time, leaving Cullen standing two steps away from the soft lavender rug under the coffee table, water slowly pooling around his feet, eyes uncertainly following Bull.
Two clean towels from the bedroom cabinet, a pair of Krem’s big pajama trousers and another one of his old sweatshirts—a butterscotch colored one, worn with use, the dragon from the Fereldan Frostback’s logo in their 20:40 tour smiling front and center. Curry would be a good choice for dinner, he muses, as he checks that all windows are closed in the upper floor, maybe some fried rice with some spare vegetables from the bottom of the fridge.
He’s down in less than three minutes. Cullen is still standing in the same place, motionless. Water has kept dripping down his hair and clothes, slight tremors dance through his body, copper eyes, almost glazed over, seem to be staring at some point in between the wall covered with photos of Bull with Krem, and the window.
“Hey,” it snaps Cullen out of it, he turns in a flash almost as if expecting something bad to come from his back only to find Bull with his small pile of warm clothing and towels, “you OK?”
Cullen nods silently once again, his eyes refuse to meet Bull’s, which after a whole week feels like a regression to that first meeting at the bus stop under the rain. It’s difficult for Bull to pin down what might be causing it, shame and fear are strong contenders on the list after the days he’s had to observe Cullen, but still—it almost feels wrong to assume so deliberately, more intrusive than he already feels when he talks to people and they slowly unfurl in front of him little by little, like flowers greeting the sun. And, by Koslun, does he not need more reasons to keep comparing Cullen to some kind of sun-bathed being, carrier of golden light in the middle of the storm, but they just keep coming.
“There’s a shower there, first door we passed before getting here?” Bull decides to explain, pointing as best as he can with his elbow. “If you give me your clothes later, I’ll give ‘em a wash and dry, so you’ll have them as good as new tomorrow—”
“Why do you keep doing this?” Cullen croaks out all of a sudden, finally rising up his head, defiant.
Bull raises an eyebrow, “I don’t follow, kid.”
“Why do you keep being so damn—nice?” he grits out, hands bunching up into fists. “There’s no way in the whole damn Void you don’t want—something out of this! Money is out of the question, so what!? You expect to—to—” his hands move up and down his body, head bending down for a moment as if in shame—it hits Bull like a wild druffalo stampede. This is a kind of anger he has previously dealt with, a sort of confrontational attitude he knows how to tackle.
“Look, Cullen,” Bull plops down his little pile onto the coffee table, next to the stack of books Dorian left there a week before and the very elegant Antivan glass tray Vivienne had gifted them past Satinalia. “I don’t know the shit you have gone through since your parents passed,” Cullen struggles for a second, something akin to a whine building in his throat as if he was on the verge of screaming again. Bull puts up a finger to silence him, “and I don’t need to know if you don’t want to, really. But I can imagine life has not been kind to you, at least not as of late, and if giving you a job while you try to bring yourself back up, and inviting you over to dinner and sleep is what it takes for that to happen, well shit, I’m more than willing to help.” Bull shrugs, smiling down at him.
Cullen blinks rapidly for a couple of seconds, as if trying to come to terms with what he just heard before he bends his head down once again, “But… why?” the question escapes him in a low murmur.
Bull shrugs once more, it’s not an unfamiliar one, doesn’t make it any easier to answer. “I grew up in a place where kindness was not a thing you simply—handed out for nothing. As I left that life behind and started meeting people, started doing good stuff for them expecting nothing in exchange, well, I found out sometimes something great can come out of it. I’m not saying it always does, like, shit, it’s not even about personal gain—and this is gonna sound corny as fuck, but sometimes seeing that they are doing good after you lent them a hand or a hoodie, feels nice.” Bull has to breathe in and out a few times before he continues, eye trained in Cullen as he sees him slowly straighten up his posture a bit, “That’s how I got Krem in my life—and he’s a great kid, best thing to have happened to me since I got out of Seheron. Lost some stuff in the battle for custody but,” he winks with his only eye, “you win some, you lose some.”
Silence settles again over them, like a blanket.
Rain keeps pouring outside, heavy drops banging against the roof tiles and the windows, strong gusts of wind making the long branches of the cherry tree outside the kitchen thud against the glass pane; the storm is getting stronger. He’ll have to secure the shutters before it gets even worse.
Slowly, very slowly, Cullen shuffles a bit closer, dragging his feet across the hardwood floor until he reaches Bull. His hands are cold, dead cold as they clasp around one of Bull’s own. They remind him of things he felt in Seheron, things he thought qamek and re-educators had made him forget very long ago. Cullen’s eyes though, his eyes are warm—brimming with unshed tears—but warm, the same way his flushed cheeks are, or the unruly ringlets of curly hair that fall across his forehead to frame his face.
Cullen is warm and very much alive, and in between stuttering breaths manages to say, “Thank you—you are… I—thanks.”
Bull tries to give him his best smile, ruffling Cullen’s hair with his other hand, to afterwards give him a few gentle pats, “C’mon, go get that shower and I’ll make us something to eat, yeah?”
It takes Cullen two or three minutes to finally let go, getting rid of his sweatshirt right there before Bull helps him get the towels and other essentials up on his arms. As he walks towards the door and Bull prepares to turn, get an old shirt on and cook, Cullen clears his throat, looking Bull straight in the eye with something that very much looks like hope.
“I—I want you to know that no matter how everything turns out, I will always be thankful for this,” he nods towards the sweatshirt Bull’s slung over his shoulder, “you saved my life, and even if I don’t find a way of repaying you… I hope this is one of those times where you win some,” and smiles.
If danger was what had come to Bull’s mind the first time he met Cullen, the feeling of seeing how your hands barely manage to grasp the line in a boat in the midst of a gale—the line has already burnt his palms here, the boat is already at sea and out of control, a huge wave about to swallow it under. And Bull’s gonna go willingly.