Chapter Text
The Inquisitor stood before The Iron Bull in the training grounds, talking up to him while the horned giant nodded along. No doubt he was giving him the details of their next travel, a rather straightforward set of directions through the Western Approach, sealing rifts and taking back bandit holds. Charger work, except for the rifts. And there were to be ancient ruins to uncover and a dragon researcher to meet, so Dorian was coming along too.
Just himself, the Inquisitor, the Iron Bull, and his Chargers. All of them, into the desert, for weeks.
Dorian watched from the market stall a distance away as the Inquisitor stood firm and commanding before a warrior near twice his size. Somehow he still seemed the larger. Dorian’s gut churned in uncomfortable heat, half worried, half aroused.
Wasn’t this precisely why he’d vowed not to get involved with his coworkers?
He watched the Iron Bull pocket the rag he’d been using to polish his axe and cross his arms. He watched the Inquisitor say something serious with a frown. He held his breath.
Relief — disappointment? — and definitely confusion squeezed themselves into company as the Iron Bull smiled with his reply, and Taren patted one of the Bull’s big arms and laughed. The Iron Bull grinned, said something else, and this had Taren shaking his head and walking off on more laughter.
Bull caught Dorian’s glance and tossed him a too-knowing nod.
Dorian pretended to suddenly have remembered something very important, and hurried off.
—
“These bandits can sure take an ass beating," Bull said, following his oh so wry observation with a chuckle. Dorian rolled his eyes. “Kinda like someone else I know, eh big guy?” He said next.
Dorian coughed, choking on air.
“What, too far?”
“Bull,” Dorian muttered unhappily, palms suddenly sweating in their grip on his staff as he silently prayed that the Inquisitor, just up ahead, was not paying attention.
“See, I told you, easy to fluster,” Bull called out next, directly to him.
The Inquisitor laughed. Then he shot Dorian a small smile.
“I know,” he said, and his eyes flashed possessively, “one of the things I like about him.”
Dorian felt his cheeks heat. He lifted his staff, took aim, and shot a bolt of fire out towards one of the last limping bandits.
—
Taren finished hammering in the last peg to secure his tent, and leaned back to take a deep breath of the quickly cooling sunset air. The evenings here brought with them pleasant breezes and scarlet sunsets which gave way to a wash of stars across the dark, clear sky. He meant to savour all he could of it. As grim as their tasks might be, there was a lot to appreciate about being so far from everything, so isolated among the dunes and ruins. It had been just over three weeks since they’d arrived in the Western Approach, and the peak of their progress had been made today, securing a fortress away from the bandits that had occupied it. Now they were to close another rift or two, if they could manage it, before the business of the next great task that would be the Herald of Andraste’s calling would send him somewhere new. Leliana’s scouts at the fortress had urged him to make haste; Taren meant to take as many more of these quiet nights in the sand as he could. He surveyed the rest of camp, noting the Bull in one corner, finishing up with his own tent, and Dorian still fussing about some poles a ways off from there. He considered offering his help, but opted instead to savour the view — just for a moment longer.
Dorian had come along claiming an interest in the history and artifacts they’d be sure to uncover, but his comparatively low rate of complaints, even during the hottest stretches of the hardest days, was telling. Instead the whole company bantered freely between the hard-won fights, and laughed over fires once each night’s camp had been set. He must have enjoyed his previous journey with the Chargers for more than just his interest in Bull, which was comforting, and understandable. It was the camaraderie — almost like those excursions Taren had made into ruins with hunters from the clan in his youth — it was the sense of being outside of the world, only concerned about survival through the wilderness and a good hearty laugh at the end of the day. Taren had missed that. Missed being rugged, as Dorian might call it. All that time in Skyhold and Orlais trying his best to appear as civilized as possible, still hearing the word savage whispered at his back. It felt good to be himself; feet in the sand, calluses returning to his hands where they gripped his staff.
The rest of the Chargers were still with the company of soldiers that had begun settling into the reclaimed fortress. They had stayed back to handle trade and messages, while he, Bull, and Dorian had moved on ahead toward the next marker on the map — close one more rift, set one more camp. The former would be tomorrow’s task, and the latter was nearly complete. Dorian gave an angered shout in the distance, and Taren chuckled quietly to himself.
A louder laugh boomed out behind him, giving Taren a start.
“Glad the two of you worked things out,” Bull had come to his side, remarkably quiet over the soft ground. “You’re good for each other.”
“You think so?” Taren turned to look up to the towering Qunari, who now observed the spectacle Dorian was making of himself from an easy lean.
“Sure.” He shrugged. “You need to loosen up in that head of yours, all that political shit is giving you wrinkles. It’s not you. And he needs, well… maybe I shouldn’t say. But you’ve got that… strong hand energy about you, if you know what I mean.”
Taren chuckled softly again. He should have been jealous. He had been jealous. But it had been remarkably easy to let that water flow under the bridge with Bull. They’d had one short conversation about it — a “nothing personal, boss,” and a reply of “I know, Bull.”, and that had been most of it. Then they’d played cards, had a drink, and talked about other things. Maybe it was that Bull didn’t seem to look at Dorian like Taren did, or that Dorian didn’t look at him the way he sometimes looked at Taren. Taren didn’t think that he was particularly enlightened around the subject of sex even by Dalish standards, but he was a poor choice for a Chantry figure, that much was sure. In truth, it had never really been about the sex. The only thing about the sex was how it occasionally intrigued him, particularly when the desert sun caught off the glint of sweat on Bull’s broad chest.
Taren gave his head a shake.
“Alright, fine, he needs someone with a good heart,” Bull admitted, seeming to take the shake of his head as an answer. “Though I’m sure you’ve got a handle on the rest, too, don’t you?”
Taren laughed again, a little more loudly than he maybe should have. “Are you fishing for details, Bull?”
“Hey, what can I say? Kicking ass works me up.”
And with that comment, something not-quite-new stirred in Taren’s mind. He turned more fully, and eyed The Iron Bull with intrigue.
Bull smirked. “I see the appeal, that’s all I’m saying. Stop me if you don’t wanna hear it boss, but I’ve gotta tell you, he was particularly into the picture of you being there with us when —”
Leave it to The Iron Bull to instantly outmatch him. Taren felt his cheeks heat hotter than they had in the entire time of their trip marching under the desert sun.
Before he could splutter out an answer, Dorian came strutting over, complaining loudly as he did and then crossing his arms as he looked between the two of them
“And what are you two on about over here? Gossiping behind my back? Again?” His tone took on an exaggeratedly wounded lilt.
“I was just telling the boss how much you liked to think about him while I had you —”
“Bull!”
Dorian coughed and turned scarlet, which was comforting, in a way. His nervous glance at Taren, immediately following the outburst, was less so.
Bull shot a glance his way too. Taren pursed his lips together as he tried to work out what to say despite the abject lack of coherent thoughts finding their ways to his head. Those thoughts were apparently all busy being headed somewhere else.
“Stop me any time, remember?” Bull prompted.
“I think I’d like to hear more, actually,” the words, when he found them, sounded surprisingly smooth. Dorian coughed again. “Dorian?”
Now, Dorian only heaved a sigh and shrugged. “My sins are laid bare Inquisitor, by all means,” he said, though his resignation was… breathy.
“Maybe a demonstration?” Bull took the opportunity to chortle after his own easy suggestion.
In response, Dorian said, “Maker, do we have enough brandy for that?”, and Taren said, “demonstration?” at more or less the same time.
They looked at one another.
Dorian was wide eyed, blushing still. Joking. Not joking? Not saying no. But — “if you need to be drunk to be comfortable, then no,” Taren said, decisively.
Bull’s laugh was an unstifled guffaw. “See what I mean? Good heart.”
“You’re not serious,” Dorian said, quieter. He swallowed. Taren watched the movement against his tense throat.
Their flirtation had always been forward, the game of Dorian’s teasing always boundary-pushing and salacious. It wasn’t often that he got to play this game against Dorian and win. Taren shrugged. “Are you?”
“Let me know when you’re ready,” Bull said, and winning the game, sauntered off to his tent.