It was nearly twenty minutes past when Dorian said he'd be out, which meant it was reasonable to go in and attempt to root him out. With a quiet grunt, Bull got up from the stairs outside the library and headed in. He nodded politely to the woman behind the reception counter, who knew him well by now, who told him that Dorian was last seen sorting new things that had come to the library.

Bull wondered if he'd found something of interest that distracted him, or if it was just taking longer than anticipated. Either way, he moved quietly through the stacks and found Dorian in an open area he liked to spread out in.

There on a table were a sword, a bandolier of what looked like bells, and a stack of books. Judging by the one that was sitting open, they were hand-written.

"Dorian?" he called gently, not wanting to startle him: that would be a recipe for an accident.

"Don't tell me you've never read smutty romance novels," Bull said as he carried Dorian away from the remotely populated part of the boardwalk, toward the actual beach. It was still early in the season - there was no one around.

Dorian was solid and warm in his arms, easy to carry. "Remember the first time I carried you like this? Maybe you don't, you were almost delirious and injured, probably dehydrated. Out in the Western Approach. I think you burned yourself out - you were so angry about the Venatori. You went down on a mission, and I carried you back to camp."

Bull had never really mentioned it after the fact, because, on the off-chance that Dorian did remember, Bull wanted to preserve his dignity. It was before they'd fallen into bed together, anyway.

Now he was carrying him across a much different kind of sand, with absolutely no concern for Dorian's dignity. Well, maybe a bit: he hadn't thrown Dorian over his shoulder yet.

Bull woke with a quiet start. It wasn't the violent kind of waking he'd done last month, but more in line with his regular nightmares. That one had been... strange. Vivid, like a memory instead of a dream. He tried to lay quietly, tried to get his heart to slow again by breathing deep.

But he felt too awake.

He eased out of bed carefully and shuffled toward their bathroom. He'd started staying in the house again after the Purge, after his nightmares started easing. After his urge toward violence had ebbed. Once he felt like he was in control of himself again, he'd returned fully to Dorian, grateful to be close to him again.

But that dream...

He rubbed his head and turned the light on. Outside, the early morning sun caught on the frost that had formed overnight. Bull leaned on the counter and just tried to collect himself a bit. He closed his eye and thought of the dream, of dying. Absently he touched his chest, let his hand run over familiar scars but then--

Bull froze and opened his eye, looked in the mirror. There on his chest were new scars - new, freshly healed it seemed. They corresponded with where the ice had cut through him in the dream.

"What the fuck," he breathed.

Bad dreams weren't new to the Iron Bull. He'd been having them since... he was a child, really. Anxious nightmares about being possessed by demons and the nameless fears of a child. During and after Seheron, those fears had gained names, had gained memories: fog warriors, Tal Vasoth, madness. Even after reeducation those memories haunted him, and more than once during his ten years in the south he'd woken up in a cold sweat, or worse. His room in Skyhold looked like a wreck for a reason, especially after he'd lost the Chargers.

Most people assumed it was because he was a barbarian Qunari, and that suited him fine. No one needed to know that the Iron Bull fought demons in his sleep when the memories were bad enough.

Usually a warm body next to him helped to keep the dreams at bay. He slept well with Dorian nestled against him, and despite the upset of arriving in Darrow and the occasional troubling thought, Bull had enjoyed relatively restful nights for the past year.

But the past month was like being in the middle of Seheron all over again. As soon as he drifted off, nightmares plagued him. For the most part he was quiet through them, or he woke and simply didn't go back to sleep. He was tired, but he could still do his job and he tried to wave off Dorian's growing concern. Just a rough patch. Maybe it was the time of year, maybe it was-- he didn't know. Some thoughts weren't worth humoring.

That night, though, they were bad. He could see the bodies of the children, ravaged by poison. He could see what remained of the Tal Vashoth, ravaged by him. The smell of the blood heavy in the too hot, too humid air of the island. And somewhere in the back of his mind he heard Corypheus laughing, promising him madness.

Something woke him. Bull moved without thinking, rolling sharply until his full weight bore down on the body that had touched him, hand around a delicate throat and squeezing.

"You would find a house with a tower," Bull said as he looked up at the building, a smile tugging at his mouth. It almost reminded him of the main building of Skyhold in miniature, and somehow that seemed like it would suit them both of them.

It wasn't quite the estate Dorian had first suggested, but it was on a decently sized piece of land - it allowed for privacy without being out in the hills and there was plenty of space for any kind of gardens that Dorian wanted. Seemed like something both of them could live with.

He looked over at the mage, fond. "Does it have the wood stove you wanted?"

Fight club was good. Dorian hadn't come - work, maybe, or he just hadn't been feeling in the mood for it. Bull hadn't pressed and had promised he'd be home before it got too late.

Dorian had seen him through a few fight clubs now, but none of them had ever been like this one. At some point toward the end of the evening, Dorian had gotten a picture on his phone: a selfie of Bull and Krem with a giant carcass in the background. Bull's eyepatch was long gone and the pair of them had been a bloody mess.

Not terribly long after that, Bull arrived back to his apartment. Even if Dorian's was very nice, it was more practical for them to sleep in his: Bull's bed was bigger and more sturdy.

He looked like he'd come out of a fight in Thedas, scored with fresh lacerations and incisions, bruises blossoming across his gray skin. He'd cleaned off the worst of the blood - especially the wyvern blood - before leaving the fairgrounds. Thankfully there had been a working hose there.

One morning Bull woke up, no longer Askaashi, once more seeing the world through just one eye. It felt strange, but good. His memories felt close, felt real. It had been one hell of a week. He was glad Krem thought to keep some of his adult clothes around. He got dressed and headed out; they sky was heavy and overcast, and every time the wind kicked up he could smell rain.

He made his way to the library; he remembered that Dorian had to work, which was how he'd ended up at Krem's. Or maybe it was because he'd kept trying to itch his horn nubs on everything Dorian owned.

It felt really good to be an adult again.

The rain started before he reached the library; when he got there he saw a familiar figure just coming out. Bull grinned.

"Dorian! I'm back."

The Iron Bull felt barely together some days. He struggled to hold onto the Qun, but there were no Qunari here. The Ben-Hassrath didn't exist if he needed to turn himself in. The were no tamassrans to help bring him back to center.

And there was nothing for him to beat the shit out of.

Even after fight club, he still felt-- something. A loss, a disquiet. He was struggling. Struggle is an illusion. He'd been thinking a lot; he hadn't had the Chargers to drink with and he and Krem only recently made amends. And he felt like he should figure this out on his own. Shouldn't he?

There's another option, Bull.

Dorian's voice played again and again in his head; he remembered the look on the mage's face when he realized that Bull was not Tal-Vashoth, apparently different from the one he remembered. He remembered how Dorian looked at him that night in his kitchen, all but pleading with him to let go of the Qun. Why, he wondered?

You can survive without the Ben-Hassrath. You can survive without the Qun. I've seen it.

He knew why; he supposed he knew why. Their people were at war. Part of him wanted to argue he could be Qunari and care this deeply about someone from Tevinter, that they were not mutually exclusive ways of being. He got on fine with Krem, after all. But, a deeper voice whispered, the Qun would always come first.

The Iron Bull stopped outside Dorian's door and knocked heavily, hoping he was home.