Stuck on the Puzzle - Dragon Age Inquisition - Bull/Cullen

Conditions 1

The idea had been percolating in his mind ever since he'd gotten wind of some of the Iron Bull's proclivities.

Before the Inquisition, before Haven, after Kinloch and after Kirkwall, in the years he'd tried to find something like stability in the chaotic world around him; selfishly as much for his own peace of mind as for anyone else's...after that, he'd had something of an arrangement with a member of the city guard - Damhian Searidge - who was an official disciplinarian for those who had committed light to moderate offenses.

It hadn't been much really. A cat o' nine tails was the only thing of any high regard between the two of them. Cullen had come to believe the man had enjoyed it, quite outside of it being his job, and Cullen had needed it to stay focused.

An unfortunate side effect of Kinloch. Pain could be destructive or instructive. It could be focusing or distracting. Cullen used whatever tools were at his disposal to make sure he could be as competent as possible. It turned out that lash marks riddling his shoulders and upper back kept him grounded, even if he had to be very careful with the elfroot salve to make sure that they didn't infect. It wasn't like Searidge tore him apart. It was that helping to rebuild the Gallows and spending one's days going about in heavy clothing created the kind of sticky, sweaty humidity that was terrible for healing wounds.

Besides, Searidge wouldn't hit him if any of the lashes had broken skin and infected. He'd work over a bruised back, but wounds like that...

'Take the sodding elfroot potion,' Searidge had snapped at him once, thrusting it into his palms. 'You make me feel like a monster.'

'It's not my intention,' Cullen had said, feeling agitated and unsettled, knowing Searidge wouldn't touch him now. Not tonight. 'I need the reminder for more than twelve hours. It's not like I can see you every evening. Suspicions are something we can do with less of.'

But after that, Searidge had looked at him for too long sometimes, something troubled on his face. He found excuses to not be available the nights when Cullen needed to see him, even if those evenings had been arranged days or even weeks in advance. By the time Cassandra Pentaghast came to Kirkwall, Cullen was several orders of ready to be well shot of the place and all the memories that followed him. Naively, he hoped the withdrawals wouldn't dog him so badly if he took on more responsibility, and more, and more.

Perspective had made him realise that he'd probably put Searidge in an awkward position. A person of some authority asking for something like that, requiring utmost confidentiality, who confused the cleanness of the arrangement by not taking care of himself properly afterwards.

Now, at Skyhold, they'd acquired all manner of items from merchants and tradesfolk and more. A crate of disciplinary tools had come in one of the many consignments, and Cullen had been one of the first to go through them, publicly claiming he didn't think the Inquisitor would want to see much by the way of corporal punishment. He was right about that, too.

It meant that he could steal several of the items to the loft that served as his room and hold the unused cat o' nine tails in his hands and stare down at it when the withdrawals became more than a niggling thought, but a feeling that the very sky was reversing its position. When the vertigo was so bad that standing straight took every ounce of effort, feeling as hard as it had sometimes to survive the worst of Kinloch. His lungs would tighten, his breathing wheezed, and he'd hold the leather in his palms so tightly that he'd etch marks into his calloused hands.

Still, he didn't approach the Iron Bull for some time. Not least because of the words 'Ben-Hassrath' that blared through his mind whenever he thought of giving that side of himself to someone else again. He certainly wasn't stupid enough to do it with someone who could inform the upper Qunari echelons that the Inquisitor's Commander had a penchant for being beaten.

*

He didn't approach the Iron Bull after he became Tal-Vashoth either. At first because it seemed an insensitive thing to do and he wasn't quite sure if Bull's disposition would change. Then, because there was a constant influx of people into Skyhold, and it meant decision-making, it meant a greater increase of lyrium within the walls, it meant that even risking a visit to the tavern could mean watching some ale-guzzling Templar talk speculatively about what the red stuff would be like, if the blue stuff was already so good.

The Inquisitor had it in her head that he was a strong man. He was both horrified that she couldn't see through his attempts to make himself appear that way, and absurdly grateful that she bought the performance.

It made him even more convinced that the Inquisitor needed advisers like Leliana and Josephine, because Maker knew she wasn't going to see through lies and deceptions solely on her own. The Mark made her many things, but discerning wasn't one of them.

*

It turned out he didn't need to approach the Iron Bull at all.

A late evening, and Cullen page-flicking by candlelight, desperately trying to find the name of an old Knight-Commander he couldn't recall. He'd wanted to make a passing reference in some correspondence to Knight-Captain Rylen. It bothered him that he couldn't just remember. Hadn't it been drummed into him as part of his early studies? And hadn't he applied himself so zealously, precisely so he wouldn't forget?

His breathing came rough and ragged, the pangs in his body far louder than usual. It was a griping in his gut that wouldn't ease with food. It was a narrowing of his vision and a feeling as though he was lessened, somehow. That where other people boldly walked around assuming they were still people, he knew he was a shell of something and lived in an imposter's syndrome of terror that they'd find him out.

He just needed to find the blasted name, that was all. If he couldn't remember it...

A knock at the door, and Cullen clipped off a sharp 'come in' and wondered if the night-watch had spotted something.

The Iron Bull's presence loomed big in his office. Cullen stayed bent over the book for several more seconds, his fingers already holding a handful of pages, ready to keep flipping through. He straightened and forced himself to make a steady eye contact.

'Can I help you?'

There, that's what real people sounded like, wasn't it? Certainly what Commanders sounded like.

The Iron Bull shrugged, came closer, had an easy expression on his face.

'That new lot of Templars that defected, they asked if they could spar with the Chargers to learn some new ways of scrapping. Not such a bad idea. Thought I'd check with you first.'

'Of course,' Cullen said, hoping the words weren't waspish as they felt. 'I'm not their keeper.'

The Iron Bull raised his eyebrows at the response.

Cullen knew that everything the Iron Bull did was a choice. If he was surprised by Cullen's tone, he didn't have to show that to Cullen himself.

'You doing all right?' Bull said. 'It's late.'

Is it? I never would have guessed.

But Cullen couldn't stop thinking about the cat o' nine tails he had just up the ladder. And he couldn't help but think about one of those thick arms wielding it. Maker's breath, it would be perfect. The Iron Bull's eyebrows crept higher, and Cullen flushed and looked down at his book again, thinking that he might have been staring at Bull like he stared at the tails.

Ask him.

'I've heard rumours about you,' Cullen said, looking up again. 'About the things you enjoy doing.'

The Iron Bull's expression shifted, became easy once more, even lewd.

'Yeah?' he said, 'You want to ride the-'

'No,' Cullen said.

Bull laughed like he'd expected the response, and Cullen wondered if he'd just been baited.