(Trying to decide if I should share this on AO3 as well. I anticipate this involving multiple fandoms, although the chapters will all be self-contained and won’t be crossovers.)

Dragon Age: Inquisition

Pairing: The Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus (M/M)

Rating: T (some mild wound description; no sex; no bad language)

Day One – “Can You Feel This?” 

The big lummox would
not – or perhaps could not – stop laughing. 

Another person might
have suggested that Dorian was at his wits’ end with the Iron Bull, but Dorian
knew better: there was no end to Dorian Pavus’s wits, and this was hardly the
first time the Bull had collapsed into maniacal laughter in the wake of a
dragon’s death. Still, Dorian thought it would have been rather nice if the
Bull would sober up a little and let him take a look at his wounds. There the
great oaf sat, his massive bulk half-sprawled against a convenient outcropping
of stone, completely heedless of his own injuries and Dorian’s increasingly
impatience. 

“Did you see that, kadan?” the Iron Bull cackled, gesturing
with his good arm in the direction of the slain dragon. The scaled corpse was
cooling in the aftermath of a series of fireballs from Dorian, the smell of
charred meat and blood strong enough Dorian could practically taste it (a fact
he was trying very hard not to think
about). “What a fight!” 

“Do you see the angle your arm is at, amatus?” Dorian replied. If Bull was
using the nicknames then fine, Dorian would use them as well. It wasn’t as
though the rest of the Inquisitor’s party hadn’t heard them call out to one
another affectionately from time to time. Although at present Dorian was
feeling rather less affectionate and much more like throttling the Iron Bull
where he lay if the Qunari wouldn’t begin to take his injuries seriously.
Honestly, the great lummox paraded around half-naked – not that Dorian objected
to the view, mind you – and charged headlong into dragons, and just once Dorian would have appreciated it if
his lover cared a whit about his own well-being. 

The Iron Bull spared a
brief glance in the direction of his left arm, hanging limp and – as Dorian had
already pointed out – at an awkward angle at his side. He scratched at the skin
under the strap of his eye-patch, a quizzical expression on his face as if to
inquire “How on Thedas did that happen?” Which, in Dorian’s inestimable opinion,
was absolutely ludicrous because he had acquired that injury by charging headlong into a dragon. 

Again. 

Still, the dragon was
quite dead and the Iron Bull was not, so Dorian supposed he ought to be
grateful for small favours. 

“Huh,” the Bull said, giving
his arm a thoughtful look. “I think it’s broken, kadan.” 

Dorian bit back a
string of increasingly sarcastic replies before saying simply, “Yes, I suspect
you’re correct.” He glanced around, faintly hopeful that at some point Madame
de Fer had miraculously appeared and would be ready to set the Iron Bull’s arm,
but alas Vivienne was still in Skyhold and while Dorian was a remarkably
talented mage he had relatively little skill in the healing arts. Necromancy
didn’t tend to lend itself well to healing magic; according to Cole the spirits
found it uncomfortable being around him and consequently he couldn’t use their
magic to help him heal others. Dorian had always been aware of that trade-off
and while he considered it a bargain well-made there were times – such as now,
when his lover was injured and respite was a long ways away – when he might
have wished to have at least some
talent in the healing arts. 

“Ouch,” said Varric,
coming up to join them. He and the Inquisitor had been looting the dragon’s
corpse, no doubt reassured by the effusive laughter that the Iron Bull was more
or less in one piece. If the Bull had been silent, or if Dorian had sounded
more upset, Varric and the Inquisitor would have been at the Bull’s side in a
heartbeat. But since the Bull and Dorian were both well enough to be chatty the
pair of rogues had elected to see what treasures the Ferelden Frostback had
left behind. “That looks like it hurts, Tiny.” 

“Y’know, it’s funny,”
the Bull began, in a tone of voice that suggested Dorian was not about to find
it funny in the least. The big
Ben-Hassrath scratched at the strap on his face again, a curious expression on
his scarred face. “It doesn’t really hurt at all.” 

Dorian gave the injury
a dubious look, squatting down in front of the Iron Bull so that he could
inspect the damaged limb more closely. It was a bad break, both bones in the forearm snapped in such a way that the
arm seemed to have an additional elbow, and thanks to the Bull’s eschewing of
shirts Dorian could see that one of the bones had torn clear through the grey
flesh. The fact that the Iron Bull couldn’t feel it – or at least, that it didn’t
hurt – suggested one of three things, and two of them were rather bad: ideally,
Bull was still in the grips of adrenaline, and once that wore off he would be
aware of the damage to his limb. Otherwise, he was either in shock or suffering
from nerve damage, and neither of those things were particularly good,
especially in the arse-end of the Hinterlands with nothing but bears and giant
spiders between them and the nearest camp. 

“Can you feel this?”
Dorian asked, delicately running the tips of his fingers over the skin above
Bull’s elbow, a few inches away from the break. Bull’s pale grey flesh broke
out in goosebumps and he shivered, nodding slightly. Dorian brushed his hand
over the Iron Bull’s open palm, repeating his question. This time the Bull
shook his head, frowning. 

“Here,” said Varric,
handing over a healing potion. Dorian took it from him before the Bull could
close his fingers around it, and quickly uncorked the vial before giving it to the
Qunari to drink. Bull wrinkled his nose at the sharp green scent and chugged
the potion down, grimacing at the astringent taste. 

“Oh, now I feel it,” the Bull grumbled. He
glared down at his arm as though just noticing the injury now, and Varric and
Dorian exchanged glances. 

“We should set it,”
Dorian said. He’d studied anatomy as part of his necromancy training and had a
relatively solid grasp of the way bone structure was supposed to look. There were differences between human and Qunari
anatomy, of course, but he knew perfectly well that regardless of race the
bones were supposed to be inside the
body, and certainly not protruding through the skin the way one of Bull’s was.
Still, knowing how things ought to
look and fixing them so that they matched was very far outside of Dorian’s
skillset, and as annoyed as he was at the Iron Bull’s cavalier attitude towards
his own welfare he wasn’t keen to risk damaging his partner by a clumsy attempt
at medicine. 

“Leave it be!” the
Inquisitor called, waving at them from the mouth of the valley. “I’ve got the
camp sending a medic over! They’ll patch Bull up. We’re not to touch anything!” 

“Oh, delightful,”
Dorian snapped. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off and the elfroot was
kicking in he could see that the Iron Bull was definitely beginning to feel the
damage. He wished the healing potion had a more analgesic effect, or that they’d
brought along something stronger than willowbark tea and small beer. He turned
back to the Bull, who was in the process of struggling one-handed to his feet.
Dorian imagined the series of ropes and levers that would be necessary to get
the Iron Bull up off the ground if he couldn’t do it himself, then stepped in to
let the Bull use Dorian’s shoulder to haul himself upright. 

“Thanks, kadan,” Bull said, ruffling Dorian’s
hair with his good hand. Dorian let out an indignant squawk but his attempts at
pushing the Bull away were half-hearted at best; he was too relieved to see
Bull on his feet – steady as a rock and every bit as solid – to be too put out
at the careless destruction of his carefully-maintained coif. 

The Iron Bull turned,
pulling Dorian along with him to face the dead dragon. If his arm pained him –
and Dorian rather thought it must –
he gave no indication. Instead his strong, handsome face was filled with
delight as he surveyed the corpse, the scales blackened and still smoking, a
great gash in the beast’s neck from where the Bull had landed the killing blow
with his great-axe. 

“Do you see her, kadan?” the Iron Bull said, voice filled with reverence. “Taarsidath-an halsaam!” 

“Ah, yes. Quite,”
Dorian replied, rolling his eyes. He knew, from previous dragon-slayings with
the Iron Bull, that the Qunlat phrase could best be translated as “I will bring myself sexual pleasure later,
while thinking about this with great respect.” He also knew, from personal
experience and a lengthy intimate relationship with the great Qunari, that Bull
was almost certainly not speaking in a metaphorical sense, busted arm or no. On
the plus side with the Bull’s arm broken that meant Dorian would be allowed to
indulge his carefully-hidden nurturing side, something he wasn’t often able to
do. The Iron Bull was a cuddler, but he seldom needed Dorian to play nursemaid.
It was a role Dorian secretly cherished. 

“I see her, amatus,” Dorian said at last, letting
the Iron Bull drape his good arm around his shoulders and hug him in close. “Come
along, Bull, and let’s get your arm looked after so we can get home and properly
celebrate in private.” 

The Iron Bull made a
satisfied-sounding rumble that fluttered something low in Dorian’s gut, and
together the two of them turned to head in the direction of the camp, leaving
Varric and the Inquisitor to collect their gear.