Work Text:
It’s a book that finally breaks him.
The week had not been kind to Dorian, seeing him exhausted from a lengthy excursion to the hinterlands, an impromptu family reunion, chasing endless leads for his research until all hours of the morning, enduring outrageous accusations from individuals around Skyhold that held some sort of personal vendetta against him for being handsome and Tevinter, learning one of his favorite robes had been destroyed, finding out that Bull had gotten himself hurt on a trip with the chargers, he’d received some very unwelcome letters, and now, to top it all off, his books had been reshelved.
It shouldn’t have driven him over the edge like it did. He knows, staring around his nook, still a bit cluttered but without the stacks of books he’d finally finished gathering from all hidden corners of the library, that it’s irrational to be this upset. It’s not honestly that big a deal, he’ll just have to spend a day finding them again.
But the thought of wasting his time doing it, because someone took it upon themselves to tidy up and be helpful unprovoked, having to track down each volume again, find his place – find his place. All at once the realization hits him, his book is gone. The one he’d been working in most recently, the one he swore he remembered leaving carelessly settled atop the arm of his chair, most likely open to whatever page he’d been taking notes on. The one he left his favorite bookmark in.
Furious and now highly concerned, Dorian runs his hands along the few volumes still stacked there, all personal requisitions that hadn’t gotten catalogued into the library yet. He checks his conspicuously empty chair, underneath, slides his hands along the familiar stacks and shelves. By the time he’s looked everywhere that could conceivably house his book and the familiar leather strip that he favored, even going so far as to accost anyone happening by to find out if they had any leads, he’s hopelessly distraught.
It’s such a stupid little thing to see him collapsed in his chair, hands pressed hard to his eyes to keep his sharp breaths from turning into outright sobbing. A thin scrap of torn leather, distractedly pulled from Bull’s workspace while Dorian was reading and had a thought that he wanted to come back to. Bull had looked up from where he was repairing the grip on an old shield, smiled at Dorian in that way he does, gone back to his work without comment.
“Dorian?” His breath hitches at the sound and the tears finally escape, though he manages to keep pitiful sounds to a minimum as Bull kneels in front of him carefully. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Eyes shut tightly, Dorian shakes his head and struggles to calm his breathing. Infuriatingly gentle, Bull takes his hand so he has no choice but to uncover his face. Dorian averts his gaze, staring hard at the arm of his seat as if it were personally responsible for all the problems of the world. He knows he’s a mess, tears running down his flushed face, unable to take a steady breath, but at least he’s quiet when he has his minor existential crisis. Thank the Maker for small mercies.
“That’s a hell of a reaction to nothing.” Bull rubs a palm soothingly on Dorian’s thigh, a move that at any other time would have prompted a rather inappropriate quip. As it is Dorian shakes his head again, hiccups, laughs breathlessly.
“No, it really –“ He swallows hard, trying to clear his voice of the thick raspy quality crying imparts. “It really is nothing.” Using the hand Bull is not holding tenderly, he fishes a handkerchief out to wipe at his eyes and hopefully keep his makeup from smearing all down his face. He grasps Bull’s hand tightly, lets out another small sob. “It’s – so stupid. I l-lost my bookmark.”
He almost expects Bull to laugh, make it into a joke, or say something mildly disparaging. He’s also immensely relieved when he doesn’t do any of those things. Instead Bull tips his head slightly and somberly asks, “Your bookmark?”
“The leather one,” Dorian mumbles, leaning his head against the back of his chair and closing his eyes. The crying has died down to a watery sniffle and hiccup, though he can feel the start of a headache forming from the intensity of his very brief meltdown. “the scrap with the tear in the side.”
Bull finally releases Dorian’s hand, leaning forward to plant his elbows on the armrests and fold his hands together under his chin. “Where did you lose it?” He doesn’t ask the more obvious question, why is a bookmark worth crying over, which does more to soothe Dorian’s frayed nerves than anything else could.
“It was in a book, where bookmarks are generally to be found,” Dorian opens his eyes to frown intensely at his work space, nodding to the suspiciously clean floor. “but someone had the brilliant idea to shelve my books. Maker knows if I’ll be able to find them all again, assuming it even remains in the book where I put it.” The anger that initially hit him upon seeing his space defiled returns, though with significantly less murderous intent. “I don’t know how many times I have to gently remind everyone that I actually do work around here –“ Recognizing the start of a one-sided conversation he’s had countless times Dorian forcibly smothers the fury rising in him, instead leaning forward to rest his forehead against Bull’s.
Bull rests his hand on the back of Dorian’s neck, massaging lightly until the tension starts to drain out of Dorian’s posture and he begins to feel a little more grounded. Dorian sighs deeply and sits up, absently running a hand along Bull’s jaw.
“We can get you a new one, if you can’t find it.” Bull shifts his weight, easing the strain on his left side. Dorian just shakes his head and drops his hands to his lap, twisting one of his rings.
“It’s not –“ He frowns, trying to figure out why exactly it wouldn’t be the same. It’s just a cast-off bit of material that he stole from Bull without thinking, jammed into the pages of his book while he was reading up on something-or-other, occasionally breaking their comfortable silence with a scoff and criticism of the text.
It’s with a start that he realizes the memory, strangely vivid, has brought the slightest beginnings of a smile to his lips, and a small measure of peace to his heart. A casual reminder of a pleasant evening shared with one of his favorite people. His favorite person, if he allows himself to dwell on it. Having the small reminder was – soothing, for lack of a better term.
“It wouldn’t be the same. I’ve gotten rather attached to it.” Bull doesn’t comment on the smile Dorian is suddenly wearing, instead returning it and leaning in to kiss him soundly before pushing himself up onto his feet once more. Dorian also stands, wiping at his face again to clear himself up and negligently tossing the handkerchief aside. If someone wants to clean that much, they can deal with it. Otherwise it’s a problem for future Dorian.
“In that case, I’ll help you look for it.” Bull smiles down at him, and Dorian takes his hand.
“Thank you, amatus.” Fingers intertwined, Dorian leads him out to the stacks where he believes his volumes will most likely be found.