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earlgreyer1 said: How about Adrift?

Adrift was supposed to end up being quick emotional hurt/comfort Adoribull quasi-porn, after the dreadnought and the Storm Coast lol. At the end of the third chapter I realized I was setting myself up for way more than I’d intended, so I decided I either had to a) commit to a full-length fic, or b) scrap it and try again. It has been sitting in my WIP folder ever since lol.

And because I’m gonna have to go back and delete this later, I put a couple sections under the cut. I try not to lean on Cole, but there’s no way he wouldn’t have popped up.

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The last of the Chargers finally disappeared down the far side of their hill, and the Venatori on the beach swung their attention to the dreadnought. A knot in Bull's chest eased. He owed the Inquisitor their lives, he knew; his indecision alone would have been enough to kill at least a few of them. The realization that he was glad, that the dreadnought was sinking and the alliance was ruined and that he was actually relieved right now, intensified the twisting guilt in his gut tenfold. There hadn't been a way out. He had to fail someone. Had he failed the right people? Please, please, let him have failed the right people. He'd lost the Qun. He was adrift and badly shaken, screaming inside for the certainty of the re-educators. If he could have gone to them now, he may just have done it. "His name is Iron Bull." "I suppose it is."

And,

Two things were waiting in Bull's room when he arrived, setting off his alarms immediately: a plain iron longsword, and an unchiselled chunk of dawnstone. The former was solid workmanship and still sharp, but otherwise unremarkable as he hefted it in his hand. The dawnstone was... a rock, he supposed? He gave it an uneventful poke with the blade, getting only the quiet scrape of stone on wood as it moved. Very gingerly, he reached out with a cloth-wrapped hand and picked it up from where it lay. Hard edges and dirt adorned it, and it looked for all the world as if the Inquisitor has just finished digging it from the side of some blasted boulder, but there was no mistaking it for the real deal. He held it up to the light and it shone, glittered every shade of pink he knew. "A sword isn't pretty because it's a sword. The stone is what makes it pretty, because it's the truth of the stone." Years of training and self-preservation spared Bull from jumping out of his skin, but it was a near thing. "You break into my room, kid?" Cole shook his head behind Bull's back, with no regard for whether the bigger man could see him or not. "I didn't break anything, The Iron Bull. Neither did you." "Stay outta my head, kid. Don't do this now." "But I'm right. You know I'm right. It is the stone that makes a blade remarkable, because the stone makes anything remarkable. It was made that way. It is not the shaping of it that makes it pretty." Bull heaved a sigh, boots scraping on the stone as he turned to face the spirit. "Only problem with your analogy is that I'm not the stone," he muttered, gripping it tight. "I'm the sword. Always have been." "No you're not. You're just afraid not to be. It will be okay, The Iron Bull. It's okay to be pretty." Cole tipped his head and vanished, leaving Bull alone in his chambers. He pitched the longsword into a corner with a clatter and shut the door. He kept the hunk of dawnstone.

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