“But you hate Halloween,” Reid says, as Morgan parks up outside the Halloween store that’s just materialised near his house, where an empty store front had been. They’re almost like a seasonably migrating animal in their predictability, the place will be gone before the first week of November.

“Hate’s a strong word, and I do,” Morgan says, as he cuts the engine and peers over at Reid. “But you love Halloween.”

“So…?” Reid prompts, too anxious that he’ll misread the situation to make any assumption about Morgan’s intent.

“So we’re gonna go crazy with the décor, pretty boy! It’s our first Halloween living together. Very grown up and all, so let’s do something to keep it silly. I could be convinced not to be a Halloween Scrooge, given enough scary movie makeouts.”

“When you say ‘go crazy’, I hope you understand what that means.”

“I do,” Morgan says, grinning at him. “Also, know you’re not into it, but we’re going crazy at Christmas too. I’m gonna put up so many lights. Deal?”

“Deal.”

— — —

Dorian stands in the mouth of the tent, the warmth and quiet from within to his front, the chill and revelry to his back. The Bull sits within, methodically undoing his leg brace.

“Your absence has been noted,” Dorian says. He stands on the threshold, a decision to be made for the night to come – an inconsequential thing in the grand scheme of this grand adventure, but a decision none the less.

His choice is made when the Bull looks to him, smile crooked and inviting. Dorian steps forward and lets the tent flap close heavily behind him.

“The boys will be fine without me,” the Bull says, “more or less.”

Dorian hums thoughtfully, bending to unbuckle each of his boots so he can slip of of them. The Bull goes back to his brace, but Dorian would be a fool to think he’s not still being watched. He makes a show of it, of course – undoing the clasps and buckles of his outfit with purpose.

“Of course, this has nothing to do with them telling ghost stories, hm?”

The Bull pauses – and it’s a heavy thing, because it is so deliberate, that the Bull lets him see the reaction to this, that he doesn’t hide it. Hissrad, he thinks. A thing more and more untrue between them.

“Not feeling it,” the Bull says, as he leans back against the blankets and pillows strewn about. He does not say it’s been a month since we walked in the Fade. He does not say I did not see spiders. He does not say madness, or temptation.

“Perhaps I can inspire you to feel something else,” Dorian says, as he comes to straddle the Bull, taking his place in his lap. The Bull spreads his huge hands across his back, easing him down to kiss him.

“Now that I’m into, big guy.”

— — —

He’s never taken a kid trick-or-treating, but he’s game for it. Rich neighbourhood, and they all know him, so nobody is going to skimp on giving his kid full sized bars. Well, not his actual kid, but close enough at this point. Close enough that they’re doing this in his neck of the wood’s, and not Hotch’s.

“They’re all still sad about my dead mom,” Jack had said, quizzed on his lack of interesting in trick-or-treating. Rossi had had to watch Hotch’s heart break in just a look over Jack’s head, the sudden weight of knowing his kid was noticing that kind of stuff settling on them both.

So here they are, in the foyer of Rossi’s mansion, preparing for the new candy-gathering grounds Rossi had suggested.

“What are you supposed to be?” Jack asks, a judgemental eye raking Rossi up and down.

“You know what a vampire is, kid,” he says. The over-emphasised widow’s peak, the white face, the fangs – this kid’s got to be pulling his leg.

“Aren’t you Italian?”

Hotch’s weak “hey, buddy” is disguising a peel of laughter. Rossi just smirks at Jack, and shifts his mouth for his very worst exaggerated Transylvanian accent.

“If the garlic doesn’t work, that just makes me harder to kill!”

— — —

There’s no reason this year is going to be different; even though he’s decided to go all out on his costume, even fitting a battery back into his jacket for the sparking plasma ball he’s carrying around, the rest of the costume is probably too understated for anyone to guess it. It’s a shame, because it’s one of his best yet, and while stumping people can be fun, Reid would be delighted that he’s managed to put something together someone recognised.

“Oh, hey Nik!” Luke says brightly, when he spots Reid.

Reid frowns, flexing his fingers around the plasma ball, making the purple colour arc around. Luke strides over, closing the gap between them as the rest of the party-goers mill around.

“Nikola Tesla, right?”

Reid can feel himself beaming, under the fake moustache. He glances over Luke’s outfit, unsure what to make of the bandana, sunglasses and fur coat, with no shirt underneath. Luke’s looking at him expectantly. Reid is going to have to utter those words he’s heard so many times over the years, sheepishly;

“What are you supposed to be?”

— — —

It's boring an awful lot of the time, and that's the only issue Dorian has with his work. It's not that he minds pouring over tomes, making sheet after sheet of notes, interpreting tricky dead dialects – Maker knows it's important work, but what he wouldn't do for some excitement once in a while. A fire, a cursed books, even a rogue raven would do to liven up the day sometimes. This important work has been so frustratingly slow of late, making no real progress to show to the Inquisitor. She's understanding, but he can feel the weight of expectation, and every day he doesn't have something helpful is another day of useless stalling in their quest to defeat Corypheus.

A familiar sound greets him, sending a little thrill through him. He keeps looking at his text and not at the place where the Bull will appear in just a moment, the sound of his deliberate footfalls on the stairs. More and more he's been making his way here during the day, giving Dorian a welcome reprieve from tedium and a chance for a spirited debate, a good laugh, and perhaps a little flirt.

“Hey,” the Bull says, must be settled against the bookcase. Dorian finishes writing his note, a few last words before he looks up.

“Come to be a nuisance?” he says without heat. The Bull's shoulders huff in a laugh, and he tosses a small box to Dorian.

“Sure.”

The box – which he caught one handed and the Bull definitely noticed – is plum purple with gold edges, about the size and shape of a decent book, and rattles slightly.

“Chocolates? You think this'll get me into your bed faster?”

“Worth a shot.”

“Well, it entirely depends on what kind of chocolate it is.”

He opens the box to reveal beautiful, delicate chocolates – Antivan, quite obviously.

“They're liqueurs,” the Bull says. “Thought you'd like them.”

Dorian picks one at random and pops it into his mouth.

“Filched them off lady Josephine, did you?”

“She was gonna keep them, but she owed me a favour. Thought it'd make the research a little nicer.”

“Mm, they are good.” Dorian proffers the box to the Bull. “But the last time I ate an entire box of chocolates to myself I deeply regretted it.”

“You could just save them, make them last.”

“Ah, but they're always there, tempting me.” He shakes the box again, so the Bull comes closer to pick one out, and eats it in two surprisingly delicate bites. He licks his lips free of a trace of caramel and Dorian tries not to consider it temptation.

— — —

The thing is, the Bull’s gone a little bit soft since he came to Skyhold. Even a year ago, if if he’d spotted someone sneaking around the battlements, trying to scale the wall under the Lady Montilyet’s window, he’d have snapped their neck. Instead he hauls them off and slams them bodily into the stone.

“Funny kind of spider, crawling the walls.”

“So rough, before we’ve even established a watchword!”

The Bull’s grip loosens a little, because he recognises that voice. Pulling him forward, the normally golden features are paled in the moonlight – older, perhaps more handsome than he’d known them.

“Little Crow,” he coos, setting the man down onto his feet. “What kind of trouble are you here to cause?”

“The most enjoyable kind, I assure you.”

— — —

“HOTCH!”

Hotch wakes up to the ragged shout of his name, clawed from Reid’s freed lungs.

Hotch looks horrified and drunk as he scrambles to get up, rushing to explain and apologize but Reid is barely listening; his heart rate is loud in his ears and it’s harder to breathe now. He can taste his own tears where they’ve run down his cheeks and over his lips as he yells at Hotch to leave, gesturing at the door shakily with his gun.

“Reid, I’m so sorry, I—”

Hotch reaches out to touch him and Reid pulls back the hammer of his revolver and presses the barrel to Hotch’s chest.

— — —

Send ‘Trick or Treat!’ and a character or ship to my ask box.

I will either write you a trick (angst), or a treat (fluff), of minimum drabble (100 words) length.