faderift | We've come a long way from where we began

Entry tags:

We've come a long way from where we began

WHO: Zevran Arainai, Alistair, & Open
WHAT: Zevran is not dealing with sentiment well
WHEN: Mid-Firstfall
WHERE: The tavern, the stables, his quarters, the healing tents, the courtyard
NOTES: Drinking, swearing, emotional vomiting.

It took a day or two to thaw out properly from the mire. To sleep, to scrub the muck from his skin, to feel alive again. Of course with the break from the mission and a quiet space to sleep it only served to remind him of how difficult it had been on the road. Of the sounds he had heard of the wardens tents. Of what their troubled sleep meant for one Warden in particular.

[ Tavern - OPEN ]

Zevran attempted to spend his days as he would before the arrival of the Grey Wardens. Some time working on his poisons and traps, some time in the tavern listening to gossip and spinning tales, playing joyful, soothing music for the weary souls within. But for tonight there was no music, there was no smiling. Zevran kept his back to the wall, his hand on a glass of wine or ale, bottle waiting for the next poor on the table beside him, eyes on something small and glinting he rolled between his fingertips. Sentiment. What good had that ever done him? What benefit did it ever hold? It was a weakness. It was an illness. And yet here he sat, sick with it. Normally the approach of company would earn a smile, a flirtatious remark- but for one night? He had no desire for masks.

[ Stables - CLOSED to Alistair ]

"As promised." The words were loose in a way only drink made them. Lulling and swooping rather than the clipped roll of his usual pattern of speech, but Zevran was at least a little drunk and looking to become a good deal more drunk before the night was through. Trouble was he trusted very few people enough to indulge as much as he desired in all of Thedas, fewer still in Skyhold. But here, staring at this ridiculous Warden in the hay with at least one dog? A warm twist of fondness bid him offer a very special bottle of Carnal, 8:69 Blessed. As he had said before, Alistair could not start his whiskey without something particularly exquisite. Between that, the carved rune stones still in his pouch, and a wrapped wheel of small cheese in addition to a bottle of his own brandy for the night? He would forgive being forced to drink in a stable. So long as it was in Alistair's company.

[ Zevran's Quarters - OPEN ]

Well this was mortifying. He had somehow misplaced his key- his spare key, and his spare, spare key in the course of the night- or he had locked all of them inside save for the one he'd slipped into Isabella's boot earlier in the day and now? Now he was crouched, fumbling with his lockpicks in a way he hadn't since his earliest years as a Crow. The lock was simple, he knew it was simple- he also knew himself to be terribly, terribly drunk. Enough so that he was not kneeling before the door in any attempt of stealthy entry and instead sitting before it, working with his picks while swearing a blue streak under his breath in Antivan, Common, with a spattering of Orlesian and even some Tevene. Until he sobered up? He would be at it for awhile. Brasca.

[ Healing tents / Courtyard the following morning - OPEN ]

Another reason why he rarely drank. The migraine. The cotton in the mouth feeling. The twist of wire that strung his guts together. Food was probably not a bad idea bu the smell of- well- anything made it twist sharper, tighter, like a dagger to his very middle. Not productive for eating anything that will settle his stomach. Water helps but it does not do much other than remind him that he should eat, but he cannot eat, and light and sound are an aching mass of unpleasantness he did not wish to linger on. Bundled tight in a cloak that was far softer on the lining than on the exterior, he stumbled his way across the courtyard to the healing tents. Perhaps one of them would give him something if he looked sad enough.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Sex usually works, but I was not in the mood for company.

[ Nor was he fit for it right now, though Bruce was terribly handsome in so much that he was giving Zevran things to quiet the pounding in his head and the roiling of his stomach. ]

Mm. I could kiss you, but I think I shall save us both the mortification and not, yes?

I'm not an advocate for alcoholic breath.

[That's all Bruce will say to that, complete with an incredibly dry tone of voice. Once he passes the needed number of things to Zevran he turns back and keeps the rest back with his remaining supplies.

Once he's done with that he turns back to Zevran again, studying him for a moment before speaking again.] If you need to lie down feel free to stay here until you feel well enough to step out again. Nobody really comes by here, so you should have the peace that you need.

Later when I do not smell quite so much of brandy, then.

[ Already he felt- well. If not better, he felt more himself. More than enough so to watch Bruce with a faint curiosity and thorough appreciation for his hands. He had such lovely hands. Someone should tell him that. ]

You have lovely hands, Bruce.

[ Apparently not quite himself enough to have a filter. Ah, well. ]

And that is terribly kind of you.

[Bruce blinks at the unexpected... compliment? He stares down at his hands, looking at the numerous burn marks and other injuries that dotted his fingers and palms. Was that supposed to the a compliment? It was a very strange one then, if that is the case.

He glances back up at Zevran, looking entirely skeptical, but polite enough to respond all the same.] Thanks. I think.

[...there's no much else he can say to that.]

You do not understand, do you?

[ He sighed and reached over, curling his hand in the lightest of touches around Bruce's wrist. A faint tug to bring him and it closer and his other hand traced delicate patterns, following vein and scar and burn, the callouses of his palm. Rather than sensual the motion was merely appreciative. ]

Something is not only lovely because it is pristine. The marks of life, of survival, these make something remarkable. There is a strength to them and a gentleness in your hands, the way you work with them, the way you reach out. That makes them quite lovely.

[Bruce finds himself momentarily startled when Zevran suddenly takes his hand without warning, and for a moment his senses flare up and he tenses, not sure at all how to respond. Physical contact is so rare for him now these days that having it is--well. It's strange and unnatural for him.

More ways to remind him of what he is.

After the initial surprise goes through Bruce forces himself to get back his calm, taking one deep breath after another, telling himself the facts of the situation. There was no threat, no danger, nothing that would get him. He was alright. For now.]

--thanks. [He pointedly pulls his hand away once Zevran is done, rubbing the palm with the thumb of his other hand. An unconscious gesture to try and soothe himself.] But it's really not that remarkable.

[And if Zevran knew what truly was underneath his skin, well. All of the words he said really wasn't going to apply at all. There is no gentleness or anything good at all on the hands of a monster, a murderer. Only blood and violence and death.]

Is there something particularly troubling with being told something of yourself? Is this a human thing? A marcher thing? A healer thing? Or is this a you thing?

[ Not at all vexed, Zevran is curious far more than anything else. Normally one likes to be told they or any part of them are lovely. ]

Were I to go on and mention that you've marvelous bone structure or your hair, when you bother to comb it, is quite fetching, that your voice is soothing or profile quite alluring- would you too consider these things unremarkable?

It's something that you don't need to be concerned about.

[The response almost comes out in a snap, but Bruce reins himself in before he lets too much emotion bleeds through. Control. He needed control. Last night had been incredibly taxing on him and having to deal with this all so suddenly wasn't helping at all.

He takes in another breath and exhales loudly through his nose, reminding himself again that Zevran was probably just being... himself. Or something. Whatever it was. Assassin's didn't come to help the Inquisition if they did want to cause chaos.]

I don't know what you're trying to get at, Zevran, but if you're looking for somebody to sleep with, I'm not exactly an optimal choice.

[There are so many reasons why it was a bad idea and why he wasn't very keen on it himself. None of which he will ever speak about.]

[ Why was he picking a fight? That's what this was, a fight. With a human. A healer. While needling someone for his own amusement wasn't at all beneath him, he'd done it before, this wasn't that. Was he offended on Bruce's behalf from- what? Bruce's own behavior? His own ignorance. It did not matter. All that mattered was there was tension in the tent there had not been before he opened his mouth and even with the migraine he ought to know better.

He clamped down on his own reaction, fold into himself. Making his posture small, harmless. Demure, schooling his expression into something close to contrition. What business was it of an elf's anyhow?

It wasn't. ]

I would not presume, Ser. [ Even the playful lilt was gone, all smooth and mild. ] I apologize if I have caused any offense.

[ Be small, speak softly, and keep one's head down. That was what one did in Antiva. That was what Zevran did now. ]

[Whatever response Bruce was expecting, he certainly did not expect this - and again, for a moment, he paused, because there was something in Zevran's reaction and words that resonated within him.

Being small. Looking harmless. Not wanting attention. It was all too familiar.

A hard lump finds itself at the back of Bruce's throat, and the guilt rises up within him. Times like these Bruce was painfully reminded about the reality of this world, despite the fact he had been so out of touch with it until coming here. Even with what he was, as long as he was still 'human' to everyone else--

He rubs the palm of a hand at the side of his face and exhales loudly again. When he speaks this time round his voice is softer, apologetic. Trying to make peace.]

I did not mean to insinuate anything, Zevran, I... [He sighs.] There is nothing wrong with what you did, or said. I overreacted. The fault is mine alone.

[Hopefully that would work. Bruce was never one to be good at these sort of things.]

No, no. I overstepped.

[ Apologies? Who apologizes for snapping at an elf? Apparently Bruce which was yet another layer to the enigma that was this man. Still. Boundary set and for the moment? Enforced. Zevran did not move nor express much at all, eyes flicking up to follow Bruce's motions.

There was something else at work here an everything in him screamed to sort it out. Learn what it was to use it- for his own safety rather than his advantage. Were he less befogged of the mind he might have been able to pick out some thread of nuance- but now?

No. ]

I forget that not everyone is quite so open as we are in Antiva.

[At least it seemed that Zevran was taking it well. Bruce relaxed a fraction, glad that the conflict didn't get worse, and at the elf's latter words quirked a wry, sardonic smile that was more self-deprecatory than anything else.]

It's nothing about openness or preferences. [Well, maybe it sort of is, but that's a whole different ballgame entirely - and not one Bruce wants to touch on any time soon.] You're not wrong when you said it was a me thing.

[That's a concession he'll allow, at least, for Zevran, as another apology by itself. Bruce rarely lets himself admit his problems aloud to others, even though he's well aware of it constantly. Mostly because he knows its something nobody can really solve, so there's no reason why he should even let them know or try.]

[ Gradually- and it was a gradual, tentative thing, Zevran's posture shifted from the demure, curled in thing it had become to the more weary slump it had been before, though he did not dare to look at Bruce directly as of yet. Through his lashes while his head was tipped down? That seemed safe enough.

It wasn't as though such a thing would protect him- but perception was a powerful thing. If one thought him harmless, he may not come to harm. ]

I shall refrain from saying such things in the future. It will be...easier, yes?

[Bruce isn't exactly very comfortable with the fact that Zevran wasn't looking at him, but--well. He had caused enough trouble as it is. Bruce didn't want to escalate it further.

And he was hardly fooled by the harmless posture Zevran tried to emulate. Bruce had done it himself countless times before, but he wasn't going to point that out either. They had both their share of stress and tension for one morning.]

I'm not one to tell you what to say or not to say. [It probably sounds pretentious in some way, but its hard for Bruce to put it in any other way without it sounding false. Regardless of what Zevran is, he is his own person, and it was far from Bruce to try and control who he was.

He had enough of that himself in his past.]

...Now you are being an ass.

[ And now, of course, he looked at Bruce head on- well. Squinting at him- not angry so much as thoroughly confused and somewhat annoyed. ]

Have an opinion. Humans are full of opinions and revel in the opportunity to spout them off. Have one. State it. If it makes you uncomfortable I will not say such things any longer. Having you sit there and endure it is far more insulting than any denial or rejection on your part, believe me.

Not all humans.

[Again, there's the sardonic, self-deprecatory smile, but this time Zevran can probably catch it. Bruce lets it linger for a bit before he turns away, his gut churning with the familiar sensation of guilt and so many other things.]

I'm not enduring anything, Zevran, believe me. I'm alright. [In some fashion of 'alright', at least.] And I should be going off to attend to my other patients. I've left them waiting long enough.

[He goes over back to where his bag is and quickly finishes up the rest of his packing, back turned so that Zevran wouldn't be able to see the emotionless mask that Bruce slips onto himself. Today, it seemed, wasn't going to be one of his better ones.]

[ Part of him wished to call bullshit. The rest? Far too tired to make a proper argument- or to understand why he felt an argument was required. But where words would fail him? Action would save him. Here was quiet and relatively safe, no one would look for him here and without Bruce? Who would beg entry. No one.

So fine.

Bruce could continue to be a confusing thing and leave, Zevran would bundle himself in his cloak, find a pack that seemed soft enough to use as a pillow, and doze.

He would nap. He would nap so hard, he would sleep so deeply, warmed by pure spite. ]

[As much as Bruce was glad for the lack of response, at the same time he's well aware that his excuse wasn't really much of one. It was more of an escape if anything and he was sure it would come back to bite him eventually. But until then he would just... continue the days as they passed. It was all he could do.

So he packs up his things and takes leave from his tent without another word, letting Zevran do whatever he wished, running away once more just as he always does when things get too close. He'll attend to his patients, do his job, be the surgeon people needed him to be. Nothing more, and nothing less.

It was always easier to be somebody that people wanted, because then at least he felt less like the monster he truly was inside.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

We've come a long way from where we began

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject