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

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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.

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Zev gave up on handling it on his own, slumping forward to rest his forehead against Gavin's shoulder. "He does not like to use that when he does not have to. Fool. Stupid, noble, fool."

It did not make sense to him, but it did not have to. The world was as it was and Alistair made it brighter ere he was able. "Out, please."

He let his fingers gently brush Zevran's hair - just a fond little touch - before they carefully and deftly began to loosen the braid, careful to comb his fingers through the hair as he did so, ensuring it wasn't tangled.

"Well, I'm sure we could scrounge a second mattress, if you wanted to keep him in here," Gavin pointed out quietly. "Assuming that you don't mind sharing the space. Or find somewhere else. He doesn't have to go pulling rank just to get a room."

He butted his forehead against Gavin's shoulder a second time- asking for continued playing of the hair or simply frustrated? He could not say. "Does not wish to be a bother. The stables are warm. He likes sleeping with dogs. Apparently they help rouse him when the nightmares become too much."

The song.

Brasca.

"That was my job on the road. Not stated explicitly but if I heard too much thrashing of an unpleasant sort from his tent I would call him to aid me in gathering elfroot or dawn lotus or- whatever I thought we needed. It was an excuse. He has replaced me with dogs."

The frustration was obvious, but Gavin kept playing with Zevran's hair anyway - half for himself, and half for the elf who obviously needed it. He'd never seen Zevran like this at all, and he couldn't help but be a little whistfully curious about the friendship between them, even as Zevran grumbled about it. Perhaps it was because Zevran grumbled about it - just another example of that charming exterior being pulled aside to show the little ball of worry within. He threaded his fingers through Zevran's hair, now completely loose, and let his fingertips massage the elf's scalp a little as he did so.

"I really doubt he's replaced you with them," Gavin said, a little wryly. "He's Fereldan, isn't he? They always have a weird things with dogs. He teased the end of Zevran's ear between his fingers fondly. "If he's so worried about being a bother that he won't even ask for a room, I'm sure he doesn't want to bother you with his nightmares, either."

The nightmares were hardly surprising - the two of them had lived through the Blight. Fought through it. He'd be surprised if they didn't have nightmares. And he didn't know Alistair at all, but it didn't really matter, at the moment. It was more important to soothe Zevran, if he could.

Some of the tension leeched from him as Gavin combed his hair- his scalp had always been particularly soothing for him. Long would he lay with his head in Rinna or Taliesin's lap and they would comb his hair, convincing Leliana of the innocence of it took some time but then, too, he had that balm for him at a time when he thought it lost.

"They do." Not that it made it much better to his exhausted mind. "...but I am here to be bothered. Ten years he dealt with them on his own. It is no trouble."

That it was no trouble ought to bother him more than it did, but it didn't, but it should, and his head would ache for wanting to make sense of it. "Should have left with him for Orlais after the ceremony."

He didn't really know what 'the ceremony' was, though he could assume it had something to do with the Blight, and Wardens, but he wasn't here to satisfy his own curiousity, no matter how much it itched at the back of his mind.

He finally just took a seat next to Zevran, though he kept working his scalp and hair in calm, low circles. It was something he was used to. He had long offered physical affection to his clan mates when they were troubled. That Zevran would appreciate it as well wasn't even surprising enough to warrant a second thought.

"So why didn't you? There must have been a reason you went your own way."

For a moment he sat, slumped and grumbling, before he shifted. Tucked his legs under himself and tilted to the side, twisting and curling until he was resting with his head in Gavin's lap. He was already short for an elf but he could quite easily make himself into something small- it had become a comfortable posture for him. It meant safety more often than not. Cheek on Gavin's thigh and forehead pressed to his stomach, he mumbled.

"I did not wish to bind myself to anyone, having earned my freedom...also I thought the Crows would find us both and kill us both. If they killed me? So be it. If they killed him because he was foolish enough to take a blow for me..."

He pulled back his hands - holding them out of the way while Zevran shifted. It was hard not to feel incredibly fond, in that moment, despite Zevran's sour mood - seeing the elf curl up into himself, laying in Gavin's lap. He lowered his hands again, gently brushing his fingers across the elf's forehead and then back through his hair, as he might caress a cat.

"Then you can't tell yourself what you should have done then," He replied, his voice a quiet rumble as he stroked through Zevran's hair. "Because you did what you thought you had to. You're both here now, right? I'm sure you can make it clear to him that you want to help. And that you might be better at it than a mutt," he added, just a gentle tease.

"Yes I can." He mumbled. "Berating myself for past mistakes is half of what I do. The other half is making certain I don't make them again only this time I do not think that is possible."

He can't drag a decade out of nothing to spend with Alistair if he heard the Calling now. That wasn't how this worked. Months, he knew, was the most they might have. Before it became too much. Before all that he saw that was bright and warm and amused and alive was haggard and dim as Riordan. "Where do you think I spent most of tonight drinking?"

That was the piece of information that Gavin didn't have - he didn't know anything about the Calling, or what was befalling the Wardens. Without that piece, it was hard to understand why Zevran was being quite to hard on himself.

"And you didn't manage to convince him? Well, I'm sure he'll come around. Or you could just kidnap his dogs, that might work." It was said with a lighthearted tone, though still soft, and his pinky trailed along the line of Zevran's tattoo as he ran through his hair.

"I do not care for those dogs." They were hounds, certainly, but none of them were Mabari. None of them had that dog's charm. "He should have a proper room with a proper bed and walls and a door to keep himself safe but no, he sleeps in the stables with dogs to wake him and whines for food or foot rubs and I cannot help but give over both."

And it should bother him. Why did it not bother him?

Gavin smiled - glad that Zevran couldn't really see him do it.

"Maybe he just likes being difficult, then," He mused, still playing with Zevran's hair. He leaned down to give him a chaste kiss on the temple, mostly because he felt like it, and he didn't think Zevran would begrudge him for it.

"Or perhaps the whining for food and foot rubs is half the fun."

"Of course he likes being difficult. He's human. They cannot help BUT be difficult. I should have known. They are nothing but trouble, they always have been and yet he smiles and jokes and acts helpless even if I've seen him climb an ogre to decapitate it- I fall for it. Every time." Even though he knew better. More the fool he. "Is this what it is like to have siblings? He makes me crazy."

The jibe about humans made him chuckle (because it was true), but he just kept leisurely playing with Zevran's hair while he listened.

"Half wanting to kill him and half wanting to hug him? Yeah, that sounds about right."

He'd never had literally siblings, but it was hard not to think of his younger clanmates like brothers and sisters to him. They were close enough as to make no difference, especially after the plague.

And him being the clan's wayward son.

"It's not a bad thing to care about him, Zevran," He pointed out after a moment, disconcertingly aware of the fact that he was being a little hypocritical. That was beside the point.

"I do not care for it." He liked his relationships easily categorized and uncomplicated. Simple. A friend for drinking, a friend for kissing, a friend for fucking. A friend he actually cared about and worried over? Not something he wanted. Not something he needed. And yet here he lay, drunk and grumbling and irritable because he had just that. And he was infuriating. And kind. And foolish.

And dying.

Must not forget the dying.

"Yes it is." He will not explain that- going over the explanation about sentiment and Crows once in a night was more than enough, thank you.

The tone was very final - enough so that Gavin knew better than to press the issue. It wasn't a sentiment he shared, exactly (he cared too much, most of the time), but sometimes he thought it would be easier, if he didn't.

Not necessarily for himself, but for other people. Then he could just cut ties off completely and stop dragging along his loved ones for the ride.

Or maybe it was a Warden thing - maybe they weren't supposed to have friends? He didn't really know that much about the wardens, in all truth. Maybe they had rules about close friends, about families. He tried to search his brain for stories about it, but it came up blank.

So he fell silent, not arguing, and not agreeing, just sitting there and playing with Zevran's hair.

"Well I care about you," He finally said, after a while, almost as an after thought.

"Then you are a fool." As much a fool as he for caring for Alistair, for caring for anyone. There was no place for it in his life, no place in this world, and yet people persisted in attempting to earn it or in displaying it and making him feel things. Small things, of course, but things none the less and he was not-

It was not wise. It was not useful. It was a weakness, a vulnerability, and surely Gavin could see that? Why else leave Pel at the altar if he did not know that sentiment would ruin them both?

He leaned back enough to butt his head against Gavin's hip, thumping him for being a fool. "I am an assassin. No one is to care about assassins."

"Yeah, pretty sure the 'fool' part has already been well established," Gavin said wryly, trying not to laugh when Zevran head butted him.

So it was an assassin thing. Well that... made a lot of sense.

"A fool, an idiot, an utter moron and about a thousand other things that I could list, I'm sure." He let a lock of Zevran's hair loop around his finger and then let it fall again. "But I care about you anyway. And you care about Alistair anyway. So if you're going to be a fool regardless, might as well forgive yourself for it."

"Usually one works to prevent such assumptions about themselves." But Gavin was, as he's come to realize, something of a special case. A fool that plays the fool that likes being a fool. Makes people not take him seriously.

Not the worst tactic, he's employed it himself but- never embraced it quite like Gavin seemed to.

"I shouldn't. It will not end well. It never ends well."

"And what exactly in all of Thedas does end well?" Gavin asked. It seemed to be a joke. Mostly. (It wasn't.)

He bit back the next thing on his tongue. No. No, that wasn't a path he wanted to go down, and he didn't need to go down it. Not now, and not here. (Or ever.) So he fought it down until it was small and hard in the pit of his stomach, and diverted his thoughts as forcefully as he could.

"You're not working as an assassin right now, Zevran," he pointed out instead. "You're ostensibly part of the Inquisition, and so is he. You worked together then, took care of him then. What's so different about now?"

"Sex." That one was easy enough, ask him another. "Dancing. Songs. A good bowl of fish chowder, a well written play, a clever novel, a beneficial business arrangement- Antiva."

Antiva would always find a way to make it's ends and make them well, and for a moment he was horribly, intensely, all but viciously homesick. He could not return. Not while the Inquisition had need of him but he hated the cold, hated the fate that put such a burden on the one person he cared for as his own blood despite not understanding, entirely, what that meant, and hated that he was helpless against it.

"How do you know? This could all be an elaborate ruse. I could be paid off by the Venatori to infiltrate and kill everyone in Skyhold by sulking." That was what he was doing. Sulking. Like a child.

"Alright, something that ends well that takes longer than a day," Gavin replied, flicking Zevran's ear lightly. Who was being the fool now?

"Sure, it could," He said, playing along. "Though I have no idea how much sulking it takes to kill someone, let alone everyone. I think you might have an easier time if you attempt to do so via venereal disease." He shifted his hand to gently grasp the crown of Zevran's head - forcing him to turn it and look up at him.

"Face it, Zevran. It's a lost battle. You've already lost it. Might as well enjoy what you can out of your defeat, right?"

"Sex can take longer than a day if you do it right." He flinches away from the flicking, turning hard, betrayed eyes up to Gavin. Why? Why would he do that? That was rude. There was no recourse but to turn his head and bite him through his shirt- not hard, but a pinch. A calculated pinch.

"Less than an hour of exposure emphasized by stabbing. For the entirety of Skyhold, if I wished them dead, it would take about two, perhaps three days." No one really checked what went into the food, everyone ate or drank at the tavern, and killing off Cullen and the Advisors could be handled with a well placed grenade. Easy.

He himself did not turn easy. He was fine here. Happy staring at dark of his eyelids and ignoring everything. Being made to turn forced a scowl. "No."

He squirmed when he was bit - but he'd deserved that. So no complaint. The rest, though... Gavin sighed, looking down at Zevran. He was one to talk, about losing battles. He was fighting one. He gave up and released the elf's head from his grasp.

"Alright," He said, a thumb gently brushing where he had flicked, as if to soothe the indiscretion. "Alright, then don't. The creators know I don't have a foot to stand on, to tell you otherwise. But if you're going to stab me, give me a heads up, will you? I won't make it more difficult but I would like a piece of pie, first, if I can."

"Assassins do not warn their marks that they are to be killed. That defeats the purpose. Besides. I would not kill you with a knife." This is a much more bearable line of thought than sentiment and how it would get him killed. More professional, more teasing, more morbid. More him.

We've come a long way from where we began

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