antivanleather | Fourth Step - back from that ledge my friend, you could cut ties with all the lies that [action]

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Fourth Step - back from that ledge my friend, you could cut ties with all the lies that [action]

[He'd been living in...a state of frustration the past month. Of denial. But with a week and some spent in the wilderness in tail end of winter Zevran sought to reconnect with the cold hollow that the Crows instilled in him at an early age, one that time with the Warden and several months here had worn away. Filled with food and restful sleep and pleasurable company. With sentiment. It was not something he could afford, that sentiment, that desire for companionship beyond the odd body in his bed or verbal spar. To want comrades was something a Crow did not do, and as much as he wasn't pleased by the guild wanting him dead back home he was still very much one of them. Old habits died hard after all.

Hunting, tracking, setting a spartan camp and keeping mobile- avoiding all others that might have been hunting, forsaking the company of his fellow villagers did little more than weigh upon the elf and leave him far too much time to think over the events leading up to and just after that odd valentine's shift. How he'd handled it, or rather hadn't. The conversation he'd had with Isaac just before leaving, or rather the argument. The time between then and now did little to sooth the ire it'd caused. He'd lost something there.

He didn't know he cared enough to get it back.]

[Days away and he'd intended to remain so for awhile longer but the fall of snow urges him back to the village. Bundled along with his camping gear on his back are furs that need to be trimmed and roots, dried meat and bundles of flesh from what animals he'd trapped and butchered while hunting. It's a fairly sizable stash of hunting loot if he did say so himself, and he's far too much to keep to himself. Perhaps after he cleans up he'll offer the finished furs or bits of wrapped meat to his neighbors, or any that stop him along his path. He waves his way in from the south, past the battle dome and up through the plaza to stop in the grocery store for a few vegetables, perhaps a bottle of wine to go with the meat he's still carrying, and then he makes his way back to community house 7.

The normally boisterous and cheerful elf is weary and quiet, without any quick smile or laugh to crack at those he passes. His leathers are grubby from time in the woods, his boots scuffed, his hair a loosely braided mess. He'll make conversation if someone engages him, and he will be polite enough, perhaps even offer a cutlet of venison or dirty joke if the company is pleasant.]

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[There's a look he's seen before many times. Tight and wary, though normally there's a little more desperation. A little more blatant fear. Then again he's unarmed and Jack...Jack has never had to be afraid of him before. It'd be terribly easy to make certain he'd not see the smiling rogue for the remainder of the night- to remain the Crow. Cold and hard and vicious. Unrelenting and entirely apathetic as to the comforts of those around him.

Even as he's stretched out wearing nothing more than a bathrobe he lets his mind wander slightly sideways down bloodier paths. His usual idle imaginings starring Jack are sultry, steamy, bountiful flesh and shuddering gasps. Now he thinks of the temperature and bite of the cider- how a splash to the eyes might blind Jack, how little effort it'd take to vault over the table to snap his neck- or perhaps to strangle him with the belt of his own robe. It wouldn't take long.

It'd be quick. It'd be clean.

And the idea of it is entirely repulsive to him for so many reasons he truly doesn't wish to think about. He can't even consider it in jest. His face twists and he turns aside, glaring at the pile of hides that need cleaning. He can't bear that fear in Jack's eyes.]

No. Yes- I do not. Might we discuss something else?

Not until I know what's wrong, no.

[Another expression he barely recognizes on Zev's face, but God, at least it's not that terrible reptile-cool nothing he'd started with. If he has to needle him into a reaction, hell, he'll do it. Assassin or not, he'll do it. A perverse part of him wonders if he won't even feel a little better, if the restless unstoppable images of Eugene still and bloody under him won't take a day or two off, once he's had his turn being beaten around.

An incredulous grin twists one corner of his mouth and he chuffs a throaty laugh, almost voiceless and entirely without mirth, all dull incredulity.]

I'm not that good an actor, Zev. I can't act like nothing's different, and I . . . [Damn it. He can feel the stubborn bravery wobbling, like a muscle threatening to fail. He pushes it away, setting his jaw.] I'm not going to pretend I don't care whatever you're doing, here.

Nothing is wrong.

[The more he says that the less true it seems. But that is his story and he intends to stick to it, even if it makes him more and more irritated to do so. He'd always found Jack's penchant for questions and tugging somewhat attractive before. Now? Now it's just frustrating.]

I wished to hunt. I did so. I returned home to rest. Eugene waylaid me to ensure that I bathed. I did so. I came up to my apartment to soak, drink a bottle of wine, and sleep. I have yet to do so because I have company. That is what I'm doing here.

Right, just business as usual for Jack and Zev. Sitting on different couches. Nothing so much as a touch to the shoulder since I've stepped inside.

[Again, the statement would be harder, if Jack's expression wasn't so transparently and shamelessly concerned. Jack isn't demanding sex, but all the same, Zev uses physical contact like some people use proper nouns. He's one of those people who absolutely could not be entirely communicated by means of sound alone, and that aspect of their interaction changing is just as jarring as the altered tones and syntax.

He means to go on, to pick apart the hundred other ways that this is absolutely not business as usual, and in which Zevran is fooling no-one with his terrible uneven stone wall of a defence. But it catches in his throat before he can turn out the finished words, and instead he finds himself hesitating, then delivering a much shorter, much more eloquent argument - before it can wring out of him as something less effective and more pathetic.]

. . . Zev. Please.

[The distance is unusual, now that he thinks on it. Even when they'd first met he'd been open and abundant with little gestures of casual affection- fingers on wrists, a hand in the small of his back, leaning against jack as they walked, tidbits of companionship before they'd ever bedded one another. It's an itch in the back of his mind scrabbling to be scratched. He'd been cold and alone and uncomfortable and miserable for over a week and here was someone that wants him. That seems to need him.

Never before has he felt that he needed to be needed quite so much.

It's the crackled undertone to Jack's voice that does it. Such a soft sound, fragile in it's own right. The effect it has on the entirety of Zev's emotional wall is much like a brick thrown through a spun glass figurine. All came crashing down and he slumps in the chaise.]

...it didn't go away. Not at first. And I did not...we spoke of sentiment. Of affection. Of how I do not do that.

[That first 'it' is something Jack can't identify until Zevran's finished the entire statement, and only then does the meaning of the beginning come into clear focus, like an optical illusion once the trick's been pointed out. And when he does understand, he's less afraid, he thinks. But something just as heavy and restless steals in to take the place of the fear, and he swallows, demeanour steadying into a listening stillness as he cups his hands around his mug and listens.]

Yeah. We talked about that. [His voice is lower on the affirmation, not pressing for an answer now that they're coming on their own, however slowly.] How it's dangerous, you said.

[And how it makes sense now - God, it makes sense like he never wanted it to.]

It is a distraction, one I cannot afford here or elsewhere. To have that thrust upon me for a week and then have it fade...

[But it didn't. It should have, that was how the experiment was supposed to work- but this? This didn't.]

Some of what I felt did but some...Max. My infatuation there lingered and I do not know him well enough to feel that for him. I didn't know his name until the first day of that experiment. But the week ended and so too did the experiment but the sentiment lingered. And i found it more unsettling as the days went on because I do not feel such things. There is no place for them in my world.

I. Ah. I see. [He swallows, averting his eyes into his mug for a moment as he lets that sink in.] That sounds difficult, yeah.

[That's it, then. Zev is in love with Max. Some sort of bizarre Malnosso-triggered love at first sight. Which doubtless changes things, and . . . oh. Suddenly, the physical distance seems to make a tremendous amount of sense, and Jack feels a slight flush rise into his cheeks.

Well then. So much for business as usual.]

So . . . what you're saying is that you're taken with Max, now.

What?

[Now it is Zevran's turn to be puzzled. That wasn't where he intended to go with this at all. That Jack would jump to that conclusion is somewhat baffling to him.]

I? What? No. He is handsome enough I suppose and there are a great many things one can do with a mage in bed that might make pursuit of a regular dalliance quite worthwhile- but no. Just- no.

The sentiment lingered until the month itself had passed- then I could think of him and feel nothing. Or at least nothing beyond the usual admiration I have for a handsome man.

All right.

[He answers slowly, still uncertain, though somewhat guiltily relieved to have been wrong. That whole situation would have been a train wreck, not least of all because Max seems to be utterly infatuated with someone very different from Zevran. Never mind he's liked having Zevran in his current somewhat-ambiguous capacity. Which is . . . sort of the entire point of this exercise, actually.

He nods, then takes a sip of his cider, canting his head at Zev slightly.]

I suppose the shift just held on a bit longer for you, for some reason. At any rate, it's problem solved now, right?

Yes. Problem solved. It has simply left me out of sorts and I wished to clear my head before I spoke with you or Eugene, especially about. This.

[He gestures between them, and here it is. The point he'd been working over in his mind, the thing he truly did not wish to say. And yet for his own sake and theirs isn't it better to make the cut clean before things become complicated and messy?]

It has been fun, yes, but I think it is time to put an end to this.

[It's what Zevran told him months ago, isn't it? At no point has he lied or misrepresented himself. He doesn't become attached. He doesn't play this game by the conventional rules, and no number of little gifts or sweaty dalliances or nights of companionable warmth are going to change the standards he was raised into. He's had a close shave, the fun is gone, and at any rate spring is coming. No need for a shared bed once the snow melts.

That's why it's idiotic, the way Jack feels himself crumple from the middle with Zevran's proclamation. What in the world is wrong with him? He knew how to do this back in university, a lifetime and a few years ago. He understood relationships with expiration dates, arrangements of conveniences, friends with limited contracts for anything more. This should be fine.

But it's not. He doesn't want it to be over just like that, no more Zevran tagging along to breakfast or lounging unannounced on their couch. He doesn't want to have to tell Eugene that they've outlived their usefulness, to watch the way his lips thin and still when he's been told that he can't do enough, can't be enough. He doesn't want to be at this point where the two of them have become so tangled up in something that was never supposed to be more and Christ, what did he think was going to happen anyway-?]

. . . oh.

[It only occurs to him belatedly that he's supposed to breathe, but it doesn't feel like there's enough room for the air in his chest. Whatever's in there is hot and crawling and hideous, squeezing his throat shut as it twists up his neck. He doesn't want to inhale so much that he pushes the level of it up past his eyes - not in front of Zevran.]

You and Eugene are a fine couple and I think it will be simpler, easier for you both if we make a...what was the phrase I heard- a clean break. It will prevent things from becoming overly complicated, you and he may continue to go about your lives as you will without having to worry about a strange elf breaking into your apartment at odd hours and I-

[He'll cope somehow. Really, Jack, this is for the best.]

I will have more time to devote to my various professions. I've yet to truly establish myself in any formal manner in the village and I thin with spring on the rise the need for my hunting and tanning abilities would be to the benefit of those that live around us-

[And so on, and so on- a multitude of empty words and gestures and he carefully keeps his eyes focused at a point just past Jack's shoulder so he won't have to look him in the eye and see what those words are doing to the man. He's just an elf. Just a random body in the dark. They don't need him- they're better off without him. Surely he can see that?]

[Reasons. Zevran puts reasons together well enough. He's no orator, but he's good enough for a pickup or a breakup, which is apparently all he actually needs. Jack would put energy into following the stream of thought, but his head is buzzy with the cold heat starting to build up pressure inside him and he needs to be out of here now. He doesn't have a leg to stand on except for one-sided affection, and he doesn't anticipate fantastic success with tossing that out there. Unless both parties believe in it, currency isn't much more than good kindling.

He gives a muted, understanding noise, taking a shuddering breath and scrubbing at his face, up through his hair to weave his fingers behind his neck. Zevran's right, he still has Eugene, he still- _{(weight of the brick clumsy in his hand)} - he still has - _{(the tacky slickness of blood and brown eyes gone gone gone)} -

He feels abruptly ill, and pushes himself quickly, which helps for a millisecond. And it's good, he just has to keep moving.]

I - yeah, I hear you. [He hates how his voice sounds, quavery and young, and tries to brighten the tone with a barely-smile that's sickly at best.] I don't own you, so . . . God, I don't know.

[He should be walking toward the door, but his feet take him one, two, three, four steps to the chaise instead. It's where he needs to be even more than gone, if only to make at least a part of this something real, something he's decided. So he leans down, and one hand finds the sloping upholstered back as the other mantles lightly against the long strands of Zevran's hair. It's guide enough to kiss the crown of his head, somewhere safe but still body-warm and intimately familiar, and free of his eyes for a moment he finds a few more whispered words.]

. . . I just hear you, alright? That's the best I have on this one. Sorry.

Edited 2013-03-11 01:56 (UTC)

[Words, words, so many words that he could spin with a smile or a sigh to make whatever lie or thread of fiction seem true. If he said enough it'd drone out and boil down to the core of the matter- this was over and had been for some time, they simply hadn't realized it yet. And it is an easy thing to spin, so terribly easy so long as he doesn't look at Jack or think of Eugene or let that little sound or slump of his shoulders twist in his gut. The ache that was supposed to have gone along with the one that Max pulled from him.

The hollow edges in his chest that flared up for the first time since Rinna sting with every pretty lie, every glittering excuse or explanation he puts out there. He keeps talking, gesturing, stopping only to sip his cider and wet his lips for another bout of poison. It needn't be lethal to cause such pain.

There is no way for him not to notice when Jack stands that this pains him. No way for him to ignore what he's doing or saying but, truly, this is for the best. He can't make this risk. He cannot afford to be so vulnerable. It's unthinkable.

Katniss is an acceptable liability, she can protect herself, fight, kill if need be, she has no true need of protection. But Jack and Eugene...they are not hunters. They are not killers. He cannot shelter them and to want to do so weighs more than he should like. The words spin and slide and weave until Jack's in arm's reach. Until that hand slides into his wet hair and there are lips pressing to the top of his head.

And that phrase.

'Don't own you'. Jack never had. He and Eugene never tried to be anything other than open. Available. Never made any attempt to be superior to him or lord anything above him. Treated him as a person rather than a tool to be tossed aside.

He has a moment to choose, here. Does he truly wish to be as empty and bitter as Isaac? Does he wish to lose more? Or does he want something more than empty nights spent in bed with nothing more at the heart of it? The muffled apology makes his mind for him. A trembling hand slides up to curl around Jack's wrist, his other arm sliding up to loop around his waist and pull him close.]

...I am not a good person, Jack. I'm a killer. I've done terrible things and felt no regret for them. I've killed those that have called me friend before because it was asked of me by the masters and not thought anything of it afterward. Do you truly wish a viper in your life, in your bed?

[For a moment, Jack just blinks dumbly at Zev's hand, following it down to the elbow and shoulder. The words float on the surface of his mind, too much to sink in for a moment, somehow buoyed up by their own weight. They're unreal things, words, ephemeral. But Zevran is shaking, and he moves with the arm hooked around him, settling half-curled against the elf and bowed over his hair. That's what's real, what he'd been wanting this whole time, and Jack clings to it tightly as Zev speaks. However much the words chill him, he holds on and stubbornly rejects the way the syllables make him think of reconsidering.]

What- is that what this is about? [The smile isn't holding, and Jack knows he's going to lose it if he even thinks about laughing, so he just holds on tightly, trembling on that tightrope between hysterical relief and the unreasonable blackness that's been fighting in the back of his mind for almost a week. It steadies slowly, and he swallows as he draws back, hand drifting from Zevran's hair to his jaw to pull his gaze up to meet him.] Here's what I don't understand, Zevran. How is it, that a man like that tries to save us from himself?

[It all falls apart once he's being held. That attempt at distance, that violent memory of his argument with Isaac. He's too far gone to ignore sentiment- it's here. There's affection and desire and friendship and all those little things he'd thought himself above or beyond or too far down the path of apathy to ever feel for himself in full. And yet here with an annoying little man from a world entirely unlike his own, he's found it. With him and his Eugene and their good humor and kind words and gentleness.

Everything he'd never thought he deserved offered so easily.]

It didn't fade. What I felt for Max I felt for you and Eugene and it did not fade. I am poison, Jack. Good men do not live long around me.

[Again, it. The thing Zevran won't even put a name to, though the more he describes it, the more Jack is sure he knows exactly when he means, and the heavier and stranger the feeling inside him becomes as it tangles with that dread in Zev's voice. It's like after the fall that left Eugene's leg a mangled horror, after he became at least a little coherent through the pain, when he started trying to argue that the best thing was for Jack to leave him with the gun and keep going.

It makes just as much sense, too. Some, but not enough to obey.]

Shh, shh- listen. I think I speak for both of us when I say that keeping you around is worth taking some chances. [That does it, just a little smile and he's grinning, heat welling up behind his eyes and vision going blurry. He has to smudge them clear, and ignore the way the heel of his hand comes away wet.] You're not the only one here who's let themselves get to that point.

Not like this- it was bad enough when she died and I could not help her- but the thought of it being you or Eugene simply-

[He cuts himself off and closes his eyes, infinity weary. That cold weight is back in his stomach and he wishes nothing more than to be rid of it, rid of this thing that makes everything so very complicated and unstable. He hates how it feels.]

Might we discuss something else? Anything else? The state of your show, the weather, Max's daily hygiene routine, anything.

[Enough is enough, and Jack relents, as much for his own sake as for Zevran's. He's burningly curious about who this 'her' is, but it can wait until they've both had a chance to breathe and settle down from the near-breakup experience. Giving a noise of agreement, he untangles himself briefly - just long enough to get something warm to sling over the both of them and to toe off his shoes. Then he's squirming his way back onto the chaise, uninvited and insistent, doing his best to insinuate himself into a comfortable position and get them both in a warmer situation.]

Well . . . I managed a bit of that local magic recently. That's impressive, don't you think?

[It's an older, cleaned and trimmed fur that Jack slings over them. Warm and soft and the color of creama, that along with the familiar planes and angles of jack's body pressed against his own has Zevran fluid and curling to tangle with him all the quicker. He shifts a bit here, twists there, thoroughly curls his legs in Jacks and rests his forehead against the man's throat. Every part of him that could be touching Jack, was, and he missed this. Needed this. All that is missing is Eugene on the other side bracketing him and when did this become so vital to his world?

He'll think on it later.]

...which spirit did you contact?

[Poisonous or not, Zevran's certainly as quick and coiling as a snake as he finds a comfortable spot, and by the time he's stilling Jack's just getting around to a soft, breathless laugh of bewilderment. It's comforting, though, Zevran's head under his cheek, back firm as he smooths the bathrobe down over it in a thoughtless, repetitive petting.]

The healing one - Nala? Max helped me out, and it seems like I'm managing little things respectably well. Little cuts, making pain less obvious . . . things like that.

...I may have missed you as well.

[He mutters into Jack's collar, giving his shoulder a light bite to chastise him.]

Mmm. I suppose if you must learn, that would be the best place to start, yes?

Seemed worth a try.

[Jack can't repress a smile, and the way his skin tingles where Zev had bit him is, perhaps unsurprisingly, more welcome than anything else. It's nice to see him fall into attitudes that are base, need and a little bossiness, especially after the politesse and careful lies of mere minutes ago. He smiles ruefully down at Zevran, just letting it be, not pushing the line of conversation on with his usual prattle. Maybe it's just in comparison to the antecedent emotional turmoil, but the moment seems very calm, and for a moment he wants nothing more than to just soak that up for however long that lasts.]

[For a long moment he's content to remain silent, fingers curled in Jack's shirt and focused entirely on the warmth of them entwined. This is what he missed so much while away, what he'd wanted, what he sought to deprive himself of. And for what? It makes him soft, perhaps, to want this. He'd wanted it with Isaac and been scorned for it. Jack...would not scorn him.

Settled and satisfied he lets his hands roam over the expanse of Jack's chest and sides, memorizing every curve of him by feel.]

...how were you while I was gone?

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