He asked. That was the one crucial part Jack had been unable to imagine, but he believed it instantly, settling in a way that even Zevran's endearments or shape atop him hadn't entirely managed. He was still for a moment longer, simply remembering to breathe, to feel something besides incredulous horror. Then he remembered that Zev was touching his cheek, and he turned into his palm with a quiet sigh of acceptance and a look that gentled from appalled disbelief to listening quiet. Because without another word of explanation, he knew the basic shape of that circumstance. He'd already seen people who wanted to live, and wanted it desperately enough to fight overwhelming odds, succumb to inevitable fact and ask only that the end be brief. Zev's eyes went distant for a moment and he let him go to that wordless place, let himself be moved when he returned, just let himself exist in that oddly comforting place where Zevran was directed and impassioned and towing him through a thing he already half-knew.
He flexed his fingers through the hanging weight of the sweater to the lean strength of Zev's stomach underneath, mind swaying from complacency to that prickling illness again as recognition lit in his eyes. That had been the first, then - the terrible wound that had stretched and gaped like a toothless mouth when they'd wrestled his armour off, heavy and open without leather or living muscle to bind it in. An hour of lying with that in him, and only going once he'd bled enough. He nodded numbly, thoughtlessly, and only released his breath when his palm settled on Zev's chest.
He wouldn't have thought Isaac to be the merciful type. But if he had, then . . . well. In the part of his mind that was still (would always be, he feared) at Abel, he thought that at least something had gone right.
". . . yeah," he murmured, and he wasn't humouring him at all. It was good of Zev to be so emphatic with him, but he got it, and it was an honest relief, knowing that at least he hadn't suffered. That he'd been with someone decent at the end. He left his hand where it was a moment longer, then wormed it out from beneath Zevran's grip to curl around the juncture of his neck and shoulder in a firm grip, a steadying grip. "That's good. Really."
no subject
He flexed his fingers through the hanging weight of the sweater to the lean strength of Zev's stomach underneath, mind swaying from complacency to that prickling illness again as recognition lit in his eyes. That had been the first, then - the terrible wound that had stretched and gaped like a toothless mouth when they'd wrestled his armour off, heavy and open without leather or living muscle to bind it in. An hour of lying with that in him, and only going once he'd bled enough. He nodded numbly, thoughtlessly, and only released his breath when his palm settled on Zev's chest.
He wouldn't have thought Isaac to be the merciful type. But if he had, then . . . well. In the part of his mind that was still (would always be, he feared) at Abel, he thought that at least something had gone right.
". . . yeah," he murmured, and he wasn't humouring him at all. It was good of Zev to be so emphatic with him, but he got it, and it was an honest relief, knowing that at least he hadn't suffered. That he'd been with someone decent at the end. He left his hand where it was a moment longer, then wormed it out from beneath Zevran's grip to curl around the juncture of his neck and shoulder in a firm grip, a steadying grip. "That's good. Really."