Fifth Drop - Again, until you decide to drop. Now I'm so high, so high, so high [Action]

[antivanleather]

plans.






His eyes snap open as the thought finishes and for a long moment he can't breathe or think past the remembered pain of a gaping wound and the cold, blissful slide of a knife through his heart.  No Isaac, so kind, so cruel to cradle his head.  No grit of dirt or stone under his cheek and digging into his back.  No clash of battle or distant, strained cry that was so very familiar- oh.  Katniss. She'd seen.  He's still wrapping his mind around being alive, around breathing when his hands fly to his chest- whole and slick with sweat rather than blood.  Alive.  He is alive.  It is no trick, it is no twist of necromantic intent.  He feels no lesser than he had before. Well. Mildly ill and lethargic, yes.  But he lives.

And remembers nothing at all of being dead aside from it being a decidedly uncomfortable process to achieve.  If he spends too much time thinking on it, he'll drive himself mad.  All he can do is take that he is alive with good grace and get to his feet.  Laying here is becoming uncomfortable- but for a fair while he can't bring himself to move, relishing the simple act of laying out in the sun and being able to breathe without smelling his own death

When he does rouse himself from where he's settled in the woods he will, without any real sense of urgency- which is fairly odd for him, go first and foremost to Isaac's home.  There was something he gave the Forgemaster to hold onto that he needs back.  Afterward he finds himself wandering to the clothing shop to find a shirt. Perhaps shoes.  Something beyond the plain white trousers the Malnosso gave him upon his revival.  From there, it's home.  Home to check in on his boys and be yelled at quite a bit.

At his house he'll pick the lock to the front door since he does not have the key upon his person or feel particularly inclined to calling attention to himself, slip inside, and make his  way to the kitchen to brew himself a mug of coffee.  If a hearty measure of brandy makes it way into the mug as well- can anyone blame him? He's settled there for the first hour he is back home, sitting quietly in the kitchen and sipping away.

Comments

[250mhzwabl]

If nothing else, there was tea. It had meant that the house had been rather heavily caffienated as of late, but tea was something they were all used to. It was something that made them actually get up and move, which had become a rare thing in the hours that they were home, huddled up in two and threes and silent save for the ever-present background noise of Jack's music. They'd all fallen into a patchwork provisional routine, tumbled-up bits of what was good for them and what they needed, the former as much as they could handle and the latter to fill in the inevitable chinks. Tea, at least, was blessedly a little of each category.

That, and that alone, had Jack wandering into the kitchen with an empty mug in each hand, perplexed by the time he reached the doorway by the smell of coffee. It wasn't like Max to make coffee when there was already a kettle on, so why-

-and that was where his thoughts stopped - his everything stopped, to be precise. Because while he'd said loudly and repeatedly that Zev would be back, of course he would be back, this was Luceti after all, he hadn't quite figured out the trick of actually believing it. In his mental best case scenarios, the dead stayed dead. In the worst case you were going after your former friends with bludgeoning weapons. And he couldn't quite work his brain around it when faced with the precise reality of what he'd been saying, any more easily than he'd been able to in the past week and change, that Zevran would ever be sitting at their table again, quietly drinking a coffee while the sun streamed in through the window.

To his credit, at least, he neither dropped the mugs nor fainted. He only stared, and went paper-white, and listed until his shoulder hit the door-jamb with a very solid thump.

[antivanleather]

There's an odd buzzing in the back of his head, still. The newness of hearing everything. He'd checked himself over when he'd grabbed the ratty, oversized turtleneck, the sleeves long enough to cover his hands and the cuffs folded back to prevent that from happening, the hem hanging to his thigh. The tattoo Isaac had given him? Gone. The knicks and small scars earned while cooking? Gone. He had a harder edge to him, leaner, paler, hair shorter. As he was when he first arrived. Fresh from the Deep Roads, all lean flesh and hollow eyes.

Perhaps that was why he chose so bulky clothing, the sweater and worn jeans that hung low on his hips as he leaned against the counter pouring himself another mug of coffee and brandy. Thud had his head snap up- tense and startled like a deer. He should have noticed.

But everything was still a little muzzy.

Jack. Just Jack. He offered the man a crook of a smile.

"Argento."

[250mhzwabl]

Did Zevran look different? Jack couldn't say. His last memory of the man's face was the distinctive off-coloured, sunken pale of someone who's dead and mostly exsanguinated, too still and faintly glossy with the water they'd used to get the worst of the blood off. Plus it was hard to focus on him, mind flitting hummingbird-erratic to a thousand things, skittery and terrified of the incomprehensible thing that was Zevran breathing and moving, Zevran without a speck of grime on him, Zevran in the damned kitchen drinking coffee in a terrifyingly ugly sweater like a one night stand cocooned in borrowed clothing, Zevran-

Zevran smiling at him.

"Oh. God."

The Jack's voice, when it finally evaded the leaden obstruction of his tongue, carried a dozen intonations, high among them what is happening and am I going mad, with a close third being taken by I literally cannot believe you. He took a shivery breath and forced himself to advance a step, just enough to put the mugs down on the table and let himself sink into a chair, before his suddenly-unreliable knees could deposit him on the tile. If there was a correct response he didn't know it. He didn't even know how to make the world go un-fuzzy at the edges.

"Zev." He swallowed thickly, and croaked a noise that was half laugh and half something he refused to contemplate, leaning back in his chair and looking up at him with that same lingering, distraught disbelief.

[antivanleather]

There had to be something he could say or doe to make Jack look a little less broken. A little less hysterical. But he still did not quite felt right in a way and all that came to mind was to ever so casually lift a shoulder, as if he had not gotten himself killed during the draft after insisting that his boys be careful because it would be so very easy for any of them to die, as if he had not been gone for a week, as if he had not been a strange mess of anger and anxiety for the past few months before this mess.

As if things were not a good deal clearer for all that his head felt thick.

He lifted his shoulder, crooked smile spreading into something a little wider. A little sheepish. Faintly embarrassed, really.

"Miss me?"

[250mhzwabl]

That. Zevran just looking like he'd forgotten some sort of important date and was a bit embarrassed, but all things considered thought it was actually a rather minor concern. That was the hand in the proverbial side. Because while appearances and pet names and voices were one thing, that attitude was entirely another, and . . . Christ, Jack didn't actually know any more. Maybe Luceti had him doubting what his own eyes told him more than he'd ever realized, or maybe it was just his own penchant for skepticism that had chosen this of all possible times to be especially problematic. Regardless, his shock finally began to dissolve rapidly into a roiling mess of other feelings - bafflement and outrage, of course, but there were stranger things in there too. Renewed-but-abruptly-obsolete grief. Unreasonable terror that this was some illusion or dream, fated to end abruptly and mercilessly.

And joy. Joy was the strangest of all, and the one he was absolutely least prepared to feel cascading down on him in a too-slow acceleration, like all those chunks of concrete and steel in the slow-motion footage of a building being demolished.

"You- rgh, yes-" he interrupted himself, and although even inane and obvious questions needed answers, he found that even having to answer that in the first place had helped fuel the beginning of an impressive rant. He glared up finally, still overwhelmed but clearer, sharper. "-but, you . . . ngh. You bastard, you utter-"

That was the place where the accusations fit. The you died and the of all the hypocrisies and the do you have any idea what the last nine days have been like. But when he let loose, the most needling, most insulting thing of all shoved its way to the front.

"How long have you been here?" It was more demand, more declamation, than actual question. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know. "Here, in the bloody kitchen! All of us in this constant state of missing you, every. Damned. Day, and you're sitting here drinking a coffee in the other room like- like-!" He'd gotten to his feet at some point in all of that, and stood now, breathing visibly and fumbling for the next word in that chain of strident objections. But it felt good for a moment, to just be loud, to be upset with Zevran for being so never-endingly stupid.

Because everyone died, sooner or later. That wasn't the worst part. The torture came from never quite knowing if someone was alive.

action

[relictusdeus]

[Bruised, bloodied, and with a heavy sense of tiredness in the body and mind, the Forgemaster had made an uneventful return from the draft to find another loss awaiting him at home. There was no savaged corpse, like Zevran had left, and yet, what little remained for him was somehow worse in that there was no immediate, cold, undeniable sense of finality to Hector’s disappearance. Isaac had smoothed his fingers over Hector’s shirt and breastplate in an absent, meaningful way, memorizing every fold and contour and mark engraved. And even after skimming the contact list for the name of his erstwhile companion twice over, he had stepped outside and reached far for him, palpating the air for the faintest trace of his aura until he allowed the reality of the situation to penetrate.

Hector had vanished yet again from his life, without warning. While turning the fact over and over in his mind, the sense of heat and pressure building in Isaac’s chest had given in a sudden, wildly irrepressible fit of laughter. On and on he had laughed until he collapsed into bed, spent and heaving for breath. Yes, of course. As expected of him. As expected of the Malnosso with their clever sense of humour.

The lone Forgemaster then did as he was wont to do, and pursued his interests with a fiery intensity, busying himself with hunting and sorcery. The days are growing warmer and he’s grateful for it, spending longer hours outdoors. He happens to be out at this hour, sitting atop a boulder with his attentions on a crow perched on his raised gauntlet. It decides after some shifting about and ruffling of feathers that it prefers to rest upon his shoulder and preen itself. They are beautiful, verbose animals and made for affectionate company, he muses; nonjudgmental company, moreover, something that had meant that much more to him as a lonely child. It's hard not to like it; he tends to feel a sense of kinship among creatures believed to be of ill-omen.]

Did I say you could stand there, you miserable sack of feathers? [The crow blinks its wise, beady eyes, carefully considering this before cawing by his ear.]

action

[antivanleather]

What is this world coming to, when not even one's crow will take heed of your words?

[Daring, perhaps, to announce himself so boldly, so blatantly, but he was not yet quite as clear minded as he could be and whatever ill will or bad blood had been cut out of him on the battlefield. From this angle it suited Isaac, at least. High and easy with a vicious and cheeky crow glistening upon his shoulder. There was much he might have said differently. Much he might have done instead of walking into the clearing and leaning against the nearest tree. But this was simplest. And for the moment simple suited him best.]

action

[relictusdeus]

[Pale eyes do not lift in greeting, the Forgemaster’s expression betraying no surprise at Zevran’s arrival. What acknowledgement he does offer is in the soft snort that escapes him and in his smile, fading at the edges as he mulls the words over. A rather impudent remark for one whom had virtually begged him for a hastier passage into death, he muses grimly, but this too comes as no surprise.]

‘tis not under my dominion. [A gloved finger absently nuzzles its chest-feathers and it croons, hopping onto his wrist.] It does and takes as it pleases… [He produces a small scrap of bread from under his cloak which is quickly plucked from hand.] …and offers a moment’s company in the hopes of receiving a little more. A clever little creature.

[Leaving the thought to hang in the air, he meets the elf’s gaze at last, a faint, lingering smirk on his lips.] ...You are late. [He observes in his lackadaisical, matter-of-factly tone.] I take it that it isn’t the bread you have come for. I'm afraid I haven't any left, anyway.

action

[antivanleather]

Crows do tend to be clever. And insubordinate. And linger where they may not be wanted.

[Whether he spoke of the bird or himself it isn't easy to say. It could be one, it could be the other, but for the moment he's taking in the fact that he died for this man. And is gauging if it was worth it. Then there's that word, that smirk, that bit of jibing innuendo and he knows that it was worth the pain. Worth the week and whatever he might have lost.

He's leaner, now. Much as he had been when he first met Isaac, nestled warm and comfortable in his bed. His eyes faintly hollow, his hair shorter, his stance more wary- all from a few seconds worth of action.]

I shall strive to be more punctual in the future, Rosso.

[z_jay]

[Recently there had been a quiet in the house, more or less from an absence of much to really want to speak of. The sound of a cup being moved in the kitchen went without notice as he slipped in, heading for the ice box. Jack often would partake of tea-- same as Max, he figured. Must be a British thing, though he did have the shock of his life when he turned to see who was sitting there.

It was hard to shock someone who had likely seen a lot of shocking things, but here Eugene was, with a sound stuck in the back of his throat and eyes transfixed on the figure before him. Long, blond hair, pointed ears, tanned skin... and speaking of skin, he was in the flesh...]

Zev?

[There was a small chance that this was a dream, though admittedly in his dreams he still has all his limbs, which led him to believe that his eyes, and mind, weren't deceiving him. When he didn't dissipate or otherwise vanish, he let out a soft scoff of laughter, disbelieving and very... hopeful in a way that could be painful. That should know better.]

H-how long have you--?

[antivanleather]

Mm?

[He's slow to turn, slow to stare, feeling halfway outside his own skin at this point in the bottle. Third pot of coffee, the dregs of his previously full bottle of brandy. One he'd brought in for a rainy day. He'd intended to share it but such things were brushed to the wayside when one has just come back from the dead.

Odds are Eugene expects a lusher, livelier, healthier elf in his kitchen. He will have to make do with the lean, hard edged assassin slumped against the counter, sweater and jeans too large, baggy, hanging upon his frame to obscure the fact he'd lost some of his softness earned by mornings lying in bed with them and indulging in sweet foods. His hair is shorter, his eyes a little more hollow and faintly haunted, but the smirk is all Zevran. Every inch of lip the same that Eugene had kissed not two weeks ago.]

...perhaps an hour? Maybe a little longer? I did not wish to make a fuss.

[z_jay]

Didn't want to make a fu-- is this genuine? This utter lack of an inkling that perhaps you were greatly missed? Or that this shouldn't be cause for notification in some capacity, to the guys you do more than just live with?

[Body language would clearly indicate that he was summarily unimpressed with how Zevran was handling this, but then he looked away, one hand smoothing over his mouth before he spouted off more. No sense in being angry when at least he'd come back... but this was not the first time.

But now he was rolling over toward him, lips set in a line and eyes locked on him as he approached]

You're sometimes more of an idiot than Jack, you know that?

[antivanleather]

Eugene-

[He attempts, without success, to interject. Several times.]

Gene. Eugene- Mocha, please may I just-

[He gives up, sagging against the counter until Eugene was finished with his rightfully angry serious of questions for which Zevran has no answer- because he honestly didn't think that far ahead.]

I am sorry. I just. Needed to get my head straight before I saw any of you. And then one preparatory mug of coffee and brandy became two, then I ran out of coffee and continued to drink brandy and...I am not feeling myself and did not wish to disappoint you with a different Zevran than the one you missed.

[Action]

[abjurer]

[He's sort of moved back into his own room and out of the pillow fort that the living room had become after their return, although he still spends most of his time around Jack and Eugene. He thinks it makes them feel less worried about him, and he- he likes the company, honestly. It makes him feel better.

He's returning to the house late that night though, a few drinks in the bar in the village has left him a little on the tipsy side, but happily so.

He just stares when he sees Zevran in the kitchen, reaches up to rub his eyes and he's too tired for this, really.]

Figures the night I get drunk would be the night we get ghosts.

[Action]

[antivanleather]

Oh, you are drunk as well?

[Though Zev was not quite on the 'happy drunk' end of things. More of the 'listless' but Max is there and he's alive and that should be more than enough for him to finish the mug of mostly brandy and some coffee in his hands. He does so, sets it on the counter, and shoves away from the counter to pat around the cabinets for another bottle of brandy.

His motions betray a loss of fluidity in him, the shades of light in the dim kitchen hide the sharper cut of his jaw, the shorter sweep of his hair, the faint glaze in his eyes.]

Let us continue to be drunk together.

[Action]

[abjurer]

Getting there.

[It's all so normal, this conversation with a dead man. Resurrected man? Because ghosts don't usually rattle around the kitchen like this. Not with such purpose. Not while actually touching things. He goes to sit down at the table, watching as Zevran searches the cabinets, taking in the differences. He isn't the same man that he'd last seen on TERRACE, not quite, and there's a reason for that, he's sure. Being dead does not normally do wonders for a person.]

I think that sounds like a plan. When did you get back? They said you would but... well, if you are a ghost, can I leave the exorcism for tomorrow?

[Action]

[antivanleather]

Mm. Please. Skip the exorcism entirely. They leave me feeling tingly and dirty for days afterward.

[And there it was, the next bottle of brandy. Zevran carries this back to the table and sets out two glasses, pouring one for Max and one for himself. He manages to not spill any- while his motions might be clumsy the care and consideration of Brandy is something he takes very seriously.]

I am back. I awoke in the woods...about two hours ago, I think.

[thebellthatbinds]

There wasn't supposed to be anything special about today. It was just another day in the quiet and thankfully steady stream that had followed the Draft. She'd needed the calm of settling back in at House 44 and coming to terms with everything that happened with the support of her house mates and friends. And yet despite that, there was still so much doubt in her mind, so much fear and insecurity and it eats at her little by little...which is why she had wanted to distract herself in the shops. Glancing through the racks of clothing she stops in front of a row of hats, idly tracing her fingertips over the rims and wondering how low she might be able to wear them to help cover her eyes when a step too far to the left made her bump into someone; someone she didn't see because they were in her blindspot of course.

"Sorry-"

Inwardly cursing herself she looks up...and freezes at the sight of the elf, her eye wide.

"Zevran!"

[antivanleather]

"It is no trouble-" He blinks and twists to offer a faint smile to whoever ran into him before it registers that it's Sabriel. Sabriel with an eye patched over and looking worse for wear. "...Nota Bella? What...what happened?"

She had been fine when he'd seen her last. What had he missed? Why does the thought of missing this bother him- they were friends of a sort, yes, but. The bandage did not suit her.

And for some twisted reason a small part of him felt guilty.

[thebellthatbinds]

He was really there. Hell, she'd bumped into him, of course he would be but was he still him? Shaking her head to hold of his questions she steps forward, her voice low when she speaks.

"Hold still."

It's a simple test, something her father had taught her when she was ten years old to find out how long a corpse had been dead. Lifting both hands she holds two fingers lightly over his lips and one over his brow. He had been dead for a week but she felt...nothing. No sign of Death or Free magic, no lingering traces of necromancy anywhere. He really was alive and well again.

"You're alive..."

Her focused expression cracks into a relieved smile and she steps closer still to give him a quick, tight hug.

[antivanleather]

"I am in no hurry." He shrugs a bit, trying not to draw too much attention to the lean cut to his torso and sharp angle to his jaw. He was as he'd been when he'd first woken in her bed- and the memory does make his smile warm just that much more. She'd handled it quite well, all told.

He was about to ask if she remembered that morning as well when her fingers slip up to his lips. Normally he'd be cheeky enough to press a kiss there, but it would not be appreciated at the moment. H remains still and silent until she grins in turn, and all is well. He loops his arms around her shoulders to pull her into a quick hug.

"Of course I'm alive. I would not be standing here, looking for shirts otherwise."

[stillplaying]

Maybe it's unsurprising that it's in the woods that she spots him. It's where they had first met. It's the place where she spends most of her time. With the arrival of spring weather and a new (not so welcomed) roommate, she's been spending more and more time out there. Time away from Effie Trinket and her rules.

At least in the woods, Katniss can be herself.

There's no mistaking the elf when he walks by. No mistaking that long blonde hair or tanned skin. But unlike the last time he returned from time away, she doesn't attack. She doesn't even approach him. To do so would mean acknowledging from where it was he did return.

It'd mean acknowledging a death she hadn't been able to stop. And that apology she owed him just seemed too painful to bear.

[antivanleather]

For a moment he doesn't quite catch that he isn't alone in the woods. His head is still fuzzy, his mind not entirely settled now that he's back. It's soothing to be in the woods at least. The sound and feel of the forest in spring isn't exactly nostalgic but it is familiar enough for him to feel a little more real. A little more tangible. It's when he has to sidestep a downed limb that he sees her. Locks up for a moment, and then smiles.

"Katniss."

How to apologize? After the rant he had given her when she'd died and come back, does he deserve to walk on by like it was nothing?

[stillplaying]

The tears come unbidden, unasked for, as soon as he speaks her name. She's already cried over him. Over his body and then late that night, clutching her legs to her chest as she curled into a fetal position. It was stupid to cry. Stupid to cry when she knew that he'd be back. But she knew firsthand that death here still came from the price. And not just the memories of dying.

She feels horrible, so very horrible for letting him down. For not having his back. Just like she didn't have Gale's back when he had needed her.

"You're back," she says quietly, staring at him as if she hadn't seen him in years. "How long have you been back?"

[antivanleather]

A great deal of his uncertainty fades out entirely at the tears. Weeping over his appearance. Grieving him, as she must have when he'd died. Hadn't he promised to be careful? To come back in one piece? Well...he'd managed the last to some extent. He shakes off the remainder of the veil and muzziness that had him blankly pleasant and walks to her, pulling her into a tight embrace.

She shouldn't cry. Least of all over him.

"I'm back. I am here. It has not been long- I only just woke."