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

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.

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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?

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.

They don't do wonders for me either so as long as you're not planning on trying to kill people, I can probably skip it.

[Not that ghosts usually explained their plans in detail but he wasn't really thinking that clearly.

He smiles sleepily when takes the glass when Zevran offers it, sipping slowly and enjoying the warmth that curls down his throat.]

Two- geez, you should have called. One of us would have come to meet you!

I have not been paid enough to kill anyone in this enclosure- nor is there much of anything that I would find worth killing someone over.

[Well. There is that one thing. That one tiny thing. And he snorts and shrugs the thought off in favor of sipping his brandy and stretching over to brush his hand along Max's shoulder to make certain he's real.]

I did not wish to make a fuss.

People kill over really stupid stuff, sometimes. Money kind of seems like one of the more reasonable reasons.

[Better than insults and arguments or whoever's hedge had overgrown the fence.

He smiles up at him when Zevran brushes his shoulder, and pats his hand briefly.]

You came back from the dead. I think that's the kind of thing you get to make a fuss over.

There is not enough money in the village for it. Sentiment, though. Sentiment I would kill over very easily.

[Thoroughly ambiguous and mumbled and muttered into his glass, but clear enough. He'd only kill over those he knew dying. Or to protect them.]

Then shall we make a fuss? You and I and this bottle of brandy?

There's not really enough money for anything here. [You know, with there not actually being any money. He raises an eyebrow at that last though. Zevran didn't really seem the sentimental type.]

I think we should. It's nice brandy.

It is Antivan Brandy. A vintage I stole off a very lovely noblewoman in return for sparing her life. Well. At least until the poison kicked in. But she slept that night thinking herself free, and is that not a good way to go? Peacefully?

[He sips from his glass and shifts to settle next to Max, comfortably slumped.]

[He's never entirely certain how to take Zevran's stories, the ones that end in death anyway, so he just stares for a moment and then nods.]

I guess I can think of worse ways for it all to end. I mean, it's better than most of the ones I've imagined for myself.

No, no, no. None of that. No imagining death. I died- that is enough death for this household for the next five years. You are not allowed to die. Not while any of the rest of us are breathing.

[Max shrugs apologetically.]

Kind of difficult not to think about it, not when you spend so much time around things that are already dead.

But I don't have any plans to die anytime soon. [No matter what Jack might think.]

Good. I've become somewhat fond of you. Quite fond of you. I would rather you not find yourself injured or dead anytime soon. It's a bit of trouble, avenging someone when you don't quite know how to do so.

Same thing goes for you, y'know. Jack and Eugene have- god, I've never seen them like that before. They really really care about you. And I care too.