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

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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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Even with as drunk as he was- as fuzzy as drink and strangeness had left his head he could feel the moment when everything in Jack ground to a halt and began to whirl about like broken winged birds. Strung so tight and flickering, flailing, Zev rolled to brace himself above him. Literally used his weight as a reminder that he was alive now, that this was not something to be taken lightly. He had to straddle Jack's waist to do it, but straddle he did with no thought whatsoever to the consequences.

"Jack- Argento. Bello-" Amore. Something that went unsaid but was so very audible in the gentleness of his tone, the warmth of his tired eyes, the weight he put behind the endearment. Something he was terrified to say but wanted to in his own way. He swallowed, smoothed a hand along Jack's cheek to sooth him, and spoke the rest carefully. "I asked him to."

Please. He had said please. And Isaac had been so kind as to grant him that much. For a moment he was braced above Jack, lost to the memory, lips soundlessly working over that faint plea. They shaped the word before he blinked himself back into the present, resolved to explain. This Jack needed to know, and his voice leveled out, gravely serious. He took one of Jack's hands and rested it over his abdomen, where that ragged wound had been hidden by his leathers.

"Here. I was gutted and dying from a wound here." He had to pause a moment, remember the blood, remember the pain, and push on. "...I was beyond all saving. I know death. I know wounds. And I know how long it takes to die from such wounds and the one I had it...it would have taken an hour to bleed out and die."

An hour spent bleeding into the dust. Dying like Rinna but so much slower.

"A long. Painful hour. What Isaac did for me I asked him to do. It was a mercy. It was quick, it was clean." That hand was dragged up from his abdomen to rest over his beating heart. With eyes and voice he begged Jack to understand. In some way, in some part of his mind to be able to comprehend what Zevran asked and Isaac granted.

"One blow, here, that I barely felt. It was mercy, Jack."

Edited 2013-04-14 08:08 (UTC)

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."

He wasn't certain what worried him more. That he would have to explain this to Jack- or that Jacked seemed to understand him so readily. All their fears and preparation, all their insistence that they can protect themselves, that they are capable- these are not concerns of common people asserting that they might be of use in battle. These are concerns of those that have endured something. Some horror. Something of which they have not spoken and perhaps if he were not so weary he might ask after it. For now he let himself be held and took the invitation for what he saw it to be. One to settle atop Jack entirely, not at all unlike a drunken Elvish blanket, and rest.

He huffed a faint, weary laugh into Jack's chest once he was down. Mumbled something sad and rough and inarticulate in Antivan before he corrected himself since the Wings apparently did not speak drunken Zevran. "I used the same dagger earlier in the week to kill her again. Rinna. I was caught in one of those...shift. Dreams.

It felt like it was real and I so wished it to be. She was warm and alive and everything I'd missed and I'd forgotten all that came after. The Warden, the Blight- this place. You and Eugene. And to escape I had to kill her again."

Zev was heavier than he looked, but still lighter than Jack thought he remembered him being, the last time he'd been in a position to be lying on him in a not-entirely-dissimilar way. Jack frowned at that, finger-combing his hair away from his face and, on an impulse, lifting a section from that spot halfway up his temple. It seemed like as good a thing to do as any, with his own mind running a steady, distracting background current of dark thoughts and Zevran just beginning to mutter against his shirt in that pretty, half-incomprehensible language he spoke.

He'd picked the chunk into three sections and begun to braid when Zev apparently started again. Jack paused, looking down at him, still caught in that quiet that he knew wasn't like him. But this was something he couldn't prattle over, even if he'd wanted to. Not what had happened to Zev at the end, and not what he had apparently gone through before that.

Something small and sharp twisted in Jack, and bloomed rapidly like a weaponised fern, all irrational sharp edges and venom. At least after his own run-in with those things, he'd come home in one piece. But Zevran had died anyway, within days of the thing. It was beyond senseless, beyond cruel, and he let go of Zev's hair to just wrap his arms around him and hold on tightly.

"God, I hate those guys" he muttered, tenor dropped about as low as it went and all the proper edges of his accent sharpened to dangerous points. "I mean, I already did, but this takes it into that inappropriate fixation kind of territory. The sort where you have daydreams about them catching fire."

"Mmm. Fire's a bit quick for what I would like to do to them. Were it not wearing her face I think I might have taken my time with acid and my garrote wires." He could be terribly creative if given time, and he was drunk enough to let his mind wander along those bloody paths. Without a filter those thoughts tumbled out, sanguine little gems of painful intent. Things he'd done. Things he would probably do again. Things which he was thoroughly accustomed to doing and discussing even when curled close with a lover. He tilted and twisted his head to nuzzle Jack's shoulder, eyes half closed and voice a lazy carving of razor edged violence.

"It is not unlike peeling the skin from a carcass- You start with a cut at the collar and work the wire in between the skin and flesh there. Apply the acid in small doses- not so strong as to strip the flesh but strong enough to eat away at fat and blacken the blood into a jelly. It makes it easier to scrape off your knife as you work. From there you peel down to the waist or along the arm, making as few cuts as possible. They will twitch and scream and it will be very noisy if you are working correctly. If they pass out you've gone far too quickly. Let them rest, let the acid do it's work and if it is done slowly enough they survive until all that's left is around the face and neck. Always leave that last, I was told, and for a long while I wondered." Like one would wonder after the weather or a particular woman's taste in dinner and dresses. He made a low, thoughtful noise in the back of his throat and shrugged. "I suppose it makes the situation all the more horrifying. I would do that- or I would use one of my favorite poisons."

He sighed. Nostalgic, if anything. It was a beautiful thing, the corrosive effects of his favored poison. "To an elf? Nothing. But to a man, to whatever those might be? It slowly renders them numb, bit by bit over the course of an hour. Then they lose the ability to move, fragile blood vessels in the eyes, nose, ears, and mouth dissolve- and while paralyzed they drown as their lungs fill with their own blood. It takes days."

After the first sentence, Jack expected Zev to be done. Similarly after the second, and the third, until he was halfway through a lovingly detailed description of how to skin a man alive and too horrified to even raise his voice. But even when he felt like he could, he didn't. A small, sneaky tendril of thought countered that torture was exactly what these things did to them - placing them in situations where they had to chose to die or betray themselves, situations where the kindest and the most trusting were the most certain to be killed. Where was the wrong in torturing a torturer, in killing a killer?

He swallowed slowly, and when he laughed it escaped with a faintness, a shakiness that hadn't been there before. It was a sound made entirely of bravado, and bereft of pleasure. Even for loathsome things like these enemies, he didn't have the stomach for murder, at least not the slow kind.

"Christ . . . Zev. Warn me before you start up like that, all right?"

"...I'm sorry." He murmured, turning to curl his fingers in Jack's hair. Nuzzled into his neck and took a deep breath before apologizing properly. "I try not to be so...so much the Crow around you, Max, and Eugene. It is why I do not wish for you to see me work. Why I do not explain much of my past in detail."

Why he spent time with Isaac. Isaac understood without much comment or question, could laugh with him, admire the viciousness of a technique and still look at him the same way afterward. Zevran was thoroughly aware that he had frightened Jack, and at a loss as to how to fix that.

"I'm sorry. I won't in the future. I...I won't."

"-what?"

Jack hadn't been angling for remorse at all, and blinked, wiggling back in an attempt to look at Zev properly. Silencing people was really not a part of his modus operandi, and having that be the take-home message of 'warn me next time' bothered him more than he cared to admit.

"Zev- hey. No," he insisted, inelegantly but firmly. The whole thing still unsettled him, but . . . that was Zev, there, just as much as any of the pretty parts. Even if Jack hadn't always been the wisest in love, he'd at least been around long enough to know that nothing good came of pretending that some aspects of people just weren't there. He tried for a little smile, ducking his head in an effort to catch the elf's eyes. "Come on. What did I say about this protecting-me-from-yourself crap?"

"...I think you said something along the lines of-" He looked up, lips quirked in a thin smile as he spoke in an affectionate impersonation of Jack's Ferelden accent and foreign temper and meter of speech. "It's complete bullshit, Zev, and I'm not having it."

It was a passable impersonation, he'd certainly listened to Jack and Eugene enough to be able to manage that at the very least, and with as much as he'd drunk he was a little more free with such talents. "And if you try to be an arse like that again, I'm not touching you for a week."

Given the strength of his day-to-day accent, the skill with which Zev pulled off an English accent startled a delighted bark of a laugh out of Jack, and he settled with a fond, pleased grin. He could appreciate the work it took to get a voice down, let alone a voice outside of one's native language.

So he took the bait and played right back, dropping his voice to a velvety round-voweled croon, even giving a milder version of the heavy-lidded little smirk Zevran gave when he thought he was being a very clever kind of filthy.

"Oh, you are a slave-driver, Argento," he countered, leaning close enough to bump noses. "Making me do enough touching for the both of us."

Laughter, laughter was good and warm and pulled a similar cackle from the depths of his heart. Jack happy, jack warm and well and grinning made the world right again. Righter than he had felt since dying and waking. The accompanying response made him grin and lean in to brush his lips to Jack's in a surprisingly chaste expression of affection.

Normally there would be a pull lower, a throb of heat in his belly. But no. Nothing. Just warmth and that sentiment he does not wish to name. "When did you learn my voice so well, mm?"

"Months of exposure, mostly." Jack settled with the kiss, breathing a low sigh of content with the contact as he melted back into the couch. Even weighty as he was, Zev made a very nice heated blanket, and Jack found himself giving honest consideration to just napping under him as he wrapped his arms around his shoulders. "Hearing it practically every morning, for awhile. That probably helped."

He paused a moment, then peeked down, smiling just a bit. Almost-slyly. Entirely hopefully. "That is going to be resuming, I hope."

"Mm. That is where I learned yours. And you do talk far more than I do- which I had not previously thought possible." He chuckled, nosing the line of Jack's jaw, slowly settling into this comfortable affection without any real sordid intent. It was different than his usual in many ways, normally he'd be half hard from proximity alone, but this was...nice. All the comfort and contact he might have desired with none of the crackling distraction.

"If you will have me, yes. I did not take pains to find a large bed frame and mattress only to never sleep in it."

"That's me. Defying expectations,constantly," Jack replied with a cheeky pride, closing his eyes and smirking. If there was anything extremely odd about Zevran's being so close and not advancing things into a sexual arena, Jack didn't think too terribly much of it. The man had, after all, just come back from the dead, apparently with some funny expectations about how he would be received. He was also respectably drunk. Even without taking into account all the shallow-buried emotions they both had to know they were treading across, the situation wasn't exactly erotically charged.

It was, however, deeply comforting. And Jack would take that over a bit of illicit fun without a speck on complaint.

"Oh yes, if we'll have you," he scoffed, almost-grin an audible, palpable thing between them. "Twit. The real trouble is going to be getting space to yourself and you damned well know it."

"Bitch." He mumbled, then caught himself. It was a casual insult most often offered to Isaac, as he and Jack and Eugene didn't share the same sort of casual abuse. Until, apparently, now. He rolled the idea around in his head for a long moment before shrugging it off. He was drunk, Jack would not care overmuch. He contented himself with snuggling further into Jack's shoulder and going thoroughly limp.

"You know I become chilled easily at night- more so now. I've lost weight. Or rather never gained it, I suppose."

For all of that moment, Jack did not respond, caught in the first offering of that sort of thing from Zevran. But no dirty looks or other aggression followed it, and he found himself nothing but delighted by the lazy, sharp insult.

"Oohhh-!" he crowed, laughing though the sound as he twisted his head enough to cast a sidelong grin Zev's way. Idly, he felt along his back, half-smiling thoughtfully as he found the rises of his spine much more easily than before. "I suppose I hadn't noticed. Bitches have a horrible time discerning fine shapes through baggy old jumpers, apparently."

When laughter rather than questions followed, Zevran allowed himself to relax. Grin. Bite lightly at Jack's collar in recompense. "Bitches are also terrible at scratching backs. Lower, Jack."

He arched up against Jack's hand much like a cat. The sweater was large and lumpy and not the most flattering thing to wear but he hadn't had many options at hand at the moment. "What- do you wish me to strip it off?"

Jolting with the bite, as well as giving a little nh noise that failed at sounding more put out than turned on, Jack paused a moment before sliding his hand up under the garment and against the warmth of his skin. Lightly, he scratched against the welcome warmth of his skin with short, blunt fingernails, working up one flank and down the other.

"No need to chill your delicate hide," he mused, pausing a moment to take a light pinch of the skin over his side - or try to, at least. "Huh. Why are you thinner, anyway?"

Oh, that noise. That delightful, delicious, damning noise that more often than not set Zev right off into a full night of doing nothing other than pulling many more from Jack's lips- but now? Nothing more than a warm pulse in his chest. Affection. Admiration. He found it more endearing than arousing.

...odd.

He was distracted from his puzzlement by the warmth of a hand on his back, rubbing up against those scritching fingers.

"When I first arrived I had spent several months underground. Good meals were few and far between and we had spent what time that wasn't marching along a maze fighting off spiders and Darkspawn."

"Mm. Enough said, I guess," he mused, frowning at the description. He'd gathered enough from Zev's various little quips and comments to deduce that he'd been engaged in some sort of grand and heroic quest when he'd been so abruptly detoured into Luceti, and read enough of Eugene's handy magic-and-sword-world compendium to have a vague impression of Darkspawn as a sort of zoms-on-steroids level threat, minus perhaps the infectious qualities. It wasn't a much more pleasant conversational prospect than the draft, and he finished the slow round of scratching only to move into an experimental kneading of the tender muscles he'd felt on his way across Zev's back. He wasn't nearly the masseuse that the elf was, but he could imitate the basics, at least. It was a start.

"In that case, you'll just have to somehow find the will to eat all the baked goods Eugene will be tossing at you," he pronounced, in a tone of almost mournful gravity. "I do hope you can face such hardship bravely."

"You have no idea how good it felt to see the sun afterward. To feel the wind on my face. And a warm body at my side." He cracked a low laugh, not at all thinking of what came after. Just the warmth. "Isaac was most accommodating when he woke to find me in his bed with him. Even if I was as confused as he."

As he spoke his voice dipped lower and lower, becoming a deep rumble of languid pleasure the more Jack kneaded and petted sore muscles.

"Mmm...I think I can manage that."

It went unsaid, that Jack had never met anyone who'd come back from the dead. But he fell into behaviours and assumptions that felt natural for the circumstance, and mercifully did not reflect deeply enough to realise that most of his assumptions were based upon how Eugene had been, coming out of surgery. So he just felt gratitude to hear evidence of an appetite, and did what he could for presumed sore muscles, and had no illusions that he would be moving away from Zev any time soon. Not that he wanted to.

"Wait . . . Isaac?" he queried after a moment of confused contemplation, trying to imagine the man cheerfully accepting sudden company and having some trouble. Then again, he was an odd one. "The same Isaac. Red-hair-and-pet-demon Isaac."

"Mhmm..." Low and lazy and half asleep. "Rosso mio."

There was a warmth to the endearment, something similar but not quite the same tone that he used when speaking Antivan to or at Jack and Eugene. Not quite the same depth of emotion, though there was sentiment enough in the statement. "His tongue is as talented as it is wicked. He was not gentle and I had no desire for him to be."

A rough coupling it had been. Biting and bruising and he'd been aching in so many delicious ways afterward and if he was normal he would shiver and sigh and start to pet Jack in inappropriate and fascinating ways. But he did not. He smiled and nuzzled Jack's shoulder instead.

"After the third round he invited that demon to join. It was very interesting. I may still have bruises."

". . . really."

Of all the shared experiences he could have had with Zevran, that was not the one that Jack had expected, and his eyebrows lifted out of proportion with the mildness of his remark. It was also quite the mental image, and he made a conscious decision not to dwell on it too much at the moment - though whether out of jealousy or the concern that he'd like it a little too much, he couldn't say.

"Now my first day of eating fruit until my tongue blistered feels awfully unambitious."

"We have very different priorities, Argento." Zevran murmured, lifting a hand to smooth it down the side of Jack's face. "You were a taken man, I, less so. Until I saw it rectified. And then untaken but often taken until the argument wherein I requested to be a taken man rather than an oft taken man and Isaac saw no point in indulging such sentiment and scornfully let it be known- and then I met you and Eugene and we were communally taken with one another without being taken entirely until the night in which we partook of one another thoroughly and then on occasion afterward until sentiment settled in and while you two are still deeply taken with one another I am equally quite taken with you but not...quite. Taken. By you."

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

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tw for graphic descriptions of torture

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