antivanleather | Sixth jump - you should know, you should know that [Action/Written]

Sixth jump - you should know, you should know that [Action/Written]

[Action, locked to Isaac]

[This is not how Zevran imagined the first few hours of his freedom would be. The wine and the feasting and the drinking the day before, certainly. But the first morning after he had finished collecting his effects and bidding farewell to the Warden he intended to spend on the road. Leaving Ferelden for warmer climes. He did not intend to wake in a cell.

And yet, here he is, despite the best intentions. He wakes slowly arms flexing against his restraints and he keeps his head for the first few moments. Just manacles. Just a cold, dark cave like many that the Crows preferred to use for their longer imprisonments. But were this the Crows he would be dead, that went without saying. No, no. This is a personal vendetta- which leaves Zevran free to consider who it is he pissed off this time to earn such attentions while he works at attempting to lean just enough so that he might pull a pick from his hair. That he has none is worrying.

That there is no manner in which the manacles might be removed is of a greater concern. But when he finds that they actually constrict when he attempts to twist his thumb enough to pop it out of place and holds him all the tighter- then. Then he panics.

Crows are terrible. Nobles are worse. Mages, those that yet live and wish him dead? Horrify him and he used to be better at fighting down the swell of cold fear and the anxious ratcheting of his heart. Used to be able to laugh through it, to grin and smile and shrug off torment such as sensory deprivation and capture. It is cold. It is dark. He is alone. He is held by a mage he cannot recall at the moment and after all that he witness at the final battle in Denerim that is what makes him shift in earnest, rattle his chains and lash out with a foot to find purchase- he finds that his feet are bare and the wall is solid, little more. Brasca.]

[Action, Open]

[Later, when he is freed and his personal effects returned, when he realizes where he is in earnest and is armored and armed and less out of sorts Zev ducks into the Coffee Shop for a cup of something hot and bitter, leaving a rather short note in the journal for whoever might have missed him, though save a bare handful he cannot imagine it would be many. He does not even know if they yet remain.]

While I am pleased to have found my way back to this delightful village, I think awaking in a random bed might have been the better introduction. At least it was warm.

Fondest regards,

Zevran

[After some time spent reacquainting himself with the village's map he, warily, makes his way to House 51.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Despite his rather illuminating conversation with Isaac earlier- bits are still missing. Everything of his previous stay here is muzzed over by time, chill, or exhaustion. All he remembers of this house is that it has some significance, that when he walked upon the path proper there was a dull ache in his gut a little like lonliness and a lot like regret. But whatever might he have to regret?

He could try the door like a normal person- but he does not know who lives here. Does not trust himself to this strange place with it's strange lives and so he opts for the least conspicuous window. It's a kitchen- and whoever lived here before had some healthy sense of paranoia. There are several tripwires he has to avoid connected to surprisingly delicate spring loaded mechanisms that release needles, powder, or vapor and were he not so concerned with keeping himself from being a victim of these devices he might recognize the handiwork.

As it stands it only leaves him ever more wary of sliding inside. But when the last trap is disarmed and he can, and does, slide the window up- he enters all the same. Slips in and shuts the window behind him silent as anything- lean and dark and covered in drakeskin leather armor, knives and swords strapped to him- he makes a proper interloper should he be seen.

There's nothing that strikes him offhand of this place other than a staggering sense of familiarity. He knows this room. Has dreamt of it- but they were nothing more than dreams. Lost in this fugue he doesn't pick up on the patter of footsteps until he has no time whatsoever to hide, no time to find a shadow, so he turns, guiltily, hands cradled around a silver mug that he swears he knows the feel of while warm. Antivan in design and he knows that knotwork, knows the intricate lay of lines etched into it- something he did often enough idly on his own armor. Supposed runes of good health and protection as made by the Dalish.

Why is this here?]

Edited 2013-11-14 23:58 (UTC)

[As much as it is possible for an emotion to do so, Jack's anger trips. Zevran standing there, in his kitchen, is rough enough terrain. But seeing him in unfamiliar armour, looking so utterly lost, is enough to send his outrage tumbling head over metaphorical heels, snagging on and picking up bits of all sorts of other feelings he doesn't want in there. Confusion, happiness, hurt, disbelief - his anger is coated in all of them by the time it rolls to a stop, leaving him still in the doorway, still staring right back, feeling every single one of his blood vessels going dully electric from his scalp down.]

I, uh. [His voice comes almost unintentionally, and he licks his lips, looking at Zevran uncertainly.] I'd gotten the impression you weren't coming back.

[Lost and older, leaner, sharper than when they'd last met. The remaining months during the campaign had not been entirely unkind to the Antivan, but they had not been restful. What softness there might have been was burned out of him in the deep roads, carved from him in the last weeks before Denerim. Is he broader, perhaps? Are there thin lines of new scars light along his jaw, a knotch in his eyebrow? One cannot say without coming closer- and as much as Zevran wishes to flee with this cup from this man he's utterly struck.

This. This is the face he saw in his dreams. The voice that haunted him.]

You...I. I know you.

[It is said without any of his usual bravado, without even the shadow of jest in his eyes. The cup's set aside in favor of approaching on silent feet- something Zev had given up within a week of living with Jack and Eugene and Max at their request but now he doesn't remember that arrangement. All he remembers are faces, sensations.]

[It's too strange for Jack to even start riddling out, Zev remembering the town but not remembering him or Eugene or any of this, Zev being back and in his kitchen and not making coffee or smiling at him or even trying to avoid his eyes. He closes the distance the rest of the way silently, expression melting into a worried frown as he reaches up for one of those new scuffs to cup his hand against it.]

Christ, Zev. What happened to you?

[He locks up on instinct, twitching away from the touch initially at first brush. Then the sensation slots into place, palm to skin, a crackle of laughter, eyes wide and bright and brimming with mirth, flicker flashes of memory too quick for him to hold onto. He tilts his head into that touch tentatively, trying to place it. Place this.]

I fought a war. You are...

[Gold skitters from point to point on this man's face, trying to place the details, trying to make sense of it when he sees the ring. That earring- one hand slides to a pouch on his belt and, oddly enough, it is empty. That has his expression shuttering, has him stepping away for some room to breathe.]

Who gave you- how did you?

[Jack has no idea what Zev is talking about for a handful of seconds, until he puts together Zev patting at a belt-pouch and not quite looking at his eyes anymore, more off to the right and . . . oh. He reaches up, feeling the familiar shape of the earring, the little trinket of silver and gem he'd stubbornly left in his ear even after Zev had disappeared. And something happens when his fingertips remind him of the shape, because he remembers more than the present moment, more than the confusion and hurt and worry. He remembers everything else, every sleepless night and lazy afternoon and numberless moments of tumbling full-throated laughter. And it becomes unforgivable, then, that Zevran be returned to him like this.

So against all of his better judgement, against sense, he follows him. A step for a step, the tensest dance they've ever spun across this floor, the almost-smile ghosting across his expression that means determination rather than any kind of joy.]

You did. Zevran, it's me: Jack, Argento . . . bloody Gazza, come on, you can't give me all these names and not remember even a little of it-

Edited 2013-11-15 01:32 (UTC)

I would never-

[But he would if, and only if, he cared enough. He'd toyed with the idea when it came to Rinna. Had been tempted on more than one occasion to offer the trinket- but she was a Crow. Material possessions meant nothing. Freedom and sentiment, that. That had been everything.

That had been their downfall.

So to think of this place, of all his mismatched dreams of blood and pain and frustration, of soft skin and sharp smiles and too kind eyes. Of kind voices murmuring his name- of being held and cared for- to have all that wrapped around the truth of that one little gem set into this man's ear. Jack, Argento, Gazza- these names mean nothing and everything to him.]

Keep your distance.

[Crackling over a voice that does not quite waver even as he steps away- and Jack continues to follow. He needs this distance, needs this space to breathe and sort himself out, needs time that he is not being given- one step too many and his back is to a counter and yet Jack still advances. The man means him no harm but habit has a blade in his hand before he can think. Not attacking, just. Present. Held out in front of him in a defensive position.]

I said stay back.

[Jack stops, right at where his intuition tells him is the edge of where he can step, where one inch closer will put that blade into motion. He swallows, but he doesn't flinch, certain that backing away isn't an option. There's no stopping Zev from running off, but he can at least make it harder for him, keep pushing the truth in his face until something clicks.

. . . god, he hopes something will click.]

You did - both me and Eugene. Put the needle through my ear yourself.

[But why. That is the one question his mind continues to hinge on. Why. Why would he give those, why would he bury himself in sentiment- he remembers blood and desperation, remembers pale eyes and red hair and dying. Remembers burying himself in this man and next to this man and someone so warm and sweet the thought of it has his free hand trembling.]

...Amora? [A beat.] Moca. Nodo. This is. This is my home?

[Jack's breath trembles out of him in a reluctant, unsteady tumble that ends in an almost-laugh of pure relief, shoulders slumping as the familiar nicknames escape him. He remembers something, at least. Whatever's happened to him in his own world or at the Malnosso's hands, he's not so far gone that he's forgotten everything. He nods, smile broadening experimentally.]

Yours, mine, Gene's, Max's - yeah. It's home. [He holds out an open hand, half beckoning and half invitation to take it - and perhaps more than anything a show of trust, with Zevran's blade still hovering between them.] Come on, let's find a seat. I'll just- I'll call Gene and we can figure this all out together, how's that?

[He shouldn't trust this. Nothing so good, nothing so warm and kind could possibly be his. Those were just dreams. Fade dreams made from a lonely mind and a heart that missed a woman he'd murdered. But it's here, it's real, and...he'd forgotten.

He'd forgotten everything- he gave Jack this ring and it meant something, he knows what it would mean and that clicking into place has him shuddering with self loathing, the knife sliding back into a sheath somewhere on his wrist. threatening someone that cared for him, that made a home with him, someone he couldn't even remember properly. Even with the knife gone he's tense, wrecked and so very lost.]

...I do no remember much. It is all very- I'm sorry.

What-? No. Come on. Don't make that oh-god-I'm-awful face.

[Stubbornly, Jack bulls through the chill those words send through him, shaking his head and taking Zevran's hand himself to press a firm press into the familiar soft leather of his glove, looking up at him with that same game, encouraging little smile.]

You're in a bad state is all. It happens.

Edited 2013-11-15 05:26 (UTC)

I thought this was just a dream.

[Low and soft, a confession cut from him by the press of that hand.]

Something I came up with in the Fade when sleeping alone was too much to bear. When the days were long and the reek of blood was cloying. This couldn't- I didn't dare think this could be...

[It doesn't feel right, sliding that hand along Jack's cheek. He needs something more, though, more than the inside of his own glove. He tugs his hand back long enough to peel them both off before reaching out again. Tentative.]

May I?

[Someday, Jack will joke about this. He will laugh about Zevran, of all people, being so uncertain and halting. He will tease Zevran asking permission to even touch a man who's giving every cue, audible and non, that they've already touched many times in the past. It will become another of his stories, to be both dramatically spun and punctured by bursts of crowing laughter.

But right now there's nothing humorous in Zevran's hesitation. There's too much that's frightening in how he's come back, skin knitted over new scars just as his mind has been knitting over his time here, and it's all he can do to keep up that pleasant demeanour despite it all. Shifting a pace closer, he rests a palm against his chest, fingertips hooking against the thick leather of his swordbelts.]

I don't think I can actually say 'yes' emphatically enough.

[He's not certain why he thinks this will help his memory. Doesn't know what compels him to lean in and pull Jack closer still. Bare, calloused palms slide along worn cotton and warm skin, tracing a path that is familiar and utterly foreign. He stops thinking about it and just...lets them go where they want. One slides around and back, settling in a possessive grip along the small of Jack's back. The other cards up along his cheek and into his hair and oh- that's a precursor to a kiss. One he doesn't take, not just yet.

But one he leans into enough that their foreheads are resting together. He knows this. Finds himself having missed it despite never remembering it.]

I would hold you like this, yes? While we waited for something. [Something in this room, even. He can't place it and that frustrates him slightly, enough to tilt his head and let his eyes flick over the counters.] The...coffee maker? To brew.

Or the teapot to steep. Or Eugene to finish making breakfast.

[The mere hint of a memory comes like a wisp of smoke from kindling, and Jack finds himself nursing it just as carefully, torn between frustration and gratitude when Zevran doesn't kiss him. He's not sure he entirely wants that, not with Zev in that place between knowing him and not, between predilection and infidelity. Lacing his fingers behind Zev's neck, he looks down over the plane of his body, so close to complete familiarity but not quite.]

Sometimes I'd be half falling asleep on you if you didn't move a little. Especially early in the morning.

Nodo- Max. Sitting at one of the chairs, playing with his threads.

[Bits and pieces and it's muzzy, so very muzzy but this. This doesn't come as neatly, as cleanly as Katniss or as Isaac. Perhaps because those are the sorts of sentiment he could abide. Family he had grown to appreciate during the last months of the war. A life he has rent and been rent by? Something he has lived. This, though. This sweetness. This kindness. This stability and affection, that is not for a Crow to have.]

Sometimes I would- [He shifts his hands from Jack's shoulders to his waist, pulling him those last few inches closer, holding him tight as he shifts from one foot to the other. Rocking.] To help you along. You would snuffle into my shoulder and grumble.

[Jack melts into the warmth of the embrace slowly, coming to rest his head on Zev's shoulder last, eyes sliding shut as he moves with the rocking. It's a bit easier than he remembers, but then again, he's been spending a decent amount of time with Bucky learning to actually dance.]

Yeah, well. We can't all be morning people, now can we. Or . . . whatever kind of person you are, now that I think of it. The time never seemed to matter to you that much when we had to get moving.

It does not pay to be a drowsy assassin.

[Zev murmurs into Jack's hair and this- this pulls up so much sense memory, so many lazy mornings and easy afternoons that the rest starts falling into place.]

...I found you and Eugene in a tree- no. I was in a tree when I found you.

Yeah, that's right.

[Jack is a little shameless in how he stretches into the gesture of affection, feeling himself relax as Zevran becomes a little more the man that left them with every brush, every muscle of his own that unlocks from wary tension. His voice is soft with the encouragement, smile hopeful.]

What else are you remembering?

I remember...kissing you in the sand. Dancing with you and Eugene at the ball- taking you to a private room. Our first night together.

[That memory makes him sigh, arms tightening around Jack's waist at the echos of sighs, of lips and skin and feathers under his hands. he doesn't quite reach up enough to brush against them now, but he is very tempted.]

Waking with you both the morning after.

[Easy laughter tumbles out of Jack as he leans back, looking at Zev with a glint of appreciation.]

Going back to the flats and Eugene making omelettes in the community kitchen-! God, I was ravenous.

We certainly gave you a workout-

[He huffs a soft laugh and pulls back, peering down at Jack.]

...what day is it?

I think . . . Wednesday? No, Thursday.

[His smile turns quizzical as he traces the collar of Zev's armor, feeling the difference from the last set they saw him in. It feels weird - cool, but weird, a texture his fingers can't place.]

Why do you ask?

The numerical date, Argento. It is November, yes?

[A year and some time since he'd found the boys while hunting for vengeance. Hunted for something cold and bloody and hollow and found the heart of him.]

Sixth jump - you should know, you should know that [Action/Written]

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