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Zevran slides his hand under the hem of her shirt, the calloused pads of his fingers touching the warm skin of her back. His forehead is mere inches away from the back of her head, his eyes hanging low on the curve of her neck as he touches her with gentleness he sometimes forgets he’s capable of. They rarely stop to be soft, but this time, this night, he needs the touch to be gentle. He thinks she might not notice it – how his hand trembles – but he needs to remember there’s things his hands can do that aren’t stained with red; that don’t leave his muscles aching; that makes him different than the people and things they’ve needed to push aside to be alive.
It’s been a need. It is a need. They need to be alive so that they can have something after all of this is done.
He’s built a need for them to survive all of this, and that’s what he weighs his every single decision on. The line between right and wrong has been blurry since his childhood, and there’s been nothing like that in the world that’s been after either. He’s carved his way through life with a blade and a smile, very rarely stopping to think more than the next mission; the next paycheck. And even so, even after all he’s done, sometimes he can’t help but question his morality. Is it worth risking everyone else for one person?
It’s always a yes. For her , it’s always a yes.
There’s a terrifying power in his hands, he knows. From all the blood, bone, sinew and muscle comes a hand that’s struck things down, with no tremble or hesitation in sight. He doesn’t let himself think about it, not these days. If he stops to think he’s left with a noose of thorns that wraps itself around his throat and tightens until he can hardly breathe.
So when she turns around to face him he pulls his hand back, as if struck by a hand meant to bruise, and lets his fingers curl into a fist in front of his stomach. She doesn’t say anything, and it’s just better. The task at hand has brought in stress and heartbreak, and as a result they fight every day; yell and curse so long the air in their lungs turns bitter and the space surrounding them is hot; so when it’s time to actually speak they usually don’t. Perhaps it’s a lack of words, or just the knowledge that in the world they live in words don’t make a difference. Actions do.
She doesn’t say anything, just puts a hand on top of his fist and steps closer, guides that hand to the small of her back again.
She’s staring right at him, and for a moment he thinks he should say something; to make up for the touch; to make up for something he doesn’t know he’s apologizing for. Sometimes he thinks she sees right through him, and maybe she does. He’s never let anyone stare at him the way she does right now; doesn’t fight it or turn away. He doesn’t believe in souls (how could he; he’d know where his soul was going to end up in), but the feeling of belonging when she so much as looks at him has to have something to do with them.
She makes him feel whole. Isn’t that what souls are about? Souls being separated in another life, only to find themselves again in the next. He’s read about them, heard people preach about seeking for atonement to save these things that are the true image of who you are, but it hasn’t made him believe.
They’re not good and they never will be, and any illusions of something good waiting for them after they’re done fighting is just that – an illusion. It’s something to hold on to when the burden gets too hard to bear; when they’re bloody and sitting beside the fire of the campsite; when they’re listening to Leliana’s mournful songs and watching Alistair hold back a sob they all know he’s desperate to let out. They’re silent, tired and broken, but the illusion of hope lingers in the air like smoke.
While it might be a godless world, she’s as close to the so called heaven as he’ll ever get.
It’s the hand she slides up the planes of his chest and the back of his neck that makes him breathe again. She’s touching his hair and he can feel himself unwinding – just barely, but it’s still there. He steps closer and breathes in, lets his eyes fall shut as he rests his forehead against hers. It takes a while for the fist on her back to relax again; for his fingers to spread and press against the small of her back; to feel the spine underneath.
She’s a hailstorm, a hurricane and all the raging seas in one, and still she’s capable of filling him with a sense of calmness nothing else can. She grounds him. And for a man who thinks he’s never needed a thing, admitting that there are these moments – these fragile minutes – where he can’t get himself to move until she chases away the ghosts he still carries around in his head is something he’s not yet managed to fully accept.
She’s told him he (of all people) thinks too much, and maybe she’s right.
But when she buries her head to the space under his chin and wraps her arms around him; presses tight against him like he’s the safest thing; his heavy head goes silent. And that is enough.