Work Text:
Watch is always quiet with the warden.
It bothered Zevran, the first few weeks. Back when he didn’t know him or trust him – when he was sure he would just be fodder for the first impenetrable death trap they encountered. He would talk to fill the silence. Talk about the trees, the grass, the nearby pond, sex, what it would be like to have sex in the grass by the pond under the trees.
The warden had played along at first, encouraging him and making those dry jokes he was so often fond of. But then, one night, he just… didn’t. He just sat quietly, staring out into the darkness, and completely ignored everything except the most direct questions.
“Something the matter, my dear?” he’d asked teasingly. “Do you need a massage to loosen those tight muscles?”
The warden looked at him askance, and he pulled on his most charming grin. “It is, of course, the ones in your neck I am referring to. Unless you have other body parts in need of release, in which case I will be more than happy to oblige.”
He remained silent for a long time, then tilted his head slightly. “What do you think about the Dalish, Zevran?”
“The Dalish?” he repeated. “This is what bothers you so much tonight? You are homesick?”
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” he said, turning back to the darkness, and Zevran frowned. Whether the warden was upset or not, it was rare for him to show even a hint of melancholy – rarer still for him to come close to mentioning something from his former life.
He refused to pass up the chance when presented.
“I know little enough of the Dalish other than the fact my mother was one. Or so I was told,” he said, shifting his own gaze to the path ahead. “She had fallen in love with an elven woodcutter and accompanied him back to the city, leaving her clan behind for good.”
Surprisingly, he felt the warden’s eyes return to him, focussed and intent. From another person, Zevran might have preened, but in this case he knew it had nothing to do with his appearance. For what felt like the first time in a long time, he felt self-conscious, and retreated to dark humour.
“And there, of course, the woodcutter died of some filthy disease and my mother was forced into prostitution to pay off his debts. Oldest tale in the book,” he deadpanned.
The warden, for his part, huffed out something that might have been a laugh. “Zevran,” he said. “That’s horrible!”
He could only shrug, for it was true – both the story and the fact it was horrible. But, on the other hand, “Is it? It seemed normal enough a tale growing up; no different than the other elven boys in the whorehouse.” He hesitated, then added, “I didn’t know my mother either, of course. She died giving birth to me. My first victim, as it were.”
This time, there was no hint of amusement, and Zevran chanced a look. The empathy in the warden’s eyes was tangible. It was almost painful. But it was touching, all the same. And he didn’t know why. He rushed to make it sound better, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to lie.
“We were all raised communally by the whores,” he explained, lips twisting in a way he couldn’t control. “It was a happy enough existence, ignoring the occasional beating, until eventually I was sold to the Crows. I brought a good price, so I hear.”
“I’m so sorry, Zevran,” the warden said quietly, and he flinched.
“That’s…” He forced himself to speak past the inexplicable lump in his throat. It wasn’t like he was telling the warden this for sympathy. He wasn’t sorry about it. His life was his life, and never before had it felt at all like something to be pitied. “…very kind of you to say, but it is not necessary. It could have been much worse. Shall I tell you about what happened to the other whorehouse boys who did not fetch a decent price with the Crows?”
The warden shook his head and looked away again. The lost weight of his gaze was more painful still, and Zevran hurried to continue. “Surely your life has not been so idyllic? People like you and I are not the product of happy lives of contentment, after all.”
He scoffed through his teeth. “You can say that again.”
Zevran shrugged his head with a dark smile and continued, knowing that was the best he would probably get. “My original point is that my mother’s Dalish nature was always a point of fascination for me. Through all the years of my Crow training, the one thing of my mother’s that I possessed was a pair of gloves. They were of Dalish make, I know that much, and beautiful.”
The warden glanced at him again, a hint of a smile reappearing. “I know the kind of gloves you mean.”
“I had to keep them hidden, of course, as we were not allowed such things,” he said, and then closed his eyes, trying for imperious nonchalance. “Eventually they were discovered, and I never saw them again.”
“Has there been no joy in your life at?” the warden asked, and Zevran had to laugh. He sounded so put out about it.
“Oh, there has been plenty,” he assured him, then followed it up with a grin. “To tell the truth, it is because I expected nothing more. Still, even I eventually thought it would be better for me if I ran off to join the famous Dalish when one of their clans drew near Antiva City.”
The warden smiled properly this time, and Zevran almost felt like falling, but he kept it to a respectfully fond shoulder nudge. “Naturally, the reality did not live up at all to the fantasies I had constructed as a boy, staring at those gloves. But such is life.”
“Indeed it is,” he agreed. “It’s far better to forget what could have been, and focus on the here and now, correct?”
“Ah, I see I am being an influence on you, warden,” he said playfully. “But is it for good or ill?”
He narrowed his eyes, though his smile betrayed his amusement. “Definitely one of those two.”
And Zevran had to laugh again. For all that the warden rarely spoke, it was well worth the wait when he did.
Since that night, Zevran hasn’t minded the quiet so much. He lets the night ebb and flow, watching the wind rustle the trees and listening to the night birds. Sometimes they speak, but often they don’t. And for the first time in a very long time, he feels peace outside the embrace of a lover.
Tonight, he took first watch with Leliana, and they spent most of it sharing fantasies about how much of the warden his delicious tattoos cover. They both know he is not for their touch, and if he is honest with himself, Zevran thinks he would not want to spoil what they are growing to have with such things. But it is fun to talk. But now Leliana is going to bed, and the warden himself is staggering out of his tent, groggy and probably grumpy, not that he’ll probably let it show.
“Ah, the mid-shift. Truly, the worst of them all,” Zevran greets as the warden drops heavily beside him. “I always find that it leaves me more tired than if I had not slept at all.”
“It ensures someone is always alert,” he replies around a yawn. He has yet to put his armour on properly, and has brought too many gloves, Zevran notices with a smile. He sets them aside so he can buckle his pauldrons into place. “Anything I need to know?”
“You are more beautiful with sleep-mussed hair?” he suggests, and the warden ignores it with grace.
He finishes dressing, and then seems to notice his extra gloves. He looks at them for a few seconds, then holds them out for Zevran’s inspection.
“Yes, I did notice your mistake,” he says with a smirk. “I had thought not to mention it, to save you face.”
The warden rolls his eyes and shifts his grip so he can drop the gloves in Zevran’s lap. “They're for you.”
“Gloves? You’re giving me gloves?” he asks with a laugh. The warden often gives gifts, but usually they make more sense. Solid metal bars of pristine quality, for example. “What for?”
“They’re Dalish gloves,” the warden says, smothering a yawn. “Like your mother’s.”
He stops, eyes widening before immediately dropping to the items in his lap. “I…” He flashes back to that conversation, which feels so long ago, and then lifts them into the light. And truly… “Maker’s breath, you’re right. It is like my mother’s.”
For a moment, all smiles leave him, and Zevran feels breathless. He runs his fingers over the intricate decorations. “The leather was less thick, and it had more embroidery, but these are very close,” he says, and tries for a cocky smile. “And quite handsome.”
“You’re quite welcome,” he says dryly, and Zevran’s smile falters for a moment.
“Do I seem surprised?” he asks. “Perhaps I am.”
The warden shrugs, obviously not taking it personally, but Zevran does all the same. He strips his gauntlets to replace them with the gift. As he should have expected, they fit perfectly, sliding into warm, protective place without a hitch. The warden reaches over to help him buckle them, and Zevran is caught for a moment, staring at his profile.
He obviously does not think much of the intimate movement. The Dalish, Zevran has discovered since they visited the people recently, do not understand closeness as he does. Especially not between elves.
But when he is done, he looks up at Zevran with a smile, and it is obvious he understands how much the gift means. He is being flippant to spare Zevran’s pride. It is more touching than anything he has done before.
“Still,” he says, lowering his eyes to the gloves. It is partly because he wants to look at them, but more because he cannot meet that gaze right now. “I appreciate the fact you even thought of me. No one has simply… given me a gift before. Thank you.”
The warden, in his way, just tilts his head and sits back, turning his attention to the world outside camp. Zevran feels his own world shrink, until all he can see is his past and the man beside him.
He thinks of the Crows.
And then, he curls his hands into fists, feeling the leather fold and fit, warmth and protection in one.
And for the first time he can remember, he turns his head toward the wide world beyond, and looks forward to it.