Zev/Taniva fanfic: Stewing (Expanded)

[onemorealtmer]

Title: Stewing
Rating: PG for vague innuendo (on account of, it's Zev)
Words: 2687
Characters: Zevran/f!Tabris (Taniva), featuring Alistair, Wynne, and Morrigan
Summary: Dinner comes to blows. Now expanded for full storyline fit! 
Continuity notes:  Trotting back and forth between Redcliffe and the Tower.  All previous chapters are archived at my dw journal:  see the sticky for index.

 

Stewing

 

There was not time to reach the Tower that day, but they set off regardless so as to be away from Isolde’s impatience. It was only a few hours before they stopped to make camp. The pretty Warden started gathering wood for the fire: the beautiful Warden busied herself unloading gear and checking in with her followers. Zevran decided to spend the evening quietly in the background, so as to put the others a bit at ease. And Taniva herself, for that matter: an occasional cooling period between flirtations made them more appreciated when they came. Now that he was fairly confident that Taniva saw his interest and was receptive, albeit hesitant, it was worth taking a little time to make sure she did not feel smothered by it.

Thus he was not surprised – but still quite pleased – by the surreptitious glances she cast back toward him now and again as she dealt with all the others in turn. What surprised him was that Wynne approached him, and indeed sat down next to him as he worked on putting up his tent. “I trust you, Zevran,” she announced.

“Well! Thank you. I admit I do not know what I did to deserve such sudden approval, but I will not refuse it.”

“I admit I was worried about you, given how we met. But you have been most helpful since then, and you have let pass several clear opportunities to harm the Wardens, or even simply let harm come to them.”

“Of course! I will have you know that I am actually very loyal, in my way. I have never turned against anyone who was not about to kill me.” Well... that was almost true. Saying it called to mind the time that he had been wrong, and he looked away uncomfortably.

Wynne took little notice, or else misread the look. “And yet you have killed many people.”

“Yes, I have. That is my profession, after all. I have been trained to it for most of my life.”

She nodded, a sympathetic but vaguely condescending look in her eyes. It was the sort of look he would sooner have expected from a Chantry sister – the kind of look Leliana did not give him, which was why he suspected something a bit less innocent lurking in her past. “Ah, yes. What a terrible thing to be bought and forced to be a murderer.”

“No, no. An assassin. It is not the same thing.”

That seemed to break the tender mood. “It is. You killed people.”

“Professionally! I kill people when someone buys the service from the Crows. Maybe the person who needs to feel terrible is the one who hires me.” He shrugged. “Or even the person I am contracted to kill! Perhaps there is a reason someone wants them dead, hmm? I suppose it depends on the circumstances.”

She looked skeptical. “But never you.”

“Take this last contract as an example. It was Loghain who hired me to kill the Wardens. If he had not, I would never have tried, and if I had not taken the job, he would have hired someone else. So which of us is the murderer? He is.”

“I... hmm. But don’t you ever feel remorseful?” Her tone made it very clear that there was a right and a wrong answer to the question.

Zevran was getting tired of this conversation. “Yes, I am a miserable creature. Inside I am crying all the time. I wish that some kind-hearted, soft-bosomed woman would clutch me to her, that I might weep.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Very well, Zevran. I see that I am bothering you. I’ll go now.”

“Yes, and leave me all alone with my half-pitched tent,” he smirked. “Vicious.”

The remainder of the night passed uneventfully, Leliana providing pleasant background noise when conversation dwindled or seemed too risky. Sometimes, for a moment, Taniva would relax and let herself enjoy the singing, and she would almost smile. As enticing as it was, Zevran was true to his plan for the night and only watched her, and watched Alistair watching her.

Was she aware of either?

Given the short distance remaining, in the morning they left Sten, Shale, Morrigan, and Leliana to watch the camp for the day rather than breaking it down, on the assumption that they would get to the Tower and back again by dark. The walk provided more opportunities for Wynne to question Zevran’s ethics under the guise of making friends, which in turn provoked him into more ridiculous innuendos at her expense, since they seemed to be the only response that slowed her down. Sometimes she would get vexed enough to walk with Alistair instead, but then she would get the impulse to start mothering him, and the Templar would respond by turning infantile, whimpering over tiny abrasions and offering her his laundry to do.

The visit to the Tower itself was quite brief: all of Zevran’s companions, even Wynne, seemed to want it that way. They went in, got assurance from the mages that they would follow quickly, and then it was back to walking. This time Zevran got more time to walk with his Warden, and he was able to put her enough at ease to start telling him stories about things the party had done before he joined it. Occasionally Alistair even joined in, particularly when it gave him the chance to say something disparaging about Morrigan or Loghain, and by the time they reached camp again the air between the four of them was decently relaxed.

That left only Sten and Morrigan actively hostile, but then again, the two of them seemed the most hostile in general. Very promising indeed.

Taniva seemed to think so too. “You seem to be making some progress,” she said.

He smiled, and started to wander very slowly away from the others, hoping to entice her to follow. She did. “I do at that,” he answered. “But then, I have always had remarkable luck, so perhaps I take it for granted.”

She snickered. “I’m not sure I would have seen it that way.”

“No? Oh, I see, you are seeing recent events as a failure for me. I am hurt to my core.” He gave her a sly sideways look, and she stopped walking and crossed her arms. “But I do not. Quite by accident, I have passed out of the hands of the Crows, into those of a beautiful elven woman with burning daggers and raven hair. I think that is quite fortunate.”

“So now I’m beautiful?” she asked, but with a smile that he was determined to view as flirtatious. Perhaps even the first stirrings of a blush.

“Not only now,” he retorted. “You have been beautiful for as long as I have known you. Which admittedly is not that long yet.”

She laughed a little, which he always enjoyed. She spent so much time looking dour and serious, and it was clearly not the natural set of her face. He could easily imagine all of that melting away beneath the right hands, the right lips, revealing the splendor she was meant to have. It kept him determined.

“Why should I believe anything you say?” she purred, with a smile that implied she was not really that unwilling to be convinced. “You say the same things to Morrigan and Leliana, I know. Even to Wynne.”

“Lesser beauty is still beauty. And what am I to do when you reject me? Desperate men do desperate things.” He shrugged and tried taking her hands. Lack of physical contact really did put him at a disadvantage: his touch was his best gift. She did not pull her hands away, so he went on. “But with them I am teasing, because they do not trust me. It is different. You see that it is different, do you not?”

Her grip actually tightened, and her eyes began to show a glimmer of promise. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

He pulled her a little closer – not too close, not this time. “Mmm, encouragement. Careful, my Warden. Leave me an opening, and I will try to slip into it.”

She giggled. “Oh, now, that was awful. You have to know that was awful.”

She was learning his sense of humor, at least. Not that he would not have meant it if she had accepted it as an offer. “It was. I am trying to keep you off your guard.”

Outright laughter now, and it lit up her face. Unfortunately, it also drew attention to them – stares, and Wynne was actually approaching.

“Ah, yes,” he said, kissing Taniva’s hands quickly. “I am supposed to be helping Wynne with the cooking.”

“I’m impressed. Good luck with that.”

He intercepted Wynne before she reached the Warden and returned with her to the fire. “Ready, Wynne. Tonight it will be old port and oysters, yes?”

“That, or dry ration stew.”

“Ah, of course. The culinary masterpiece of Ferelden travelers.”

“We’ll have fresh food again when we reach Redcliffe. Surely it wasn’t always old port and oysters with the Crows, either.”

“No, true enough.”

It was impressive that he had gotten this far with such a suspicious lot. Granted, had they been assassins or even normal mercenaries, they would all be completely at ease with him by now, and he would probably have already bedded two or three of the most attractive among them. Apparently people outside such professions did not understand that killing a mark was a business matter, not a personal one. No pay, no incentive, no danger.

Now that he thought of it, he wondered how long he would have until the Crows decided he had failed and gone renegade. The initial ruse would not last for long, after all. At first, they might think he was biding his time, but the more time passed and the more the Wardens interfered with Loghain’s consolidation of power, the less plausible any excuse would sound.

In theory, he might not yet be past the point of no return. He mused over the layers of irony as he wandered aside to his own bags and pulled out a bundle he’d been carrying. He could almost hear Taliesin laughing as he sprinkled the dried seeds into the pot.

Foolish, apparently, to let his guard down: some roaring thing kicked over the pot, tackled him, and rammed him into a tree several paces away. When Zevran snapped into proper focus, he recognized his assailant as Alistair.

Naturally.

Armbar against his throat. Zevran grabbed Alistair’s wrist and elbow and wrenched them, spinning his attacker away from him. He increased the distance with a kick and backed away between the trees, ready now to defend himself properly.

Alistair was furious. “Bastard!” he roared as he turned back around to try again.

Zevran had his battle grin. “Ironic, coming from you.”

Alistair rushed him again, but now the dog was barking, and there were cries from elsewhere in the camp, and then a flash and a wrenching pain that seemed to hit them both at once. The rush became more of a flail and collapse, both men thrown to the ground with Zevran underneath.

Wynne stood over them, lowering her still-glowing staff. “By the Maker, what is this about?”

Alistair did not move from over him. “He tried to poison us!”

Zevran coughed, crushed by the man’s weight. “What? When did I do this?”

Now the Warden moved, just enough to pin Zevran’s arms to the ground, and snarled the accusation into his face. “I saw you put something into the food. What was it?”

“Fennel.”

“You’re a liar. I know you use poisons.”

“That doesn’t mean I thought we should have poison for dinner. What I thought was that we might enjoy eating something with a flavor, for a change.”

“Get off of him, Alistair.” It was Taniva’s voice, annoyed and somehow weary.

He did, but not happily. Zevran sat up but did not stand. He sat quietly and rubbed at his lumps, letting his Warden be the one to defend him. From this position, he could see the rest of the startled witnesses gathered around them. Points lost with everyone, then. Quite marvelous.

“Poison, Taniva!” Alistair was saying. “I know you wanted to give him a chance, for some reason, and I respect that. But the plain fact is that he’s an assassin, and his job is to kill you.”

“Was. Was my job. The past is not the present. These little things make a difference.”

Taniva crossed her arms and looked down at Zevran. “And it was fennel.” More a statement than a question, but still, she was asking. Even with her, there was this making sure.

He sighed. “In retrospect, perhaps I should have told Wynne what I was doing first. I didn’t expect that Fereldans would be so touchy about their flavorings.”

She turned back toward Alistair. “It was fennel. So now you and Wynne have to start dinner over again.”

“So that’s it?” Alistair fumed. “You’re going to leave it at that?”

“I thought asking you to apologize might be pushing my luck.”

Alistair’s shoulders slumped forward, and his ears were red with frustration. “It’s because he’s an elf, isn’t it? He’s tried to kill you before, and you’re still going to take his word over mine, just because he’s an elf and I’m not.”

Her eyes went cold. “This would be a good time for you to shut up, Alistair.”

“I won’t! It’s either that, or you have some kind of death wish, which would be even less good.” His voice was dropping as he retreated further into his own thoughts. “Or you were hoping Morrigan would eat first, in which case fine, but it was an awful risk to take with the rest of us, and you should warn us next time.”

Taniva stepped toward him. “Fine, then. It’s because he’s an elf. Do you know what that means, Alistair? It means we have a common experience of the world that you have no way of understanding, because your worst days look like our best. It means we are part of an ancient culture that has stood firm for thousands of years, with bonds that transcend nations. It means that I can read his face, and I know that he was telling the truth. It was just fennel.”

Alistair was stunned into silence, and so was Zevran. It was a lovely speech, and not without merit. Of course, half of the whores and most of the Crows had been human, but it seemed like the wrong time to mention that.

Alistair sighed and pinched his nose. “All right. But I’m watching him. He’s not to handle our food again.”

He paced away, and oddly, Morrigan chased after him. “Wait, does that mean that if I threaten to poison you, you’ll stop asking me to cook? I’m very willing to threaten you with poison.”

As the others wandered back to their places, Taniva crouched next to Zevran. “No permanent damage? Nothing I should call Wynne back over to see?”

“No, my Warden.” He put on a grin for her. “He really doesn’t care for me much, does he?”

“It would seem not.”

“So. These things you said about reading my face, and elven culture.”

She snickered. “Oh, well, of course. We have all sorts of secret communications through our elven code. Every human knows that we elves have a code.”

“Lies, then.” She must be able to read his face now, at least: he was beaming. “I am humbled before a master. Carry on.”

He continued to sit there for a few moments before going to see how the second attempt at dinner was proceeding. Not only did she believe him, she was willing to lie for him. It made him perversely glad it had really been fennel.

Which, of course, meant that she had actually read him correctly. Once he realized that he didn’t know for sure which of them she had really been lying to, he was up the rest of the night trying to puzzle it out.