Thanks to Smaragdina (LJ) for being my beta and Irish Lassie (DeviantART) for checking my "Orlesian"!

Chapter warnings: Alcohol abuse, angst.

Couper la Poire en Deux

The first time he comes to her, it's the middle of the day and she's still in bed.

There are three knocks, then silence, and all she can do is groan and pull her thin blanket up over her head. She hears the soft clicking of picks in the lock of her front door less than a minute later, and then the soft creak of the hinges. No footfalls. She presses deeper into her straw-filled mattress, wondering just who has come to kill her. She's at least been saved the indignity of being dragged out into the sun for execution, from the sound of things (or lack thereof) - no guards, no heavy footed executioner. Instead, it's a thief or assassin, come to finish the job that the king started three weeks ago. At least it will be a quiet end, even if it's not the end she ever wanted.

Finally, she hears something- the soft stretch of leather as somebody crouches next to the bed. The faintest sound of glass being lifted off of wood - empty glass. How many bottles did she go through last night? How quickly is she running out of money, drinking alone instead of at a tavern? She doesn't remember, and doesn't rightly care.

Loghain Mac Tir is dead, and she isn't.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. She was supposed to die defending him, fighting at his side, being there. Instead, she ran away. She let the Warden talk her down with all of her fears and her grief at her lord's fall from grace. She slunk away into the shadows. She'd followed the army to Redcliffe and back, she'd fought in the great battle for Denerim, but she'd never seen Loghain again except from afar. And then he'd died.

He had died a hero, at least.

But he'd left her behind.

The assassin is taking his time and she shifts as nervousness cuts through even the thick fog clouding her head. She almost pulls down the covers to peek, but he speaks first, and she knows the accent is familiar.

"Your tastes are more expensive than I would have expected," he drawls. She can feel him settle his weight against the frame of her bed as he rolls the something, probably whatever botle he liberated from the floor, between his hands. "Are these all from last night?"

She doesn't respond. He blows across the top of the bottle until he finds a note that seems to please him.

"I must admit," he begins again, "I did not expect to find you like this. Lady Cousland is a rather perceptive woman, yes?"

She still doesn't offer him anything. She waits, because she's finally placed the voice- Zevran Arainai. The Crow that Loghain hired what seems now like such a long time ago. The Crow whom she can easily imagine toying with his prey, trying to trip them up until they fall before his blades or to his poisons, utterly ruined. She's close already, but she doesn't want to give him that satisfaction.

"She was quite emphatic that I come to check in on you, you see," he's saying, as if he doesn't need a reply at all. "Told me, 'Zevran, it pains me to send you from my side, but another needs you!', and how am I to refuse such an exhortation? She is a force of nature, after all. It's best to go wherever the wind drives you, yes? And Lady Cousland, she is nothing if not a gale wind." Zevran sighs, tapping his fingers on the glass in his hands. "And so, I am here. And you are here! I do so love succeeding at missions. It makes me feel all warm and toasty inside."

She's still waiting for the kill when she hears him stand up. He's stopped trying to muffle the sounds of his movements, and she can hear the floorboards groan beneath him. There's a darker shadow for a moment, the sound of creaking leathers, and the faint scent of some sort of oil as he leans over her, but then he straightens up and retreats a few steps.

"Well, you appear to be alive, no matter how much you're trying to hide it. I'll leave you to your bottles, I think." He sets the one he's been holding down with a clunk, but doesn't move away immediately. There are no footsteps. "... A parting gift, though, Ser Cauthrien," he murmurs, and she tenses for the fall of metal into her-

And is greeted only by the painfully bright light of day as he pulls open the heavy curtains of the room. She groans, loudly, as he leaves as silently as he came.

The second time he visits her, it's early evening and she's sitting on the edge of her bed, in clothing five days old, staring at the rows of empty glass she's arrayed against the far wall.

She's out of booze.

She's contemplating the effort necessary to drag herself out of her little rented room and down the street to the tavern when there's a single knock, followed quickly by the sound of lockpicks. Zevran doesn't try to hide himself and strides in with a grin.

"Out of bed already? It would seem you're making progress!" he says as she stares at him blankly. She doesn't feel anything for a long moment, and he keeps her gaze with his lips twisted into a smile as she tries to process, through the now all-to-familiar throb of her head, what he's doing here again.

"Just kill me already," she finally croaks. There's a surprisingly sharp flash of anger that goes through her, following on her words, and she grits her teeth. It makes the pounding intensify.

His bark of laughter makes her flinch. "Kill you? Ah, Ser Cauthrien! I am not here to kill you." He tsks, chuckling and taking up a spot leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, . "If I were here to kill you, you'd already be dead. No, no, I told you- the Lady Cousland asked me to check in on you."

"Check in." Her voice is hoarse from lack of use and the burn of moonshine. It's been a week since his last visit, a week spent living between oblivion and the past, just like the week before it. If she tries to think back, she's not entirely sure how she came to be here. She remembers the Landsmeet too clearly. She remembers Loghain's death, too, and the crushing knowledge that it was done, whatever she thought could have been. It was over, whatever had been held in how he'd grabbed her wrist at Ostagar, how he'd relied on her the entire past year more than ever before. What she doesn't remember quite as clearly is the day when she'd knelt before the throne of King Alistair Theirin and received her 'honorable discharge' from the army, from Maric's Shield. She doesn't remember every detail of that moment, or the long moments that followed, the days and weeks where she'd wandered in the direction of home, to the west, only to find out that her father and brother had been conscripted into fighting the civil war, and had died there. Her mother and cousins had been dragged off by the darkspawn before the Blight was ended. She doesn't remember much of that time, except that she'd thought How? so many times.

How hadn't she known? How hadn't she stopped it? How was it that she was the only one left alive, the girl who'd run away to fight for the Hero of River Dane, who'd worshipped the ground he'd walked on, who'd stood by him when he tried to protect all of Ferelden?

How was it that she was left to wander, alone, in the aftermath?

"Check in," he repeats, pulling her back to herself. She stares at him with a wavering, flinching gaze, and he returns it with his own, bland and patient. "You look remarkably horrible."

She hasn't looked in the mirror. There isn't one in the hovel she's living in. There's barely a fireplace, and she's thought, in her more lucid moments, that she's lucky that it's summer. There's really only a bed and a table with one chair. The only times she's pulled herself out of the room these last two weeks have been to get food or booze or stagger to the outhouse. The room reeks of stale alcohol, vomit, sweat, and grief - though that last she isn't sure if she's just hallucinating or not.

She doesn't know how sallow her skin has become, how dull, how matted her hair is and how sunken her eyes are. She doesn't particularly care. His words don't make her flush or turn away. She simply stares at him.

"You've checked in," she says, flatly. "Now go."

"No, no," he sighs, shaking his head. "I can't! You see, I received word from our esteemed Warden this morning - I wrote to her of your rather lumpen existence after my last visit. She wants me now to, ah, I believe she put it as 'keep a fucking eye on her before she kills herself', yes. She's really quite concerned."

Cauthrien snorts, bowing her head and closing her eyes. "Where was her concern when her puppet king took the only thing I had left?" Her bitterness, her words, echo Loghain's in feeling if not in substance. During the Landsmeet, she'd stood close enough to the door to hear his shouts, his pride, his rage, his defeat. She's repeated them so often in her mind, mourning and trying to understand, that she finds herself speaking like him even more than before.

"Oh, I think at the time she was more concerned with getting the queen's skirts up," Zevran says, laughing. "And," he adds "I think she expected you to be stronger than this. But court life appears to be settling down, and now she's handing out jobs behind the king's back. It is good, it would appear, to be the queen's lover."

Cauthrien glances up, then looks away again, shaking her head and sitting back so she can lean against the wall. "I don't need a minder."

"Alas, I'm under orders." He shrugs. "I was going to sneak in and take your bottles this time, but they're all empty, it seems! And you're awake. I couldn't simply sneak in and out without a chance to look at that pretty face of yours. It would've been a crime!"

"Breaking and entering," she supplies, voice gone flat once more.

"Ah, yes, of course." Zevran grins. "But. I take my oaths very seriously, Ser Cauthrien, and I do not appreciate the thought of waking one night to a very angry Warden bellowing a war cry before she takes my head off with that massive sword of hers. You'll understand?"

"You betrayed the teyrn."

"I failed the teyrn, and then I took new employment," he corrects. "Besides, I did not owe him a blood debt. Nor did he pay me to do the job."

"If you'd done your job-"

"Ferelden would be overrun. And if I recall correctly, Georgiana did a fine job of persuading you to step asi-"

"Shut up!" Cauthrien growls as she surges to her feet, body shaking from the effort not to lunge any further forward. She wants to fly at him, grab up one of the bottles, smash it over his head. She was never the sort to get in bar fights. She's always been controlled, strong, worthy of being Loghain's right hand. But it's been a long month, a long year, and raging sounds like the best idea she's ever had.

Zevran must see it in her eyes, because he holds up his hands and walks backwards towards the door. "Of course, of course. I suppose I'll just leave you to your bottles, then." He pauses as he pulls open the door, then shakes his head. "It's a shame, though. I have a feeling the teyrn would be disappointed."

And then he's gone, leaving her to sink to her knees and pound the floor and sob without tears.

The third time he walks into her home, it's the dead of night and he's wearing Loghain's armor.

She doesn't know where he got it from, only that even so drunk she can barely stand without effort and with only the light of two candles that have burned down to stubs, she recognizes it instantly. She knows the planes and curves of it, knows the exact color of the metal, the precise way it reflects light, and she isn't so far gone that she can't tell that it's not Loghain wearing it. She jumps from the bed and falls on him with a shriek of rage, trying to hit him, pry the metal off of him, hurt him for daring to wear the Hero of River Dane's plate.

He laughs and easily pushes her off of him, rolling her onto the floor and pinning her there. Her head swims. Her vision blurs with tears and the whole room is cast in orange and gold from the candles. Lines of light crisscross her vision as she sobs, the sounds thin and broken. She thrashes and he keeps her pinned, though he's made awkward by the armor that is far too large for him.

"Why- why-" she shouts, then whispers, the word more a pained, abstracted sound. She shakes, her chest heaving with breath, and he holds her down the whole time, sitting on her upper thighs to keep her pinned, hands on her elbows, body stretched out along hers. He's mocking her, teasing her, trying to break her. He's wearing Loghain's armor and he's pressing up against her. He knows. He knows that she's always wanted the crush and push, and he's mocking her by giving it to her, except that it's not right because it's a little elven assassin in Loghain's armor.

"I wanted to test a theory," he says. "And I wanted to get your blood pumping. Our Warden told me to get a reaction. Figure her out. And a reaction I have!"

"You bastard-"

"Get her fighting again, she said!" Zevran grins, and she can't remember how to break this sort of hold. Her head's spinning from anger and grief and booze, and she knows she can get him off of her, he's not that much heavier than she is and she's built for power, not agility - she should be able to move him. But the tears make it hard to remember how.

"Get the fuck off of me-"

He leans closer in, his weight now mostly supported by where her chest meets Loghain's plate, rocking forward so that he can nearly touch noses with her. He grins. "Why?" he asks, with feigned nonchalance. "The Warden and I thought you'd appreciate being able to touch this armor again."

He's unbalanced himself enough that even as uncoordinated as she is, she can force her legs up, lift him off of the ground, and twist. He curses as he falls to the side, and she follows him, rolling on top of him once more. She pulls her arms free of his hands, and he flinches as if expecting her fist to come towards his head, but instead she begins to fumble with the buckles and clasps holding the armor on him. She's done this before, taken this armor off, placed it back on. She'd helped Loghain prepare the night of the Battle of Ostagar, and so many other nights besides. She knows this armor, knows it as well as she knows her own, and even unsteady, her fingers begin to fly.

Zevran lies still beneath her, watching, and she thinks she can make out a flash of white as he grins up at her. She ignores it and keeps working. The pauldrons fall away, the breastplate, the gauntlets, the elbow guards. She pulls it from him with angry, clutching hands, then sets it reverently aside and returns to attack the next piece.

She knows he's letting her do this, letting her undress him, but she's almost angry enough at him for daring to wear this priceless polished metal that his clear enjoyment of how she bares the padding and linens he's wearing underneath stirs nothing more. But as she pulls the armor from his legs and he arches his back and bends one leg at the knee, crossing his arms behind his head and smirking up at her, she growls and attacks him again. This time, she strips his padding and clothing, too, and he laughs and makes comments she can barely hear through the pounding in her ears. She forces him back down with the weight of her body when he tries to rise up to her, tears fabric when he won't yield. She hisses the worst curses she knows at him, abuses him with words while her hands are too busy and too uncertain to abuse him with fists.

She strips him down to his smalls, and then strips away even that.

"All you had to do was ask, Ser Cauthrien," he purrs, and that's when she finds the coordination to cuff him, hard. He hisses as she stands, dragging him with her. Her tears are gone and all that remains is the gritting of her teeth, the tightening of her muscles as she drags the elf's tanned, tattooed body to the door.

She knows he's letting her do this, too, because she's stumbling enough that he could easily catch her leg with one of his feet and she would sprawl across the ground. He's not even trying to hide his harsh, mocking laughter. But she doesn't stop until she's yanked the door open and thrown him, naked, onto the packed dirt ground outside.

And when she does stop, all she does is look down at him (he blurs and duplicates before she shakes her head) and sneer, "If you ever come back again, if you ever touch that armor again, I will rend you limb from limb, Antivan." The words are low and slow and slurred, but her eyes are filled with fire that makes his grin falter.

She slams the door shut.

The fourth time she sees him, it's early the next morning and she's dragging herself into the dim of her house after a stumbling trip to the closest outhouse and well.

She doesn't seem him at first; all she can see is the lack of bottles, the lack of blankets, the lack of Loghain's polished armor, the lack of everything except for her chainmail spread out on the bed and the Summer Sword propped beside it against the frame.

She only sees him when the door closes softly behind her and she turns, slowly, hands twitching at her sides.

He's leaning against the door without a smile or a lifted brow or anything other than his uncharacteristically solemn, long stare. He's reclaimed his leathers, at least; Loghain's armor is simply missing, which is somehow better than seeing it on him again.

"Get out," she says. "And tell me where you put my things, thief."

"I," he corrects, "am not a thief. I am an assassin. I am a Crow. We may take things that nominally belong to others, but only in the service of the job, yes?"

"Where are my things, thief?"

Zevran sighs. "Oh, but you see, if I tell you? You will just cut my head off. Or perhaps you will save your rather lovely sword over there the trouble, and simply snap my neck, hm? No, no. I will, instead, give you conditions for their return."

Her upper lip twitches and tenses and curls in anger at the thought of him holding Loghain's armor hostage. Hostage! And demanding ransom-

"Will you hear them, Ser Cauthrien, my lady knight?" He inclines his head slightly, holds a hand out, palm up. "I think you will find them actually rather agreeable."

"Speak," she growls out.

He chuckles, finally, the sound oddly reassuring. "Our Lady Cousland would like you to accompany me to Orlais to ferret out and destroy a particular noble. One... oh, what was it? I can't remember these names, they roll strangely on the tongue. Comte- Comte Albret Lorraine? I have been assured the name will-"

She feels what little color is still in her cheeks drain away and her throat tighten. "I see," she cuts him off, memories- stories, really, she was too young to know the Orlesian occupation first hand, but the stories have become memories- bubbling up even through the thudding haze of her hangover and rage. "I'll- go. But you are going to get the fuck out of my way and giving back that armor."

"Oh, no, no. You must understand, I am currently more trusted than you. The queen argues your loyalty, but the king and Lady Cousland? They are not quite as sure. They might have sent me alone, but I stood before them and said No, this was not a job only for me. You deserved a chance to restore your name!"

"That is such utter bullshit."

Another chuckle. She bristles, but he keeps his distance. "Perhaps. Perhaps it is more accurate to admit that, alas, I do not speak much Orlesian. A bit of hindrance, yes? But I understand that the former teyrn of Gwaren made sure all of his officers learned to speak and read it fluently, in case of infiltration..?"

"Oui," Cauthrien spits out, the vitriol a combination of anger at him and hatred for the tongue of conquerors.

"Well, then. Suit up, ma chérie, for we have an appointment in Jader, and I am a punctual man."