Zevran stood at the door, back to the inside, trying to ignore what was occurring behind him. It was not the blood he had an issue with, mind - he was an assassin, after all. But the things his lover had summoned...
He heard one of them now, the snapping hiss causing his hackles to rise, and he eased the odd sensation by looking out the door to make sure no one would become inquisitive. Granted, this little back alley of Denerim was known to attract those who were incurious rather than curious, so in a way he was paying lip service. Still, for all his thick skin to killing, the horrors of the Fade still made an impression.
When Jorath had approached him for this little outing, he'd initially been looking forward to spending some time alone with him. As they'd moved through the streets of Denerim, however, he noticed something a bit... discomfiting, even for him. The guards, for example, when they caught sight of Jorath's scarred and burned face, would without exception turn around and walk away. The children, who before had flinched back and run away from that same face, now ran up to him, begging for 'more sweets'. And when a knight had approached Jorath and started blustering something about Ostagar, the flame-haired Warden merely smiled at the man. That's all - a small, secret smile - and abruptly the knight turned and walked away. If Zevran weren't so skilled at sleight of hand, he wouldn't have noticed Jorath adjust his sleeve as he smiled, and if he weren't so good at catching fear, he would have missed the knight's ring of pale flesh around his neck.
He said nothing about the incidents. He'd long since learned that when Jorath wanted Zevran to know something, he would bring up the matter himself. As it was, as they had continued through the streets, he'd noticed that Jorath's muttering was a bit more pronounced than usual, and he'd frowned when he realized the man was talking to his 'sister' again. Another anxiety to file away for later scrutiny...
So it was that by the time they arrived at their destination - a run-down little shack buried deep in the back streets of Denerim - he was perfectly content to stand door guard. Perhaps it wasn't romantic, but it was... preferable, at the moment.
He pulled the door a little more shut as another cry rang through the shanty behind him, accompanied by a sound he knew all too well: breaking bone. Distracted from the alley outside, he turned his head slightly so he could pay more attention to what was going on. Words filtered through from the back, barely detectable, but audible to someone who listened carefully.
"Yes, this is him, little sister. No, he's not as terrible as he'd like to think he is." Another sound of flame, and a gibber that could not possibly be human. "Yes, they can finally rest in peace in the Fade. Perhaps I can look at their stars without pain after I am finished." The tone changed then, from conversational to musing. "I do sometimes pity these demons of pride. So very weak if one knows their true nature. Much like Uldred."
Zevran shuddered and fiercely focused his attention outside the hut again. The last thing he needed was a reminder of Jorath's confrontation with Uldred.
A human needs skin...
He was shocked from his scrutiny when a hand laid gently on his shoulder. He turned to find that knowing grin on Jorath's face, the expression accenting the deep scores of the furrowed scar underneath the burn scars. "Paying a little too much attention to the street, hmm?"
"This is Denerim, my friend. You never know what will come out." Putting his own hand on the taller man's shoulder, he took his time examining his face, something that Jorath disallowed anyone else from doing. "You're tired," he said softly. "Did that wear you out?" What did you do?
Jorath waved the question away. "Nothing a hunt won't fix, really. But Gaxkang... Ah, yes, Gaxkang had to be dealt with. Such insults to family honor should not be allowed to stand, even if the answer is Ages in the making." Taking Zevran's hand, he brought it to his lips and began biting it, in that serious, loin-hardening fashion that meant he was going to take Zevran soon. As the assassin's mouth went dry, the mage's compelling red eyes stayed locked with his, and before he knew it, their lips were locked and clothing was being ripped.
It wasn't until much later that Zevran realized that the soft, weak sound of someone in the back of the hut struggling to breathe ceased halfway through their passion.