Summary: Each time Rook comes in contact with water is a near-death experience. Davrin makes it his mission to change that.
Written for Ish over on AO3 as a very belated birthday present, feat. their Qunari Rook, Jirell <3
Jirell hasn’t the slightest as to how Davrin convinced him to do this.
(Actually, he knows exactly how. The Gray Warden had looked at him with those big, soulful brown eyes as he’d told him, in no uncertain terms, exactly how he felt about continually having to drag Jirell’s unconscious body out of various bodies of water across Thedas because the Qunari seemed to be the only being in existence who didn’t realize that people were naturally buoyant and sunk like a goddamn stone each and every time his body made even the slightest contact with water. So, he would be taking it upon himself to teach him how to swim. And Jirell, who’d been wholly distracted by the idea of seeing Davrin in his skivvies, had agreed without much thought. A decision which would come back to bite him in the ass tenfold).
The water, which scarcely reaches his navel, is cold as a witch’s left tit. Dozens of little irregularly shaped stones are pressing into the soles of his feet, as dirt cakes underneath his nails as he holds onto the nearby bank so fiercely, his hands ache. Davrin is standing a little ways away, hands on his hips, eyebrow arched, waiting. He’s patient, but they don’t have all day—and they’re already operating on borrowed time. It’s not often that Arlathan Forest is this quiet, and the last thing they need is to be caught by one (or more) of those blasted constructs with all of their weapons out of reach. And if Jirell tried to use his magic while they were still in the water, he’d fry both of them to a crisp.
He knows, deep down, that he’s being ridiculous. There’s no reason to fear when Davrin is literally right there, and the elf has proven on more than one occasion that he’s capable of swinging him around like he weighs little more than a sack of potatoes. He’s faced down demons, darkspawn, dragons, and corrupted “gods”... a little bit of water is nothing.
Except when he’s in it, and Davrin wants him to lie back like he’s taking a bloody nap. Doesn’t he realize it only takes an inch of water to drown?
Assan gives a happy little chirp, bobbing his head as if to say “go for it.” Jirell wonders what he’d done to the griffon to deserve such cruelty.
“Alright,” Davrin’s hand encircles Jirell’s wrist and tugs gently, causing the Qunari to instinctively release his death grip on the bank. His heart rate skyrockets, even as he follows the Warden into slightly deeper water, “You’re always telling me to give Assan time, but something tells me if we approach this in the same way you’re liable to turn into a giant prune—that still has no idea how to handle himself in the water.”
“I... was getting there.” Jirell protests, his voice thin and reedy as the water inches higher and higher. He’s not scared. He’s not. It’s just... the stones are slippery, and one wrong move could result in him going ass-over-teakettle.
“And I’m not getting any younger.” Davrin counters, “Look, I know this is scary.” He says, “You’ve been lucky so far, in that there’s always been someone nearby to help you out when you lose your footing or miss a jump. But one of these days, your luck is going to run out... and I want to make sure that you know what to do when that happens.”
“Right. That... That makes sense.” He says.
“I know it does.” Davrin teases, the corner of his mouth twisting up just-so.
“That doesn’t mean that I have to like it.” He continues.
“No, it doesn’t.” Davrin agrees, a little too easily. “Look, if you still hate swimming—and the water—by the end of this, it’s no skin off my nose. All I’m asking is that you try... and to trust me. Can you do that?”
And what is he meant to say to that, exactly? That he doesn’t trust this man, who has stood beside him in battle more times than he can count, who had been willing to sacrifice his own life to save each and every one of theirs from Ghilan’nain’s archdemon? (Jirell is far from the most trusting individual—a dynasty of assassins-for-hire don’t exactly encourage blind trust, even concerning other members of your House—but he does trust Davrin, even if he’d never admit as much aloud). So, he bites his tongue and lets Davrin guide him oh so slowly onto his back, doing his level best not to panic as the still too-cold water hits his back, then his neck, and finally, the back of his head.
Davrin’s hands move down his body—one settling by his shoulders, the other on the small of his back. He kicks his legs weakly, feeling unsettlingly unmoored. His heart is still pounding wildly in his chest, though this is at least partially due to the fact that Davrin is right there, his body deliciously warm despite the coolness of the water.
They haven’t had many chances to be... close, like this. Saving the world from tyrannical gods had taken precedence—and rightfully so. If Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain were allowed to do as they pleased, neither of them would be around to explore their newfound relationship in the first place, after all. So, he’s definitely not used to this kind of casual intimacy.
Davrin is talking, but he’s not really listening. He’s staring up at the sky, taking in the array of reds, pinks, and oranges that’re peaking through the tree canopy. If he focuses on the shapes of the clouds and the way they’re moving across the sky, he can almost forget that he’s floating in the water... wait a second. He’s... floating. He’s free-floating. Where the hell are Davrin’s hands? Where the hell is Davrin? He panics, turning his head to the side so quickly he swears he hears something crack, and sinks like a fucking stone—which is (thankfully) when Davrin decides to pop back up. He stands him back up, speaking softly all the while, like he would if something had spooked Assan.
And, really, if he weren’t so focused on the fact that he’d very nearly died a second ago, he’d be a lot more upset about that.
“The fuck, man—you’re not just supposed to let go like that!” Water drips into his eyes, causing them to sting. His vision is painfully blurry, but he can see Davrin’s face so, so clearly. He looks like an exasperated parent who let their child touch the scalding pot with their bare hand to teach them a lesson about “hot things being hot.”
“How are you going to learn anything if I hold your hand the entire time?” He asks, and... he’s right, but Jirell is loathe to admit it. A kid will never learn how to ride a bike if someone doesn’t take the training wheels off, and he’ll never learn to swim if Davrin holds his hand (err... his body) anytime he’s in the water. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it. “You were floating just a second ago, before you panicked.”
“I... was floating.” Jirell repeats, disbelieving. And yet, he knows it to be true, because that was what caused him to panic in the first place. “That... That wasn’t that bad. It was actually almost... relaxing? You know, before the panicking.” He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm—
“...Do you want to try again?” Davrin asks, after a beat. A long stretch of silence follows, before Jirell nods weakly.
“I... yeah, I... I think I do.” A pause, “But this time, don’t let go until I say, okay?”
“Promise.” Still, he hesitates for a moment. But Davrin is patient (all of that time working with Assan had really started to pay off), waiting until Jirell is ready before helping him onto his back once again. And there it is, that feeling of weightlessness that’s both terrifying and mystifying all at once. “See, this isn’t so bad—right?” Jirell swallows hard, nodding his head ever so slightly. It’s not bad, just... different.
He tries to relax into it like he was before, but it turns out that forcing yourself to relax is a feat easier said than done. So, this time, instead of focusing on the skies, he zeroes in on Davrin’s face—and how the dying rays of sunlight hit him just right. And Jirell cannot stop himself from reaching for him, from cupping that deliciously strong jaw in his hand and guiding his face closer, bit by bit, until—
They kiss. And it has no business being so soft, so gentle—not here of all places. Or maybe it’s so gentle because it’s here, doing something that causes Jirell such fear, in a place that they’re desperately trying to keep from falling apart at the seams. They’re ill-equipped to be heroes (but then, who is really ready to become a hero—anyone who says they are is lying through their teeth), but they’re trying. The world is not always kind to those who try, so moments like these were few and far between. And Jirell intended to take them and treasure them as they came. Davrin returns the kiss, his hands moving to hold Jirell’s face as his tongue teases the soft flesh of Jirell’s lower lip.
The fat that Davrin had, once again, let go, doesn’t occur to Jirell until much later, as they’re making the trek back to the Arlathan eluvian to return home.
