Chapter Text
“Astarion, look out!”
He whirls just fast enough to duck the incoming swing of a club. A cry of pain follows, but distant; he disregards it along with the other noises of battle to focus on the fight before him.
The transparent, darkened thing wielding the club might once have been an elf like him, before the shadows of this becursed land consumed it. As a spawn, Astarion outmatches most elves—that is, when he isn't half-starved. This barren void of a place has left him hungry and diminished. He can see the second swing long before it hits, but his weakened body is too slow to dodge entirely.
The club cracks across his left hand. He cries out as agony explodes up his arm, and his dagger drops from numb fingers. Anger flashes through him, a balm to the pain. He broke two lockpicks fetching that dagger from a long-forgotten chest; it better not have nicked.
“My turn,” Astarion snarls at the expressionless shadow, tucking his useless hand close. With the other, he thrusts his enchanted shortsword through the thing’s middle. He makes sure to twist viciously before yanking the blade back out. The creature’s already hazy form wavers, then abruptly solidifies as the body slumps to the ground in a final death.
Catching his breath, Astarion scans for his next target. He sets aside the throbbing ache of his doubtless broken hand, well accustomed to compartmentalizing pain. Fighting one-handed isn't his preference—he likes to make sure whatever he's aiming at stays dead, and two stab wounds are always better than one—but he can manage for now.
He may not need to, however. The fight is dwindling. The dull, rocky landscape around them is littered with felled bodies. Lae’zel is holding her own against the sole survivor, a hulking shadow-infected beast retreating further up the steep cliff side. Shadowheart is following close behind. His presence not currently needed, Astarion relaxes a fraction. And as for the final member of the day’s party—
Gale was just here, wasn't he? It was his voice that warned Astarion away from getting his head caved in. Quite considerate of him. The assist deserves thanks for saving the curls, Astarion decides. He does so hate washing blood from his hair.
He won’t actually say the words “Thank you,” of course. How terribly gauche, not to mention embarrassing. He has a reputation to maintain. But there are other ways to show appreciation, even with his usual talents set aside—Gale was quite clear about his lack of interest, back at that dreadful tiefling party several tendays ago.
“Some people just have no taste,” Astarion mutters to himself, still feeling the sting of that infuriatingly cordial rejection. Not only did it hurt his chances at ingratiating himself with a much-needed ally, but it also had just… hurt. More now than it had then, strangely. Still—no matter. He’ll find another way to even the scales.
(Part of him thinks it would be easier to simply drop to his knees and be done with it. Most of him is relieved that he hasn’t had to. Even if he does imagine Gale would be as polite in that as he is in everything else.)
“Te curo!” echoes from somewhere up above, quickly followed by the ringing of a blade impacting something hard. The women are out of sight by now, along with their prey. Astarion idly wonders if Shadowheart is casting on herself or Lae’zel. He hopes he’ll be next. This mangled hand isn’t good for much at all.
Speaking of good-for-nothing, where is that wizard? Astarion wants to get this thank-you over with. His narrowed eyes scrutinize the field of corpses more carefully, straining against the ever-present haze of shadows. It would be just like Gale to find a book in the middle of nowhere and get thoroughly distracted, settled down in a dark corner to indulge in some reading.
A book could serve as a gift of gratitude. Or maybe he’ll simply toss a kind word or two Gale’s way; the man is absolutely greedy for validation. One faux-sincere comment should be enough. Something about his spellcasting, or his wit, or the rather dishy competence with which he wields both…
Yes, Astarion can fake sincerity for this. And Gale will respond with alacrity, entirely willing to take over the interaction. He'll talk and talk, even as they begin the trek back to their camp with Astarion falling into step with him (careful to remain outwardly aloof so as not to encourage him too much). Maybe Gale will eventually get around to recapping the latest chapter of the tome he's been poring over in the evenings; it's terribly banal, but it is possible Astarion may grow bored enough to offer up a comment or two. Perhaps he might even make a statement to prolong the conversation. Not that he truly cares what Gale says, mind you, but the time will pass anyway.
It’s settled, then. Listening to Gale prattle on will be repayment enough for a life and a good hair day saved.
Frustratingly, the man himself is nowhere to be seen. There is a crispy Harper corpse nearby that Astarion doesn't remember killing, and a few steps further away lies a bloodied glaive. Then, drops of blood seeping into the dirt.
“What a waste,” Astarion sniffs.
With his shortsword at the ready just in case, he follows the trail like macabre breadcrumbs, pretending the spilt blood doesn’t make his empty stomach clench all the tighter. His allies may have taken his vampirism better than he anticipated—not a single one lifted a stake, not even as Gale’s neck still sluggishly leaked from that first and last desperate, aborted attempt at feeding on something truly satiating—but neither has anyone been much help finding food for him in this dreary death-land. They're all worn out. Why would anyone worry about him when they're barely well enough to keep themselves going? Besides: Astarion is accustomed to starving. He’ll survive.
Distractions help. As he stalks onward, Astarion mentally rifles through a few options for the opening quip he’ll offer when he finds the renegade wizard. He does so enjoy their little arguments. His thanks can come later.
The wasted blood leads him to a narrow opening in the side of the cliff wall. An alcove where Gale has tucked himself away for safety, perhaps. Astarion ducks his head into the darkness, already opening his mouth to call out something mildly insulting—but he's interrupted by a hideous squealing from somewhere high above. A great thump follows, and a triumphant cry from Lae’zel as the rocky bluff quivers beneath the fallen weight of the beast.
The shaking doesn't stop.
Astarion's eyes dart upward in alarm as the noise only increases, thumps and crashes rolling and echoing as they rapidly build into a grating crescendo. Only a heartbeat later—had he one—several boulders are hurtling straight for him. There's no time to think.
Hunger be damned, Astarion's razor-sharp self-preservation instincts fling him forward. He twists midair to shield his injured hand from impact. The boulders land at the same time as he does, right where he had been standing. The rocks deafen him as they hammer each other deeper into the dirt, pulverized clouds billowing forth. Astarion cringes, shielding his head as he curls up in the space that's larger than he anticipated, big enough that he isn't touching anything but the trembling ground.
The unnatural light of the shadow-cursed day vanishes suddenly as the rocks barricade the entrance. The noise takes longer to fade.
With the initial shock wearing off, Astarion quickly finds his feet, if not his shortsword. Damn that shadow-cursed creature for knocking the dagger from his hand. (Damn himself for failing to pick it up again, one-handed or not.) He doesn't feel right without a blade close. Weaponless, he bares his teeth and stands at the ready.
When the dust settles and his vision adjusts to lightless surroundings, Astarion is surrounded by stone. His habitual breathing shudders to a halt. Not again.
Never again, he’s even dared to think during these last few tendays of freedom. Hope comes easier when already giddy on long-craved delights. Lying in bed entirely alone, belly full of boar’s blood, under no command but his own, Astarion had once or twice allowed himself to slip into daydreams. He let himself believe the past could be escaped.
But here he is again: trapped like a bug beneath a paperweight, all agency crushed from his frail body. The world narrows to rough, gray rock. It hangs uncomfortably near his head, and the walls seem to close in even as he watches with wide, unblinking eyes. The stone reaches out to enshroud him.
The hard-packed dirt beneath his boots smells of the graveyard, but beyond that, there's a rot to the air. It fills his nose, his mouth; coats the insides of his constricting lungs. Maybe rats—a begrudging dinner—or a drained corpse untouched by him and forgotten in the corner, or just the insidious aura of death from which this tomblike palace was built. He doesn't want to breathe it in, but he can't help it. His traitorous body remembers life still, and in its panicked throes demands air. He hyperventilates quietly, like he learned. He waits for whatever horror will happen next to punish him.
For long seconds, nothing does.
No new pain carves its way beneath his skin. No master commands his obeisance. No body touches his, no lips whisper at his unwilling ear. The stone around him remains unmoving, and the darkness does not sputter, yet his limbs are free to stretch and his feet are firmly anchored. It's a strange limbo. He doesn't know if he's in his coffin, or the kennel, or a nightmare quilted from bits and pieces of his daily life.
Eventually, something does happen. Only not a horror. A voice filters into his consciousness, muffled, echoing—and familiar, but not cemented bone-deep as all the depravity of two centuries. A fresher familiarity. The newness of it startles him. Draws his attention.
“...unfortunate predicament to find ourselves in,” the voice is saying. “Now, I say ‘ourselves,’ but—there is someone here with me, is there not? Hopefully a friend and not a foe? If you be foe, allow me to warn you: I am not feeling especially lenient at the moment. I have the Weave at my fingertips and I will not hesitate to use it.”
Eyes still fogged with ghostly memories, Astarion turns on his heel, blindly stumbling a step nearer the sound. No one else he knows can be so long-winded while saying almost nothing of substance. It's—
“Gale.”
He doesn't realize he's said the name aloud until he hears a response, clearer than before, and softened with a relief that promptly shocks Astarion the rest of the way back into the present.
“Ah, Astarion! Excellent,” Gale greets from the ground, sprawled out on his back.
Astarion blinks, but the sight before him remains the same. They aren't far from each other; it isn't a very large cave, though an impenetrable shadow in the far wall suggests the passage continues deeper.
“I am glad to have a friend here with me after all. Truth be told, I may have been slightly exaggerating my readiness to jump back into the fray. Are you well?” As he speaks, Gale’s eyes roam about the stone roof overhead. Excepting the hand pressed tightly to his lower side, he seems almost relaxed to be lying flat on his back in the dirt. The fabric of his robe is darker around the edges of his hand. His hair splays out beneath his head like a seeping pool of blood. The unconscious comparison makes Astarion's gorge lurch, and not from hunger.
It takes a moment too long to realize Gale has paused for a reply, but Astarion pulls himself together with disciplined speed. Hide it all away—too raw to the touch—vulnerability a weakness he can’t afford—
“Never better,” Astarion says lightly, pawning off panicky breathlessness as airy calm. He's a professional at this: acting perfectly at ease no matter how deathly he feels. He draws in a deliberate, slow breath to steady himself further as he picks out the words for a distraction. “You, on the other hand, are looking rather ragged around the edges. More so than usual.”
It's Gale's blood disturbing the air, he realizes only after he speaks. That sharp, bitter scent warning away poor hungry vampires like himself; a marker of toxicity. A wrongness to the world. His blood should not be spilled, if only because it smells so very dreadful. No other reason.
“I for one have been better,” Gale admits. He shifts in place, grimacing silently at the movement. “I'm feeling a bit worn out. And all the dust in here is irritating my eyes. Dreadful little rockfall, wasn't it?”
His voice is strained. Astarion can hear it now. And though he's lying still, tension lurks at that strong brow and bearded jaw, in those broad shoulders. All is not well. Dread of a different flavor is building in the pit of Astarion's empty stomach.
“Is that all?” he asks.
“Well.” Gale seems to deliberate for a moment. “The accommodations could be nicer.”
“I can smell you, you know,” Astarion says bluntly. “That disgusting sludge you call blood.” He doesn't bother to mince his words. He learned early on that Gale appreciates directness, all evidence to the contrary. “And have you forgotten I can see in the dark? That's not a mere scratch you're trying to hide.”
“Who said anything about hiding?” Gale protests weakly, eyes darting to the side in a frankly embarrassingly obvious tell. “I simply saw no point in complaining. A hearty meal and a night’s rest will set me to rights.”
The continued evasion sets Astarion slightly more at ease. Surely even Gale isn't so prideful as to avoid help when on the cusp of death. The worry that was spiking unpleasantly in Astarion's gut begins to ebb. Good riddance. He prefers not having to address that particular, confusing emotion, strangely directed as it has been lately at people besides himself.
“Is this because Lae’zel said you're as useful as an unhatched egg with none of the potential?” Astarion says, not bothering to hide his amusem*nt. Her tone had been especially scathing. He'd almost wanted to take notes.
Gale says nothing. It’s unlike him. The lack of prickly retort or staunch defense weighs heavily in the dusty air. He just lies there, glaring at the cave roof. Can he even see it? Just how bad is human eyesight?
To his own surprise, Astarion takes pity on him. It must be because he looks so very pitiable lying there in his ridiculous purple outfit, tinted brown with dirt and blood.
“I believe she was referring specifically to your disgraceful display of strength this morning, and not to your general state of being. Was the cookpot really that heavy?” Astarion pauses, then adds less subtly, “I suppose even a Githyanki gets injured now and then.”
“I wouldn't be so sure,” Gale grumbles. He sighs, then winces. “But alright. You've got me. I had a bit of a run-in with one of the shadow beings. It's not a problem.”
“No?” Astarion abruptly loses his patience for this charade. “You had a blade tickling your organs, by the look of it. I know you blow a lot of hot air, but it's not as though you're entirely empty space in there. Unless you've replaced the rest of your parts with Netherese contraptions?”
The click of Gale’s throat as he swallows dryly would probably not be audible to a human. But Astarion hears it, and he hears too the meanness of his own words echoed back to him. A tiny bit of guilt itches beneath his skin.
“No,” Gale says gamely, resigned to the jab. He probably thinks he deserves it, the bastard. “Just the one addition.”
Gods, how tiring it is, having to be consistently nice to people. It's so much harder to maintain when you know them for longer than a few hours. It's harder with Gale, too, for reasons Astarion can't explain. The two of them often seem to wind up at odds with each other, even when he isn’t trying. Like oil and water. Or blood and… whatever it is blood doesn't mix well with. Netherese orbs, evidently.
Despite that, Gale keeps talking to him. “Good morning”s, and “good night”s, and everything in between. He snipes back when Astarion says something cutting (as he’s wont to do), but the bickering doesn’t stop him from striking up a new conversation mere minutes later. He offers up mildly decent books selected from looted shelves, and useful potions brewed from the day’s idle gathering, all handed over with cheerful small talk or commiseration. He asks questions with an apparent interest in hearing the answers, just as attentive on academic subjects as personal ones—and though he quickly learned to tread carefully with the latter, he seems equally delighted by pointless trivia like Astarion’s favorite color, for the gods’ sake.
The sincerity is… charming. Unfortunately.
And yet Gale isn’t trying to bed him. He doesn't harbor any hard feelings after Astarion’s disastrous proposition, nor even hold a grudge over that brief sampling of his nasty blood, and he demands nothing in return beyond a listening ear. None of it makes any sense. Astarion doesn't know what to do with him.
Right now, he should probably prevent Gale from idiotically soldiering onward in an attempt to prove his constitution. The stupid man appears to be one second away from trying to sit up. His robe is damp with blood. It burns in Astarion's nose.
Thinking quickly, Astarion lands on a strategy that he’ll get to have a little fun with: reverse psychology.
“You wizard types are all the same. No stamina.”
Gale stops partway through levering himself upright, one arm bent and eyes narrowing at nothing. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“Why, it means exactly what it sounds like,” Astarion says sweetly. The saccharine tone puts just the right finishing touch on the taunt. “You have plenty to say about your prowess when it's a purely theoretical matter, but once it gets down and dirty…” He draws out the word suggestively, then elegantly shrugs one shoulder, immediately miffed when he remembers Gale probably can't see it. “You never last. Today you barely managed to shoot off four spells before you went limp, so to speak.”
“It was five, and they were all rather complicated workings, thank you very much,” Gale says testily, ignoring the innuendo with disappointing ease. Astarion has been giving him too much practice; it will take harder work to make him blink these days, let alone blush. “I didn't notice you complaining when I blasted three ghouls off the cliffside in one go, without so much as ruffling the perfectly coiffed hair on your ungrateful head. I'd have had plenty left in me, were I not rudely interrupted by the Harper glaive in my side!”
Panting, Gale gives up on verticality and droops back to the ground with a groan. Astarion will count that as a success.
This may not be the ideal time to wind him up—oh, but it's just too fun. After two hundred years of softening himself for the pleasure of others, Astarion revels in every opportunity to be infuriating. Not to the point of risking his position in the group, naturally. Just enough to be a nuisance. And what a nuisance he can be.
Lae’zel tends to ignore him until he toes an invisible line only she can see, at which point she threatens him with admirable creativity and he gracefully backs off for a time.
Shadowheart makes this delightfully stoic face that doesn't quite manage to hide her mounting irritation, while Wyll wears all his annoyance plainly even as he tries to ruin Astarion’s fun by countering with godsawful integrity.
Karlach and Halsin are honestly rather difficult to bother with petty things, but he's confident he can find a way.
Gale, though. Gale is undoubtedly Astarion’s favorite to play with. Arrogant, clever, and entirely unwilling to allow anyone else the last word, he rises to verbal challenges with hardly any prompting. The two of them have filled many a dreary march with disagreements devolving to outright insults, whiling away what would have been some terribly tedious afternoons.
There's a tantalizing gleam that alights in Gale’s eyes when he gets going. It spurs Astarion to greater heights—and lower depths, at times, just to see Gale sputter with indignity.
Like he said: a nuisance.
“Besides,” Gale says, casually picking up where he left off as though he hasn't just taken half a minute to gather his breath again. “I'm not out of the fight yet. If you could just lend me a hand up—”
“Oh, stay down, will you?” Astarion huffs, dropping to a crouch. He goes to press his hands down on Gale’s shoulders, only pausing at the last moment when he catches sight of the crumpled mess of his fingers. He'd forgotten he was injured. The sharp throb was easily tucked away and ignored in a corner of his mind, but now he remembers his broken hand is near useless. He lets it fall back to his side.
Thankfully one hand turns out to be enough to still a protesting human. Gale subsides wordlessly beneath the slightest touch. Even through thick fabric, his shoulder is warm against Astarion's ever-frigid fingers. How would it feel to hold both at once, with two functional hands? He wonders if Gale would let him. (It’s a habit, thinking this way. Only habit.)
Up close, the sour scent of Gale’s blood is impossible to ignore. Astarion finds he’s no longer willing to abet Gale in neglecting his wound. For the sake of his nose if nothing else.
“We're trapped in here,” Astarion says, forcing his voice not to waver. “We aren't going to be heading back into any fights. I'm almost certain Lae’zel caused the rockfall while skewering the last beastie, so we have her to thank for this. Now will you let me take a look, or am I going to have to knock you out?”
“What?” His unfocused eyes aimed somewhere near Astarion's chin, Gale frowns, aggrieved. “I don't think there's any need of that.”
“I'm glad you've agreed to cooperate,” Astarion says smoothly. Before Gale can protest, his sole good hand nimbly unties the sash and throws open the robe, shunting aside Gale’s hand to get a decent look.
“Excuse me,” Gale starts, wriggling uncooperatively. The symbol of the orb dances with him, its stark lines seeming to pull in the surrounding darkness—a maw hungry for anything. But Astarion didn't undress the wizard to stare at his chest. He pins Gale with a hand over the orb tattoo and directs his attention where it already wants to go: toward the blood.
“Hold still,” he murmurs absently as he examines the situation.
The wound is bleeding, though not zealously. Astarion’s mouth waters at the sight despite the awful smell. What about just a little lick? Such a waste…
He swallows hard and shoves the hunger into its own mental compartment. He's gotten so very good at ignoring pain over the years; it does nothing to serve him.
The slice is long, and deeper at the top. He imagines the glaive caught Gale on an upswing. It may have been halted by his lowest rib, which could mean a fracture. Painful, but not life-threatening. The smell doesn't indicate a rupture to the guts. Still, something was in the path of the blade. Astarion is not well-versed enough in human anatomy to guess the extent of the injury. He tears his eyes from the wound to say so—and his words evaporate in an instant.
Gale has quieted, lying obediently still beneath the press of Astarion's hand. His gaze is fixed upward. His lips are slightly parted. His chest visibly and tangibly rises, then falls, each breath a bit fast. The soft chest hair brushing Astarion's fingertips abruptly sends a shock through his own body as he crashes back into physical awareness.
They don't touch, usually. Their words may clash like grappling limbs seeking a grip, but Astarion keeps a carefully inoffensive distance and Gale follows suit. How strange it is now. How intimate in this moment, after breaking through the compartment walls he hadn't noticed putting up. Now that he’s letting himself feel.
He can't remember the last time he touched someone's bare skin after knowing them so well. The difference this makes is staggeringly apparent. Triggered by skin against skin, fingertips crossing the boundary of Gale’s vulnerability, memories unwittingly flood Astarion’s mind once more—but not the nightmarish eves of Baldur’s Gate or the torturous eternity in Cazador’s palace. He thinks instead of the things he's learned about his unexpected ally: the benign, the bizarre, a veritable trove of personality compared to the flat, spiritless bodies he used to touch. No piece of information has been deemed too unimportant to remember. For strategic reasons, obviously.
He knows the name of Gale’s beloved tressym, the year of his favored vintage port, and the timbre of his distaste for poorly written prose. He knows what Gale looks like when he's just woken, soft and messy with pillow lines on his cheek as he brews tea for everyone. He knows the crackle of Gale’s magic on the battlefield, rich and dangerous; and now he knows too the shape of Gale’s sternum, and the pattern of his heartbeat beneath cold fingertips.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Pace picking up as Astarion's pinky idly traces a curve of the tattoo.
It sounds inviting.
“Well, then,” Astarion blurts out, hurriedly sitting back on his heels and snatching his hand away. He forgot himself. In remembering so much, he forgot how to behave. “I think you’ll live. Let me just—”
He glances around wildly. Entirely unnoticed until this moment, a pack sits nearby as though neatly set aside. Relief washes in at the excuse it offers.
“Supplies, how lovely,” he murmurs as he dives for the pack. “You could have mentioned this sooner.” This chastisem*nt fails the weak attempt to wrest back control. Astarion’s good hand fumbles with the clasp.
After all the debasem*nt and debauchery he’s survived, it’s incredibly disorienting to be… flustered, if that’s what this disgusting, jittery feeling is. From the barest of innocent touches! He hasn’t been a blushing virgin in, well, he can’t remember if he ever was—but if he had enough stolen blood in his veins to warm his cheeks, Astarion might’ve actually had a problem on his hands. Face. Whatever.
He dares a quick, sidelong peek, and it's with an odd sort of disappointment that he registers nothing of note in Gale’s expression. His face is wiped clean as he stares up at the ceiling, unmoving. His eyes are wide, no doubt foolishly still trying to see despite the dark. And his breath—no, Astarion won’t look back at his chest. He won’t.
Pulling out the first piece of cloth he finds, Astarion awkwardly folds it into a rough wad and presses it without ceremony to the wound in Gale’s side.
Gale breaks his rigid stasis at that, his entire body tensing as he swears.
“My, the mouth on you,” Astarion says in an absent-minded jibe. “This may sting,” he adds belatedly.
“Is that my spare shirt?” Gale grits out, his fingers brushing the edges of the fabric.
After looking it over to confirm, Astarion says, “Well, I wasn't about to ruin my clothing.”
“You’re always a step ahead, aren't you.”
“I do try.”
A few seconds drift past. Gale’s hand hovers over Astarion’s in hesitant readiness to take over, but Astarion is reluctant to move just yet. It’s easier for him to put adequate pressure on the wound than for Gale to do it. And he has no intention of getting stuck in this damned cave with naught but a toxic corpse for company—thus he’s obliged to do his best to care for the man. If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.
Satisfied with his logic, Astarion firmly locks away the sensation of Gale’s chest hair against his fingertips. It’s not productive information.
(He doesn’t think he’ll forget it.)
“So,” he says, drawing out the sound. “Might there be anything helpful in that pack of yours?”
Gale’s thoughtful hum wavers halfway through as Astarion increases the pressure slightly. He doesn't protest, despite the wince.
“I did find a rather nice cropping of bonecap earlier today. I suppose if anything can grow under these conditions, a poisonous fungus would be the type to thrive.”
Astarion rolls his eyes. So what if Gale can’t see it; it still needs to be done.
“Helpful, I said. As in, directly relevant to the situation at hand.” He pauses a beat. “A healing potion, for example.”
“Ah. No. Although I will point out that my alchemical ingredients are often quite useful—”
“Do you have what you need to mix up a healing. Potion.”
Gale hesitates. “Not as such—”
“Then the answer, my extraordinarily verbose wizard, is ‘No.’”
“Well—”
“Ah-ah-ah. That’s not it. Try again.”
Were there enough light for weak human eyes, Astarion’s sure that Gale’s glare would be formidable indeed. It lacks something when aimed at his forehead.
And yet, Gale indulges him.
“No,” he says in a voice as dry as the dust coating Astarion’s tongue.
“Good boy,” Astarion purrs, just to be annoying. It helps him feel surer of himself. Further away from that—that strange moment, earlier. “I suppose it was too much to ask you to be prepared, hm?”
“I do carry potions, thank you,” Gale says, irritation sharpening his tone. “But if you haven’t noticed, we’ve been short on opportunities to resupply as of late. I gave my last healing potion to Wyll after those blasted meazels nearly sawed through his neck.”
“And therein lies your mistake,” Astarion says coolly. “Soft-heartedness will be the death of you, you know.”
“Well, what about you?” Gale challenges. “You can hardly lambaste me for not having a healing potion at hand when you have yet to produce one. Or are you reserving your last one for yourself, as you seem to think I should have done?”
“I do, in fact, have several healing potions,” Astarion sniffs. “But I stashed my pack safely away the moment I saw a battle incoming. I can hardly sneak about in the shadows while toting luggage.”
“Maybe if you didn’t loot each clanking piece of armor from every body you find,” Gale mutters under his breath—still perfectly audible at this range, even without elven hearing. “Besides, I wouldn’t call your little display earlier ‘sneaking about.’ You were completely out in the open, about to get your head bashed in.”
Although primed for a retort, Astarion hesitates. He doesn’t care that Gale’s right—semantics like that rarely stop him from arguing with the man—but Gale did just hand him the perfect segue for that thanks he had planned.
No time like the present, he supposes. There’s already a bad taste in his mouth; he may as well cough up a bit of gratitude.
“About that,” he starts, delicately.
Gale’s lips tilt downward in a slight frown. Taken aback, perhaps, by the interruption to the back-and-forth they were diligently engaging in. Confusion looks good on him. Astarion likes to keep him on his toes. (Although currently he’s on his back, of course. Astarion isn’t sure he minds that, either.)
Damn it all. He had a plan. A nice, simple plan. Say something mildly complimentary, let Gale ramble on unchallenged for a while, and call it even. But now—huddled together in the confines of a cave still choked with dust, Gale’s presence a living reminder that Astarion isn’t entombed again, his hand growing damp with Gale’s blood—Astarion is having a wildly unnatural urge to actually thank him. Directly.
Oh, why not. He can always knock Gale over the head and claim he hallucinated everything, if this goes terribly.
“When you called out to warn me,” Astarion says. He pauses to adjust the pressure of the now-ruined shirt against Gale’s side just so. “It wasn’t necessary.”
Gale’s frown deepens. “Your back was turned, are you really saying you would have reacted in—”
“For you. It wasn’t necessary for you.”
There’s a slight pause. Astarion watches the shirt like it might run away if left unsupervised.
“I’m not sure I follow,” Gale says, for what must be the first time in his entire self-assured life.
Astarion grits his teeth and hurries through the rest, willing Gale to hear the words he isn’t saying. “You could have let me take my chances, and you didn’t. I just wanted to say… I recognize that. You are a… reliable ally.”
Another pause slithers past. The soiled shirt doesn’t move, and neither does Astarion.
Then:
“Is this your way of thanking me?” Gale asks incredulously.
“Certainly not,” Astarion denies immediately.
“Are you really that hard-pressed to offer an honest ‘thank you’?”
He scoffs. “As if you’ve earned one.” sh*t. What happened to the plan of offering real gratitude? He wants to flee, but his hand stays right where it is, keeping Gale’s blood on the inside.
“As always, your sense of manners leaves something to be desired. No—” Gale lifts an arm to raise a pointed finger. “Your employment of manners, rather. I know you are fully aware and capable of being polite if you so choose.”
“I—”
“In fact,” Gale continues, his pompous finger still in the air. “A demonstration, if I may.” He clears his throat. “You are very welcome, Astarion. I am extraordinarily glad you didn’t meet an untimely end at the hands, so to speak, of a blunt object. And I appreciate both your thank-you, and your current assistance with my own little problem. It’s—” Here he falters, his excessively earnest tone quieting. “It’s nice to think that you might, well. Care. Somewhat.”
Astarion finds himself at a loss for words.
The old him—the him from some tendays back, what feels like eons ago now—would have been so sure. Of course I don’t care, he would have thought, acerbically, while promising the opposite aloud. Why should I care? (And, more quietly, How can I?)
But these profoundly extenuating circ*mstances have not come without effects just as profound. He has changed. Like an eclipse rose blooming beneath a rare strain of moonlight, Astarion has against all odds found a way to live again, for a time—and he can feel himself opening up.
The old instincts urge him to deny it. Caution him to throw up the walls and keep his distance. Allies are only tools: resources to be used, maintained, and discarded as needed. Caring for his knives doesn’t mean he cares about them.
Gale knows what it is to be a tool. To be discarded. That much, Astarion has learned of him. Now he knows this too: Gale didn’t expect him to care.
“You really do think very little of yourself, don’t you?” Astarion murmurs. It’s the sort of shrewd comment he could easily wield like a blade. Something to slip through a vulnerable point and twist deep into the heart. But he says it quietly. Gently, even, if that’s something he still knows how to be in all honesty.
The words seem to cut Gale open anyway. There’s a flinch to his expression; a tightness to his lips that betrays a grief well-masked. He can't hide from Astarion.
“You’re the one who thought to thank me, however poorly, for not letting you get your head smashed in,” he says, a bite in his words that’s more Astarion’s style. “Tell me, how is your self-esteem faring?”
Oh, no. He’s not touching that question. “I'm not the one who crawled into a cave to die alone,” Astarion says darkly.
“Crawl—I was not crawling,” Gale protests with predictable offense. He shakes his head against the ground, then rallies a moment later. “I understand it brings you some measure of joy to see me brought low, Astarion, but I'll thank you to keep your imagination to yourself. I made a tactical retreat to a more easily defensible location—walking, might I add, on two feet.” His eyes rove about, blindly seeking in the dark. The furrow between his brows deepens. When he speaks again, his tone has lost its sharp edge. “Why would it bother you, anyway? If I went off to die alone. You don't seem the type to put much stock in an honorable death, unlike some of our companions.”
It pleases Astarion to be recognized as unique, even as it prickles uncomfortably to be seen. Not to mention Gale’s blunt line of questioning taking them straight back into terribly muddled emotional territory—which is just rude. Astarion was rather hoping to get past all that, thank you. (Thank-you’s aren’t hard when they’re sarcastic.)
“I was thinking of the orb,” he says, deliberately careless. “Wouldn’t want that thing to blow us all sky high simply because we forgot to check on you.”
Gale doesn’t buy it.
“It's stabilized now, you know that.”
Scoffing, Astarion goes to wave this aside with his free hand—Gale may not need to eat magical boots anymore to keep from spontaneously exploding, but none of them know what would happen if he died at this point. In his hurry, Astarion forgets his own injury.
“f*ck!” He hisses in pain, helplessly drawing his hand in towards his chest. Instinct tells him to clutch at the wrist, to offer some stability for stilling the shooting pain arching from fingertip to forearm, but he can’t let up on the pressure at Gale’s side. He hunches over his hand instead, jaw clenched to keep down further sounds.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Gale is asking, alarmed. “Astarion? What just happened?”
“Nothing,” he snaps out. “Merely a trifling memento from our friend with the club.” After a quick, steadying inhale, he says more calmly, “Nothing to worry about.”
“It sounded like something to worry about.”
Damn Gale and his incessant need to know everything. Astarion is of the firm belief that his business is his own. He wants to get the hell out of this accursed cave, find something living to drain dry, and curl up to metaphorically lick his wounds. Alone. Without Gale and his bare chest and his incessant questions.
“Astarion, if you don’t answer me, I’m afraid I will be forced to—”
“Leave it, Gale,” he says sharply, and a little too loud for their confined space. The words echo in his finely tuned ears for three beats of Gale’s heart.
Then, he can do nothing but watch as Gale’s face sets in an expression of determination mighty enough to rival his own.
“Very well,” Gale says quietly, almost to himself. He reaches across his body, feeling blindly, fingertips brushing the cuff of Astarion’s doublet, and then his hand is slipping warmly over Astarion’s. The skin on skin is instantly as engrossing as before.
Astarion has seductively pulled this move, oh, hundreds of times. When he calculated it to be necessary, he manipulated others to make the first move, laying out his own hand on the bar as the first taste of honey to set the trap.
Gale is not trying to seduce him. That much is clear, if only due to his disinterest in Astarion. His hand is as soft as expected, not that anyone has spent time thinking about that. His fingers are nearly as nimble as Astarion’s due to years of spellcasting; they curl around the edge of Astarion’s hand, lightly tugging. His touch is firm. Confident, but not demanding. Not a seduction—enticing, nonetheless.
“Let go,” Gale says. “I’ve got this.”
Head swimming, Astarion does the very last thing he ever wants to do: he obeys.
Gale’s hand replaces his on the bloodied shirt, pressing down hard without so much as a twitch. His jaw is set, his eyes narrowed as though in focus despite the dark.
His other hand finds leverage against the ground, and Gale once more begins pushing himself upright. This time, Astarion doesn’t think to distract him. The cunning part of his mind, which rarely turns off, muses that reverse psychology probably wouldn’t have worked again anyway. Not with that look on his face.
“There’s a wall,” Astarion manages, shaking himself out of his temporary stupor. His good hand has instinctively found its way to his other wrist. He cradles his broken hand to his chest, settling back on his haunches as he watches the remaining color in Gale’s face drain away. “Behind you. Not far.”
Gale only grunts in reply, but he uses his feet and free hand to push himself backwards until the stone is against his back. He leans into it with a slow exhale. His robe is still open, threatening to slip from his shoulder after all the movement.
“Now, then.” There’s a rasp to his voice, edged with pain. “Fiat lux.”
Pale orbs of light sparkle into existence in the air above their heads, gently circling in a slow dance. Gale squints against even their dimness. Astarion blinks, and his eyes adjust.
“Let’s have a look at you, shall we,” Gale says.
Too late, Astarion realizes he’s lost all his advantage. He manages to muster his usual haughty mask, but there’s no way to disguise the limp mess that is his hand.
Gale stares, his brows drawn together with concern. “That looks… awful.”
“Oh, I’ve had worse,” Astarion says, automatically downplaying the injury for damage control. He hasn’t even looked at it recently, but he knows he’s right. A smashed hand hardly registers on his scale.
“It’s turning the same color as my robes.”
Astarion blanches. “Well, that’s not good. I wouldn’t be caught dead matching you—oh, wait.”
Gale glowers at him. Astarion gets firsthand confirmation that, yes, the intent stare is significantly more affecting when not hindered by blindness. Damn him and his endlessly deep eyes.
“Now is not the time for jokes, Astarion. That’s a serious injury you’re sporting!”
Astarion has no interest in sporting any more vulnerability than he already has. He goes on the offensive. “Says the man with a hole in his side. I don’t recall you leaping to inform me.”
“That’s… a fair point.”
“Mm? What was that?”
Gale doesn’t roll his eyes, but exasperation does visibly pinch at them. “I am capable of admitting when I’m being a hypocrite. But that’s not the issue at hand here. Your hand, is.”
“Cute,” Astarion sneers. It might be more effective if he wasn’t still clutching at his own wrist like a child with a skinned knee, but he can’t seem to make himself let go.
This journey has dulled his edges beyond repair. Too much useless kindness from his more weak-hearted companions; it’s spoiled him into this pampered thing that can’t even stand straight beneath a bit of agony.
Cazador would love the chance to ruin him again.
A hand is reaching out. Too close. Targeted. Astarion only just manages not to flinch back.
“Now, will you let me take a look at it?” Gale asks.
Don’t touch me!
Abruptly feral as a cornered beast, Astarion opens his mouth, whether to spit out something thorny or to show his teeth he has no idea—but the unexpected softness of Gale’s gaze stills him.
He spares a moment to think. To breathe, unnecessarily. To warily examine those beguiling brown eyes for any sign of a trick.
Gale’s free hand is held, outstretched, a safe distance away. Waiting for a response.
(He had asked.)
“No,” Astarion answers, low and cautious.
When Gale opens his mouth, Astarion holds very still. But after a few seconds of silence, he closes it again. The rotating lights cast faint shadows over his face that make his expression flicker, harder to read. Then Gale nods twice, slowly, and takes his hand back. “Alright. It’s your decision.”
What a concept. What a fantastically novel concept—still, even now, after Astarion has delighted in making multiple decisions a day ever since he fell from that damned flying ship. Often important choices, too. Things that matter. He’s not sure he’ll ever get used to it again. (He’s not sure he should.)
“Oh,” is all he manages to say. The relief hits just as hard as always. Exhaustion promptly kicks in with it like the back hoof of a deep rothé. Mind drifting in a sudden haze, Astarion sits down in the dirt before his legs can give out.
Despite what his companions may think, he doesn't mind dirt. Not really. He certainly doesn't think himself above sleeping rough, or trudging through puddles—or indeed, sitting on the ground. Once you've been commanded to lick your own blood from the filthy floor for the fiftieth time, your sense of pride begins concerning itself with other matters.
Keeping clean is nice, to be sure. It's the preening and putting on airs that are more habits than anything: part of his allure, back in the city. At first he kept it up because he didn't know how to do anything else. Then he was laying doomed plans to seduce at least one companion for his own safety. And now—now, he supposes he may never have moved on from square one.
Currently, Astarion is injured, starving, and trapped in a cave, and Gale is still being damnably kind for no reason whatsoever, which is utterly infuriating on top of everything—so he finds that right now, he doesn't much care about keeping up appearances.
He gets more comfortable atop the hard-packed dirt, tucking his legs to one side and resting his wounded hand in his lap. Gale watches silently, examining the injury from a distance. He makes no pretense of it.
Astarion is surprised Gale gave up without protest. Maybe the argument is yet to come, and his respect for Astarion's choice was merely a show. But without respect, why would he care about the injury? Is it simply cold-blooded calculation? A need to keep allies at full health so they remain useful? That sounds more like how Astarion himself thinks, whereas the wizard nurtures an annoying streak of humanity.
“Shall we locate you a length of fabric?” Gale asks abruptly. So much for peace and quiet.
“Do try to make sense,” Astarion drawls. The ruder he is, the more likely Gale will leave him alone.
With a gesture vaguely directed his way, Gale clarifies: “To fashion a sling. I realize it's your hand that requires attention, but surely keeping your arm stabilized will help with avoidable pain.”
He's still on this topic? Why does he care so much?
“Going to offer your spare shirt, I suppose?”
Gale glances down toward the aforementioned hole in his side. “I do think the bleeding has stopped,” he says, easing back on the pressure. “Perhaps your sensitive nose can tell?”
“Put that back on, you idiot,” Astarion snaps, leaning forward. “I won't die of a broken hand. You, however, are actually in some danger, fragile as you are.”
“Can you smell it?”
“What? The blood? Well, of course I can smell it, you can't get away from those noxious fumes,” he complains. It's actually not as bad now that he's used to it, but he's hardly going to admit that. Intense, yes. Sour, and prickly. Still iron-rich and doubtlessly quenching.
“I meant, can you smell whether or not the bleeding has stopped?” Gale tilts his head thoughtfully to one side. “Does drying blood smell different from freshly flowing blood? I suppose the scent must dissipate somewhat once it's dried. Perhaps we could—”
“No, no, you will not be experimenting on my senses, thank you. Not even if it involves getting to bleed you myself.” Astarion looks away from Gale, wary of the temptation that lies in his curiosity. He’s distracted the next moment by an uncomfortable squirming sensation behind his eye. The gods-damned tadpole. What does it want now?
Meanwhile, Gale has yet to give up. “But wouldn’t it be fascinating to know—”
“Gale! Astarion!” calls a new, muffled voice: a rescue in more ways than one.
“Ah, Shadowheart!” Gale says, a smile lighting up his face as he turns toward the blocked entrance.
(Would he look like that if Astarion were the one calling to him?)
(More importantly, why does Astarion care to wonder?)
Gale goes to answer her, but just the inhale necessary to yell back is enough to give him pause. “Would you mind terribly..?” he starts, wincing.
“We’re in here,” Astarion calls back, pitching his voice just so to ensure he doesn’t sound like he’s really trying. He never shouts if he can help it—that is to say, when his temper doesn’t override his intense desire to sound cool.
“Finally!” Shadowheart sounds exasperated, which is frankly uncalled for given that she’s not the one currently trapped in a cave. “I’ve been looking all over for you two. I suppose you’re stuck, are you?”
“Why, no…” Astarion says loudly, drawing out the sound obnoxiously. “We're just taking our time. Enjoying a rare spot of privacy.”
Gale clears his throat quietly, while Shadowheart skips right over the sarcasm.
“Well, I hope you’re prepared to keep at it for a while. Lae’zel and I are in no shape to go digging around in rock piles. We’ll need to regroup with the others first.”
Astarion scowls. How annoying. He hadn’t realized just how quickly he’s grown accustomed to relying on his companions. It would have been smarter to assume he was on his own, like usual. He should have been clawing at the walls by now—would have been, perhaps, if not for the company.
“Unfortunate news,” Gale mutters, looking resigned.
With a jolt, Astarion realizes the more timely significance of their predicament: if no one gets them out, Gale can’t be healed. Or himself, of course, as the first priority.
“Ask if they’re alright.”
Astarion blinks at Gale. “What?”
“Ask if they’re alright,” he repeats, tilting his head in the direction of what used to be the cave entrance. “Those two aren’t the type to shy away from a challenge. I wouldn't have been surprised if they turned boulder removal into a competition. No, something must have happened.”
What a ridiculous man. He’s bleeding through his clothing while trapped in a natural tomb with a ravenous vampire spawn, and he wants to know if the others are alright. Astarion knows his own selfishness is a tad stronger than most—well-deserved, he adds mentally—but, really? Gale’s sense of self-preservation does not measure up to his pomposity. It’s a strange juxtaposition.
In any case, their companions’ status would be useful information to have. “And how are you feeling?” Astarion asks loudly, weaving a sneer into his tone to ensure no one thinks he's worried.
“I’m fine,” Shadowheart calls back, to Gale’s evident satisfaction. “Lae’zel, however, managed to get herself gored by that shadow beast before finishing it off. I used up the last of my spells stabilizing her well enough to move.” Unaware of the disappointment clouding their dimly-lit prison, she adds, “By my standards, anyway, not hers.”
So no rescue, and no healing.
“Lae’zel would consider herself well enough to move so long as she had a leg to stand on,” Gale says quietly, seemingly just for Astarion’s ears.
Stomach sinking at their prospects, Astarion seizes hold of the amiable comment like a lifeline. “You’re not giving her enough credit,” he murmurs, half-hiding a smirk behind pursed lips. “I rather think our astral warrior would be nearly as deadly with no legs at all; she would simply walk on her hands.”
He’s rewarded with a low chuckle and a crinkling at the corners of Gale’s eyes. Satisfaction at the successful riposte pools warm in Astarion’s core. He likes when his words are appreciated. It’s—useful. Good social currency.
“Hello?” Shadowheart interrupts wearily. “I said, can you wait? Are you two dying in there or not?”
“Decidedly not,” Astarion answers for them both, injecting extra affront into his voice to make up for the lack of body language. “Do think better of us, would you? Or at least think better of me.”
Despite the jibe, he looks back at Gale with a question in his raised eyebrows. Gale shakes his head. In this moment, they don’t even need the tadpole to understand each other.
“I would prefer to be out of here sooner rather than later,” Astarion continues, excessively understating it. They don’t need to know just how badly he covets freedom in all things, how terribly he wants to be out of here—it won’t change anything about the situation but their respect for him. “Still, I suppose we can manage without our bedrolls for a night if you wind up lollygagging.”
Gale groans at that, eyeing the packed dirt floor like it's grown spikes.
“Oh, hush,” Astarion says to him. “You’d think—”
“Until later, then,” Shadowheart calls. “Watch out for the shadows.”
The shadows?
She doesn’t bother with words of comfort; such niceties are not the way of Shar worshippers. As much as Astarion generally appreciates her pragmatism, he finds that in this particular situation, he could have used some concrete reassurance that she actually intends to rescue them. He regrets not building a stronger emotional connection to the cleric. Their occasional evenings passing back and forth a bottle of wine and sharp commentary are probably not enough to guarantee her assistance.
“And don’t try to dig yourselves out,” she adds acerbically. “You’ll only bring the rest of it down on your heads.” With that, Shadowheart departs. Astarion can sense the distance between their tadpoles increasing, even with his mind thoroughly clamped shut on his end of the connection.
Silence creeps back in. It feels cold, and unpleasantly damp. Astarion’s ears twitch as though to shake off the sensation. He staunchly doesn't look around at the cave, at the stone sealing him in place. The space feels smaller now that their only hope of rescue has walked away.
“Where were we?” he muses aloud, deliberately casual. The vibrations of his voice settle him more firmly back in his body.
“I believe you were about to say something scathing,” Gale says dryly, not missing a beat.
“Oh! Yes.” He brightens. “By the sound of it, one might think you aren’t used to roughing it on the road.”
Gale fixes him with a flat look. “You know very well that I am not.”
“Mm. It must be challenging,” he coos with exaggerated sympathy.
Raising his free hand, Gale rudely points an accusatory finger his way. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the veritable mountain of cushions you’ve accumulated in your tent!” he says. “One might think it will be a challenge for you to find your repose in the dirt tonight, as well.”
“And one would be wrong.” Astarion glances at his fingernails, pretending to examine them rather than meet Gale’s eyes. “I’ve long been accustomed to surviving, shall we say, less than friendly environments.”
He means to say it as a rejoinder, a pointed response too barbed for Gale to deflect painlessly. But from the way the silence seems to thicken around them, it fails to land the way he intended.
Gods, whatever you do, Astarion imagines saying to Gale, don’t be sincere.
Perhaps his grip on the tadpole isn’t as secure as he’d thought; Gale seems to hear him. He responds as though he does, anyway. Maybe he just knows better.
“I wonder if I should be offended,” he says in a voice too cheery for the circ*mstances, “that Shadowheart took you at your word regarding my health. For all she knew, you could have murdered me in here.”
A change of subject. Astarion breathes again as the tension fades away.
Loosened up with relief, he feels like being playful to steer Gale further off track. A split second to gather himself, and—
“That option is still on the table, darling,” he says sweetly, looking over coquettishly.
The corner of Gale’s mouth twitches upwards. He’s so unpredictable in the way he responds to Astarion’s flirtations. Reluctant amusem*nt seems to have won out this time, but what about next time, or the time after that? Might he ever respond with genuine intrigue?
Astarion wants to know. He has yet to tire of finding out.
“But honestly,” he continues, batting his eyelashes. “Why would I ever put one of my beloved companions in danger? You know I swore not to bite.” Anymore.
Gale tilts his head back and forth in a slight, considering wobble. “You would if it benefited you,” he says with staggering candor. “The only reason you haven’t so far is because we’re of more use to you with our blood on the inside.”
How fascinating that he's willing to completely overlook Astarion’s very real attempt to feed from him not terribly long ago. There's no chance he's forgotten. Not with the stricken look that had twisted his face as his hand clapped against the side of his neck; not with the way he hadn't taken his eyes from Astarion all through that humiliating, desperate explanation as he pled for his life before their rudely awoken companions.
(It was to Gale that the undecided had looked, that night. Toxic blood still slicking his throat, Astarion had hated owing the foul-tasting wizard for his mercy. Hates it still. The owing. The mercy. Either. Both.)
“Of course, mine seems to have a habit of finding its way to the outside, these days,” Gale murmurs.
Ah, there it is. The words are nearly a taunt, coming from him now. Seemingly aimed to prod at Astarion’s sensitive spot, to tempt the hungry beast that lurks barely beneath the surface. The boldness is striking. Astarion can't help but react to it, eyes going half-lidded as his lips curl into an attractive smirk—an instinctive defense against an unknown variable.
Then Gale adds: “If I didn’t taste so poorly, I’m sure you’d be delighted to bite me again. Everyone knows you like me the least.”
Astarion loses track of his place.
What?
It takes him rather more than a moment to process this latest. He forgets to bat his eyelashes or even keep his eyelids prettily lowered, instead staring blankly at Gale. The man has already gone right back to squinting at Astarion’s mangled hand, unconcerned by the blunt statement he just dropped. Like it's common knowledge, even common sense.
“You think I like you the least?” Astarion repeats, entirely without teasing or jeering. Just… asking.
Gale looks up. “Hm? Oh, yes.”
And that’s all. No elaboration. No hard feelings, either, evidently; he's digging in his pack, and Astarion is fairly sure that—yes, he’s gone and found more spare clothing to make Astarion a sling. Despite basically being told earlier to f*ck off.
The persistence should rankle, shouldn’t it? Astarion should feel suffocated beneath Gale’s attentions, as a corpse beneath a grave’s worth of earth. The man has surely heaped enough pity on Astarion to bury him several lifetimes over.
(It's not, though. Pity, that is. As much as Astarion likes to lie to himself. As much as it would make everything simpler.)
Gale thinks Astarion likes him the least?
“Here you are,” Gale says with a satisfied smile. “A serviceable sling, made of a rather nice linen shirt, might I add. Hope you don't mind that it's purple.”
He hands the improvised sling over, and Astarion takes it automatically.
“I should never have let you buy that dye,” he hears himself say.
Astarion doesn't feel trapped at all. It’s more like… some sort of warm, secure feeling wrapped all around him. He can't think of an appropriate simile. He knows nothing similar to draw upon.
He puts the sling on in silence. Gale makes no attempt to offer help, even looking away politely, as though Astarion is baring himself an arm’s length away. It feels like that, almost. Or would, if Astarion still had a normal sense of bodily modesty. Why does this seem so personal?
Shunting aside the mess of emotions crowding his brain, Astarion refocuses on the here and now. The lavender linen is slightly rough where it loops around his neck and cradles his crushed hand. It smells a little like Gale, even over the persistent sting in his nostrils from the spilled blood: something akin to lightning in a bottle. Dangerous, but contained. Untamed yet friendly.
Astarion shakes his head at himself as he adjusts the sling knot. A scent can't be friendly. He must be woozy from the blood fumes taunting his shrunken stomach.
Once Astarion lowers his good hand and straightens, sling in place, Gale turns back and nods approvingly. “Any better?” he asks.
Yes, much. “I suppose.”
He second-guesses his habitual indifference as soon as it leaves his mouth. Would he have given a more appreciative answer to anyone else? Thickly laid on the gratitude, calculated to ensure future assistance where needed? Maybe he's grown too careless with Gale. Maybe that's why supposedly everyone knows he's Astarion's least favorite.
(He's not. Astarion doesn't do favorites. He likes each of his companions equally, which is to say, he doesn't.)
(Right?)
Frustrated by his uncertainty, Astarion searches for a way to regain the upper hand.
“Now that we know Shadowheart isn't about to do it… I suppose a healing spell is too much to ask,” he suggests archly.
The answer is obvious, of course. They've been in here for ages already and the wizard has made no attempt to show off his magic beyond the simple lights. Besides, Gale has waited in line as often as anyone to be tended to by Shadowheart or Halsin after a battle. Clearly he has no great talent for healing.
Still: Astarion wants to know what he sounds like when admitting to such a broad gap in his knowledge. It could be hilarious.
In response, Gale’s mouth twists in a deliberate wince, but the apologetic expression is undercut by his oft-present arrogance.
“This may come as a surprise to you,” he says, leading Astarion to brace for a long-winded reply, “but prior to abduction by mindflayers, the chances of my meeting the sharp end of a blade were rather low. Wound-stitching magic would be wasted on papercuts; restoration squandered on an upset stomach after too much Waterdhavian cheese.”
He pauses to draw breath. The inhale snags partway through as he evidently forgets himself and expands his injured ribs too carelessly. But nothing short of death could stop Gale of Waterdeep from finishing his point.
Perhaps not even death, Astarion thinks with a brief flare of—is that fondness? How utterly horrifying. He hastily attempts to cast it aside, but it seems to stick. Like sh*t to a shoe.
“Time being in short supply for we mere mortals,” Gale manages to continue, unaware of Astarion's internal struggle, “I devoted my own to studying more relevant realms of the Weave. No, I'm afraid my talents lie elsewhere.”
“Gods forbid your talents go unmentioned for five minutes,” Astarion grouses, the snark appearing at his lips effortlessly. He latches onto the distraction of judgment, back on familiar ground. Of course Gale would manage to sound pompous in the face of his own ignorance, while slumped over holding his own blood inside. “And you're one to talk about waste and limited time: a simple ‘Yes, Astarion’ would have sufficed.”
“Duly noted,” Gale says with pointed brevity.
“And disregarded, no doubt.”
With that retort, it's time for a—how did Gale put it? A tactical retreat. Astarion approaches their little verbal spars using a similar strategy as he does physical combat: with deadly precision and without sticking around long enough to get pinned down. He employs words like his needles and daggers; in this field, Gale is a brawler who never seems to tire.
“Well, this has been fun.” Astarion rises smoothly. He instinctively masks how his tired legs complain, not allowing himself to falter. “But I think it's time for one of us to do something productive.”
Gale squints up at him, flicking a hand to raise his dancing lights higher. “Is this the part where you tell me you've had a healing scroll in your pocket this entire time?”
A giggle slips from Astarion without his permission, struck with amusem*nt by the prospect as well as Gale’s acerbic tone. “That does sound like me, doesn't it?” he muses. “But no. I'm going to see if I can find anything useful. A handy alchemist's stash. A way out. Perhaps a cleric.”
Gale nods thoughtfully. “Now that would be a stroke of luck.”
“I don't know if you've noticed, dear,” Astarion says, slowly enough to make the sarcasm ooze like honey. “But we are slightly short on luck these days.”
“Oh, I don't know about that.” Gale sounds frustratingly cheerful, always willing to be optimistic at the worst of times. “We survived abduction and a great fall from the sky; we have yet to sprout tentacles despite the mindflayer infection; and we've managed to accumulate quite the formidable collection of friends who are no doubt toiling away this very moment to get us help. I think we are rather lucky indeed.”
Friends—ha! The very idea.
Astarion crosses his good arm carefully over the sling and throws his weight into one hip: a devastating pose in more visible circ*mstances, but it should do in the dimness as well. “We also were snatched up in the first place; have no idea how to fix our little tadpole problem; and, possibly worst of all, have trapped ourselves in a cave. Together. Honestly, anyone else would be preferable.”
The last bit slipped out without thinking. Astarion hides a wince, then wonders why he felt the need for one at all. Regardless, he may have an idea as to why Gale would say “you like me the least.”
With the hand not pressed against his side, Gale touches his chest while demonstrating a pathetic moue. “I find myself a tad offended. I can think of half a dozen others off the top of my head who should rank lower in even your biased opinion. One in particular.”
Oh. Astarion tries not to outwardly tense. Damn if he didn't set himself up for this. Gale isn't above low-hanging fruit if there's advantage to gain, and the newly exposed nerve that is Cazador surely qualifies as such an opportunity. Blast Raphael for airing his secrets so gleefully.
The thought of being trapped in this dark, cold, echoing chamber with his maste—his sire… Astarion shudders. It doesn't bear considering. He doesn't consider it—but his memories scream and whimper in the back of his mind anyway, reawoken by the slightest hint of the life he lived for so long.
He nearly misses it when Gale finishes his overdramatic complaint.
“Tell me you hate me less than the blood merchant, at least, or I'm afraid my ego may never recover from the blow.”
“The blood merchant?” Astarion repeats dumbly, blinking a few times to refocus his vision on the wizard before him instead of the cool face of his—of Cazador. Then his brain catches up with the words, and his wit kicks back into gear. “Your ego? Damaged?”
“I know, I know.” Gale has his eyes closed, a smile playing about his lips. “Hard to believe. But anything is possible.”
Astarion steals the chance to observe Gale unbothered. The pain is still present in the fine lines of his face and the way he holds his body propped against the wall, but somehow there’s such a softness to his smile. The deep stain of the orb demands attention, yet all Astarion can think of is the depth of his eyes, hidden from sight.
He is undoubtedly a proud man. Yet here is his bared torso, soft and hairy; the orb, his shame, on full display; his woundedness apparent—and here is Astarion, allowed to see it all. Entrusted. How foolish. How enchanting.
Entirely against his will, Astarion finds himself swayed by Gale’s persistent desire to be liked. The neediness is pathetic and embarrassing, yes. But beneath the self-important chatter is a contradictory humbleness that instills something in every overture of fri… allyship. That genuine nature somehow just manages to win out over the annoying parts. Most of the time, anyway. Maybe half the time. If Astarion had to be stuck in a cave with someone, Gale would probably make it to the short list. Somewhere near the top.
Oh, sh*t. He might actually, truly like the man. Oh, f*ck. Oh, no.
“I’m going now,” Astarion says hurriedly. Maybe if he runs fast enough, he’ll find a way to off himself before Gale says anything else.
“Wait!”
No such luck. He keeps going, dead set on thinking about his exploratory mission and nothing else.
“You’ll need these.”
Gently gleaming orbs swarm to him, forming a loose crown around Astarion’s head. They bob along with him as he moves deeper into the cave. He stops, swatting futilely at one of the lights.
“I can see already,” he snaps irritably.
“They’re to keep the shadows away,” Gale explains. “I realize you specialize in going unnoticed—in combat, at least, you’re rather harder to ignore otherwise—but these shadow wraiths need no light to see you with.”
Astarion sets aside the possible compliment to be examined in detail later. More critical are the shadows. Shadowheart had mentioned them. He’d forgotten, too caught up in his unease over being trapped in here. The horrors of his past can’t reach him now, unlike the very real danger of shadow-cursed monsters.
“Fine,” he says uncharitably, sighing. “I’ll take the lights. You can make more, I suppose?”
“I’m not that badly off, you know.”
Astarion turns to look him over, unimpressed gaze lingering on his sprawled position, the makeshift bandage pressed against his side, and finally one last glance at his bared chest—though it’s a bit of a struggle to maintain the stoicism at that final sight. Gale shifts in place, awkwardly trying to pull closed his forgotten, gaping robe.
“If you say so,” Astarion breezes, point made.
He begins to saunter away, then slows to a stop again. Pitch black cave looms ahead down a narrow passageway. Stone above. Stone around. Hidden dangers could leap from any corner.
Gale’s summoned lights dance gently above his head. And Gale’s knotted shirt rubs against the back of his neck. Astarion breathes in, tasting the dust and the tang of Gale’s toxic blood in the air. He’s not entombed. He’s not alone.
(He is glad. To be here with someone. With Gale. Whatever that may mean.)
“A reminder before I go,” Astarion says as lightly as he can, not turning around. “Don't die while I'm gone.”
A quiet chuckle sounds lowly behind him.
“By your phrasing, one might believe I have your permission so long as you're present.”
The corners of Astarion's mouth tilt up in a manner entirely unpracticed. No one can see him, after all. He's allowed a smile that isn't sure what it wants to be.
“Well, since you said it, darling,” he drawls, slipping further into the shadows. “If you must die… I wouldn’t want to miss it.”
He's gone before Gale can respond.
