[He doesn't look as Astarion strips. It isn't that he's avoiding staring, exactly, for that's just as bad as if he'd gawked. He will not be stuttering, stammering prey for his newest object of protection, a virginal elf who blushes at the thought of bare skin— but then again, nor will he give him the satisfaction of any kind of glance.

(And if he thinks, just a little, about how Astarion might look splayed up against the mirror dressing in nothing but those glittering earcuffs and gold bangles, well. Only he need know about it: a lustful thought there and gone.)

No, Fenris busies himself instead: pulling a chair from a nearby desk and settling it by the doorway. It's a stiff-backed thing made of stained oak, but at least the cushions are softly plush. It won't be the worst way he's spent a night, Fenris thinks, and settles himself down as best he can. His hands pat gently at his hips, feeling for the assuring weight of his knives; he draws one leg up, back arching in anticipation of inevitable stiffness.

And slowly, inevitably, he becomes aware of that pointed stare.]

I am not telling you a bedtime story, if that is what you are waiting for.

[It's dry. Fenris glances over, catching Astarion's gaze.]

Do you wish me to bid you good night, or merely promise you that I will not let anything hurt you? The latter I can vow. The former . . .

[He offers a one-shouldered shrug. It's been known to happen.]