[It's the first moment he's had to exhale since all this began.
The past few hours have been a whirlwind of shifting priorities: orders given and factors considered, his opinion consulted again and again even as his leash is dragged steadily behind Lord Ancunín's lithe form. Phone calls are made; security arrives, and right on its heels the press. It isn't long before his lord and his lady retire to bed, but still Fenris has more to do, and all the while his mind is torn in two. He struggles to keep his focus on the task at hand, reminding himself again and again that worrying won't do a thing, but he can't help it.
His thoughts stray to Astarion.
But perhaps worried isn't the right word. He does not fear for his life nor his safety, not now, for he knows in his heart that there will be no second attack. Instead: call it fretting, maybe. His mind inevitably dragged towards Astarion, and take your pick as to where his thoughts stray: to how terrified he must have been when that first shot fired. How new he is to violence and danger (the bright shine of his eyes the day Fenris had taken him to the gun range, his expression so sweetly baffled, the way he'd postured and posed taken straight out of a music video). How close they'd both come to that bullet ripping through him, and oh, gods, how he would have screamed as the crimson puddled beneath him, and how helpless Fenris would feel, hands hot with blood and all of him silently begging don't die don't die—
Pause. Reset. And try again.
Four hours, and only now, as he closes the door behind him and sees Astarion in the wan light, does he exhale.
There you are . . . only to be met with that snapped out tone and crisp stare.
And he doesn't understand. Not yet. Not when they are still so new at this; not when he is still half-feral, hyperaware of changes in tone and mood and yet utterly baffled when it comes to reading soft subtleties. To Fenris' mind, all he sees and hears is the same hostility that came the first night— and oh, it's not such a hard puzzle to solve, not when you take a step back, but he's exhausted.]
What would you have had me do?
[Impudent thing, for he still crosses the room, sitting heavily on Astarion's bed.]
Allow you free reign and hope the next bullet also misses? Tell your father not to worry, for my track record at keeping people alive has only a small margin of error?
[Oh, his temper is rising, and that's never a good thing. It's not the tone, it's not the glare— it's just that the nauseatingly terrified rush of the past four hours is beginning to hit, and all he can think of is Astarion with a hole in his head and those pretty silver eyes blank—
(And maybe, too, he does not understand because he is not used to anyone caring about what happens to him).]
no subject
The past few hours have been a whirlwind of shifting priorities: orders given and factors considered, his opinion consulted again and again even as his leash is dragged steadily behind Lord Ancunín's lithe form. Phone calls are made; security arrives, and right on its heels the press. It isn't long before his lord and his lady retire to bed, but still Fenris has more to do, and all the while his mind is torn in two. He struggles to keep his focus on the task at hand, reminding himself again and again that worrying won't do a thing, but he can't help it.
His thoughts stray to Astarion.
But perhaps worried isn't the right word. He does not fear for his life nor his safety, not now, for he knows in his heart that there will be no second attack. Instead: call it fretting, maybe. His mind inevitably dragged towards Astarion, and take your pick as to where his thoughts stray: to how terrified he must have been when that first shot fired. How new he is to violence and danger (the bright shine of his eyes the day Fenris had taken him to the gun range, his expression so sweetly baffled, the way he'd postured and posed taken straight out of a music video). How close they'd both come to that bullet ripping through him, and oh, gods, how he would have screamed as the crimson puddled beneath him, and how helpless Fenris would feel, hands hot with blood and all of him silently begging don't die don't die—
Pause. Reset. And try again.
Four hours, and only now, as he closes the door behind him and sees Astarion in the wan light, does he exhale.
There you are . . . only to be met with that snapped out tone and crisp stare.
And he doesn't understand. Not yet. Not when they are still so new at this; not when he is still half-feral, hyperaware of changes in tone and mood and yet utterly baffled when it comes to reading soft subtleties. To Fenris' mind, all he sees and hears is the same hostility that came the first night— and oh, it's not such a hard puzzle to solve, not when you take a step back, but he's exhausted.]
What would you have had me do?
[Impudent thing, for he still crosses the room, sitting heavily on Astarion's bed.]
Allow you free reign and hope the next bullet also misses? Tell your father not to worry, for my track record at keeping people alive has only a small margin of error?
[Oh, his temper is rising, and that's never a good thing. It's not the tone, it's not the glare— it's just that the nauseatingly terrified rush of the past four hours is beginning to hit, and all he can think of is Astarion with a hole in his head and those pretty silver eyes blank—
(And maybe, too, he does not understand because he is not used to anyone caring about what happens to him).]