[You should, he thinks as he watches Astarion work. His eyes drift over the fixed way his eyes are set upon his work, his mouth a thin line and his hands busy, and knows it will be only a matter of time before the other penny drops. He's seen it happen too many times— gods, he can still remember going through it himself. Not once or twice, but over and over until at last he'd gone numb to the horror and terror that such a violent life brought.
It will take an hour, or a day. Maybe even a few days— but when all is said and done, there will be a moment when it hits. There will be a hairline crack in those crumbling defenses, and rushing forward will be the shuddering stark shock ready to consume him.
But when it does (if it does, for Fenris does not know all about what Astarion has experienced), Fenris will be there.
And in the meantime: it's good he's melted beneath Fenris' hand. That release of tension will serve in the longrun— and honestly, there's something immensely soothing about watching some of the pain in his charge's frame ease. He tugs his fingers back only so he can run a calloused palm along the side of Astarion's neck, his thumb smoothing over his pulse. From there, it drifts down his shoulder, palming gently at his chest (and if Fenris takes solace in the steady pulse of a beating heart, so be it). It's a meaningless pattern, an endless press that only means: I'm here, I'm here.
He does it because he cares. Because he can read the tension in that clipped tone; because he knows too well what it's like to reel in nauseated shock. Because the lithe figure beside him is the only person who has ever given a damn about what happened to him in the aftermath—
And perhaps, too, he does it out of fear. If Astarion's tone is his displacement mechanism, then call this Fenris' last defense against facing the truth of the situation.
I care about you. I care about what happens to you. I worry for you. What am I supposed to do if you're out there and I'm in here, and they start tracking you down? And it isn't that he thought Astarion so callous; it isn't that he doesn't understand why his ward wants to fuss over him. It isn't even that he's opposed, it's just—
It's new.
And he cannot help but flinch against it, no matter how much he has longed for such a thing.
But nor will he squander this moment. With a soft, deflated exhale Fenris settles, letting Astarion rip away dead fabric. His wound oozes blood steadily now; the gash itself is a large thing, deep and ugly. It won't need stitches, but it will need tending.
And there's something a little lovely about it: the soft sounds of Astarion working, his fingers deft as they gently pry at unbroken skin and muscle. The gentle puffs of exhaled air against Fenris' skin, and the look of fierce concentration as his charge dotes upon him.]
Do they teach tending wounds in law school?
[He murmurs it after a time, his eyes peeking up from beneath his lashes.]
Or was that simply something you picked up after Petras was poisoned?
no subject
It will take an hour, or a day. Maybe even a few days— but when all is said and done, there will be a moment when it hits. There will be a hairline crack in those crumbling defenses, and rushing forward will be the shuddering stark shock ready to consume him.
But when it does (if it does, for Fenris does not know all about what Astarion has experienced), Fenris will be there.
And in the meantime: it's good he's melted beneath Fenris' hand. That release of tension will serve in the longrun— and honestly, there's something immensely soothing about watching some of the pain in his charge's frame ease. He tugs his fingers back only so he can run a calloused palm along the side of Astarion's neck, his thumb smoothing over his pulse. From there, it drifts down his shoulder, palming gently at his chest (and if Fenris takes solace in the steady pulse of a beating heart, so be it). It's a meaningless pattern, an endless press that only means: I'm here, I'm here.
He does it because he cares. Because he can read the tension in that clipped tone; because he knows too well what it's like to reel in nauseated shock. Because the lithe figure beside him is the only person who has ever given a damn about what happened to him in the aftermath—
And perhaps, too, he does it out of fear. If Astarion's tone is his displacement mechanism, then call this Fenris' last defense against facing the truth of the situation.
I care about you. I care about what happens to you. I worry for you. What am I supposed to do if you're out there and I'm in here, and they start tracking you down? And it isn't that he thought Astarion so callous; it isn't that he doesn't understand why his ward wants to fuss over him. It isn't even that he's opposed, it's just—
It's new.
And he cannot help but flinch against it, no matter how much he has longed for such a thing.
But nor will he squander this moment. With a soft, deflated exhale Fenris settles, letting Astarion rip away dead fabric. His wound oozes blood steadily now; the gash itself is a large thing, deep and ugly. It won't need stitches, but it will need tending.
And there's something a little lovely about it: the soft sounds of Astarion working, his fingers deft as they gently pry at unbroken skin and muscle. The gentle puffs of exhaled air against Fenris' skin, and the look of fierce concentration as his charge dotes upon him.]
Do they teach tending wounds in law school?
[He murmurs it after a time, his eyes peeking up from beneath his lashes.]
Or was that simply something you picked up after Petras was poisoned?