Gods [he left you two alone for five minutes— don't think he didn't see the look you both had on your faces when he came back from his washroom stint.] what did she say to you.
[Halfway through tugging off his shirt, elaborate jewelry jingling in the second before he lifts his hair, hoisting it high above the nape of his neck (it doesn't matter that they're still in the middle of bickering warfare over what Fenris' duties are or aren't in regards to undressing Astarion after a long day; the sun elf still commits to expectantly waiting to see if and when his bodyguard will act as nursemaid and dourly-irate-lady-in-waiting both), just for fun. Still catching the edge of Fenris' attention through the corner of his mirror, just like that first night.
He's captivated, as today's gone and proved.
That doesn't make him well-behaved.]
Dalyria, I mean. [Violet at least is predictable as taxes. And just as mean.
As for the rest— mysterious reminder included— he'll circle back once he's assessed the damage to his carefully manicured reputation.]
[Coy little brat. Darling little charge that delights in pushing the envelope no matter the context . . . dark eyebrows raise as their gazes catch in the mirror's reflective surface, his expression plainly saying: I know what you're doing. Of course he does. The name of the game was never duplicity; simply how far he can toe the line (any line) on any given day. And though ordinarily Fenris would not give in to those implicit demands . . .
Tonight he rises, crossing the room in two swift strides so that he might come to stand behind Astarion. And unlike that first night, there's no cold indifference in his eyes as he stares down at his charge. He isn't equal parts defensive and indignant, ready to bat this errant cub down for the crime of being so impudent; he doesn't impudently demand to know what his master wants of him, or protest that it isn't his job (though it isn't).
He simply smiles as he peers down at the slender line of a pale neck bared. Then, in one smooth motion, he ducks down, pressing his lips to the nape warmly. Hello, little sun elf. Hello, little brat, his broad hands warm as they slide slowly down the span of a tapered waist.]
That you were sweet.
[His voice a rumble as he kisses him again and again, his lips aimless in their goal. Hello, hello, laying an invisible claim at the crook of his shoulder, along the side of his neck, nosing against his hairline as he keeps up his adoring work. His hands slide forward, arms wrapping sturdily around Astarion's slender frame.]
That you were, mph, doting—
[A grin in his voice, though he does not stop his kisses.]
Adoring— kind and soft and the sort to give all your money away to the destitute—
[And now the (docile) trap is sprung, for his arms tighten their grip, ensuring Astarion can't possibly wriggle away as Fenris teases.]
[Oh stars and Selûne both, he melts into that first kiss with an unexpected (for so many reasons) smile, dark lashes sinking heavily across his eyes just to chase the rise of listless bliss after a long day— ]
Tch— !!
[Before they're snapped open again, prompting a harsh flick of his ears. An irritated snort. A fussy, wriggling push that turns into a flood of rolling aftershocks, all mirrored: dragging, flopping, outright writhing to the tune of his own jewelry in the most undignified fit imaginable— indignant cries of no! no, quit it— quit it, I hate you I loathe you I'll— I'll order you hanged, I will! losing all their spark for the fact that he's grinning (sneering?) like a lunatic, pale fingers latched onto equally pale hair when he reaches back to yank at the only bit of Fenris he's managed to take hold of, barely containing his own ire, let alone amusement.
He isn't even allowed to play with his own brother like this.]
[He was never allowed to play with Varania like this.
Nor any of the other elves, if it came to that. No master wants to see the slave brats squabbling in the dirt like pups; it's distasteful and undignified, and no matter that Tevinter believes elves can't help themselves from such savagery, still. It oughtn't happen in a magister's household. What playmates Fenris had (so long ago he cannot recall their names or their faces, just fleeting impressions of laughter and spite) contented themselves with quieter means of play, scrapping behind wine casks or sharpening their tongues on one another.
He isn't thinking of Danarius now. He isn't thinking of his past and all the horrors contained therein; he isn't thinking of the pain that wracks his body with every breath. He does not think about dignity nor propriety, class or rank; he doesn't think about what might happen if someone were to walk in, or all the ways in which his life would be miserable. For the first time in a long time, Fenris thinks only of the here and now— and the wriggling little beast caught in his arms.
Tevene bursts from his lips as fingers knot in his hair; giddy laughter fills the air as they writhe together, Fenris refusing to release him and Astarion doing his damnedest to get away, until (inevitably) they overbalance and end up tumbling on the carpeted floor with a loud thump. From there it's limbs and hand and tussling, the two of them rolling around on the floor like pups, nipping as they scrabble for purchase, Fenris half-inclined to give Astarion his way just to keep the fight going longer— hands in his hair, hands on his wrists, until at last—
At last, training triumphs over sheer force of will: Astarion pinned on his back, his hands pinned above his hand and Fenris straddling his hips.]
Now, what was that? You'll order me hanged . . .?
[A reckless sort of grin as he arches his back, hips pushing down hard against Astarion's lithe frame. He'll spare them both the obvious joke of being hung, but trust that it flashes through both their minds, for he catches Astarion's eye in silent, amused acknowledgement.]
Little magistrate-in-training, I would love to see you try.
[He would. He really, really would. A breeze drifts through the open window, wafting the curtains gently as he smirks down at him.]
Perhaps it's manners I need to focus on next when it comes to you, hm? How to say please and thank you instead of simply—
Nothing an ordinary person might notice, anyway. Nothing that echoes through the room or makes itself known— and yet still all at once Fenris is on his feet, amusement dissipating as wariness takes its place.]
Stay down.
[He hisses it. His gun has already appeared like magic in his hand, his body angled tight as he inches towards the open window. Not directly at it, no, he's no fool, but from the side, so that he might see whomever waits in the darkness before they see him.]
Do the maids normally keep your windows open?
[Because neither he nor Astarion had left them that way. Fenris waits for a long few moments— and then, quite carefully, reaches for a nearby hand mirror. His foot kicks at the longer mirror at the same time, nudging it this way and that; it takes a tricky few seconds, but soon enough his lyrium glints and glows in the shared reflection. For a moment nothing happens—
— and then all at once glass shatters as two bullets rip through the middle of it, embedding themselves in the far wall. His reflection is scattered among a million pieces of discarded glass; there's a shout from downstairs, a cry of shock—]
Come on—
[No time to fret. No time to focus on others. No time to do anything except roughly grab Astarion and haul him forward, all but slinging him out the door as Fenris rushes behind, expecting to feel pain blossoming between his shoulderblades the entire time— and indeed, there's another noiseless feeling of pressure before a bullet shatters Astarion's perfume bottles; another embeds itself in the oaken door as Fenris slams it shut behind them.
Beneath them, the household is in an uproar: voices are rising in shouts and cries, lights turning on as the noise of gunfire rouses even the most languid of the household. There's shouts for the police; the front door slams open and shut as some of the estate guards rush out, but they won't find anything.]
[And suddenly it's later. Suddenly an hour has passed, though it feels like a day. But the night hasn't ended; the guards have returned empty-handed, bewildered and frustrated. Astarion sits in a corner in his father's office, Talindra wrapping a blanket around his shoulders as she quietly fusses; Fenris stands before Lord Ancunín, trying to resist the urge to rub his face blearily.
Focus.]
They meant to kill me, and, I assume, swarm in afterwards. It was a sniper that was firing . . . a professional, albeit a young one. He left no traces, [he adds at his lord's inquiring look.] He must have waited for hours, but he didn't smoke nor drink. He brought nothing with him that might be left behind: just his weapon. It meant he could flee quickly if the job went badly.
[Imagine purchasing a glorified show dog for your heir apparent just to keep him busy, and the damned thing actually winds up saving his life. It's almost comical, aside from the attempted murder-slash-kidnapping-slash-theft, and despite the fact that Lord Ancunín might consider pleasant silence fair trade (at least according to the young elf glaring at his father from across the room around the borders of Talindra's fussing), even that kind of targeted calumny can't hold water: Astarion's narrowed stare flicks away almost as soon as it sets in, though sharp ears stay tuned-in regardless.
Trading one form of attentiveness for another while everything else plays out.
(And what choice has he ever had, anyway?)
'An assailant with no evidence, no description, and no trace.' Lord Ancunín drawls, closing out Fenris' assessment with one of his own. 'Commendations are in order, Wolf, for catching what my guards could not. Consider a third of your debt repaid.'
Though it comes with the added gauntness of a look designed to work as punctuation for gratitude: any Patriar knows better than to let their rewards come without a warning, lest they recreate the infamous dog-throwing-children-off-of-bridges problem via naïve generosity alone.
'Now,' he starts again from the perch that is the corner of his desk, index finger digging sternly into the underside of his thumb in thought, 'what would be your suggestion as to where we proceed from here?'
It's the police captain stood nearby (tucked inside the corner of the doorway, waiting for acknowledgement thus far), that speaks up first, clearing her throat while her arms fold. It has the added effect of flexing her precinct's distinctive emblem: a blaze-red fist engulfed in distinct flame. 'It would be best to set a detachment outside a secured room while we solve this, with no doors and no windows th— '
The elf's cold glare stops her in her tracks once it slides her way.
His tone isn't much kinder.
'The police did not thwart an assault on my property, Captain Portyr. So I will ask that you forgive my inability to trust in competency without proof. Perhaps when you find this assassin or his allies we might then reopen the matter of what you may or may not do for my estate.'
It isn't a debate or a discussion; already he's returned to meeting Fenris' eye.
[There's so much to remember in moments like these.
The first layer: professionalism. Analysis. Bending all his mind around this mystery, not because it is his duty to solve it, but to prevent it from happening again. Analyzing everything from angles to motivations, vulnerable spots and potential disasters, and he is good at it, insofar as one can be good. The truth is, there's only so many precautions one can take, and it's ever been a struggle to balance between his masters' whims and his own understanding of safety. I will not let them intimidate me into cowardice, I'll go down to the market either way, Danarius' father had said once, and never mind that there were so many potential security threats that it made his head ache. Fenris had slept for ten hours after that trip, cold sweat drenching his clothes and all of him sick with prolonged tension. He gives what advice he can, knowing that there is so much more that cannot be controlled.
The second: safety. Not Astarion's, but his own. Not safety from guns or knives, but from phrases like consider a third of your debt repaid. He keeps his expression stoic even as his head dips down in deferential, silent gratitude: thank you, my lord, and he cannot be too giddy nor too indifferent. Pleased, but not vulgarly so; grateful, but not slavering. That debt can be tacked on as easily as it was erased, and men like his lord can be so fickle when all the dust has settled. They spend too much time ruminating once all the fear and gratitude has faded and find they didn't care for his attitude, or the glint in his eye, or just him in general . . . and so such a reward doesn't last.
And don't ever look smug at the humiliation of another. Don't ever think that just because you're the favorite right now doesn't mean you can't fall from grace. Don't ever look too smug, too arrogant, too happy, too anything, for the whims of the patriar are endlessly fickle, and only a fool thinks he can play his masters forever.
And finally, the third: his own feelings. The little shriek of terror that only began once all the dust settled, the urge to glance over and check on Astarion again and again, the nausea of what might have happened and how close it all came— smother them all. Keep them from ever rising, not just because his feelings are wildly unprofessional, but because this was too close. It's a miracle they weren't discovered; it's a miracle Astarion isn't dead or kidnapped, and he will have to process the shock and relief and grief and anger that backlashes from it. But not yet, little wolf. Not yet. Not until you know you aren't being watched; not until you know that your lord isn't watching you like a hawk for any kind of tell.]
I suspect it will take time to find this assailant, and subsequently, whomever paid him. A saferoom would not be a bad idea to establish, but it is unrealistic to expect Astarion to stay in there until this is resolved.
[And here, now, is why it's a bad idea to get involved with your charges. What he knows will please Astarion and what he knows to be the best way forward are at odds, and it's not that he's in risk of choosing the former . . . but gods, it's hard not to glance over apologetically as he says it.
But he doesn't. Eyes straight ahead, spine rigid, voice flat and steady: he is the picture of professionalism.]
But I would limit external activities to places which are already secure. A club would be a poor idea, but a visit to a friend's house less so, so long as proper precautions were taken. Background checks on local staff wherever he might go, staying out during the daytime instead of venturing out at night . . . and lingering in spaces which are closed off and have more than one exit.
[A pause, and then:]
I would extend those rules to your entire family. Simply because Astarion was the target this time does not mean he is the only one they are interested in. For now, their motivations are unknown, and perhaps they care little which heir they take, so long as they might ransom them. For that matter: their motivations might be utterly unrelated. Professional does not always equate to sane, and there are many people in the world who do not care for motivations so long as they're paid. It may be an attempt at a political stunt, or a twisted attempt to appease a celebrity . . . [Fenris shrugs one shoulder.] Until we have more information, my advice is simply to treat all incidents with due wariness, and linger in safe places as much as possible.
It would've choked less. [Gritted at Fenris from his small corner in an equally small room nearly four hours later— light from a faulty little magitech lantern buzzing at just the right temperature to be grating while it does its best to illuminate his narrow face, his broad ears and tufted mane, all sprouted from the very same blanket Talindra had bundled him in earlier. There's no clock in here (the servant's wing is more emergency-bunkrooms for long shifts than actual live-in apartments aside from the higher ranking staff, but their rooms have windows, washrooms, doors— plural)— and he wasn't ever given the chance to go back for his phone; he doesn't know what time it is. He isn't tired enough to sleep.
Least of all when Fenris' suggestion meant the grand Lord Ancunín immediately agreed....and reassigned Fenris to his own watch instead for the time being, whilst relegating his eldest son to a flock of policing guards and this cramped little excuse for a saferoom instead.
'You'll be assigned to me until this resolves,' he'd said to Fenris. 'the media will have no doubt swarmed like flies, and I cannot risk my duties for the sake of intimidation.'
The rest is in the air. The rest is frustratingly, maddeningly in the air; no one's settling anything in the middle of the night when the lord and lady of the house still have their duties come morning, alongside the raucous addition of a media circus clambering just outside their gates. You are free to do as you like when I am home, directed at their prized guard dog, really just means don't stray too far, and what that means is just....
Astarion's had four hours on his own, and all he's done— in spite of the crispness of his glare now—
[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).]
People go after Patriars all the bloody time— [Fenris bristles, and like a language never spoken, Astarion mirrors it in his own way, tone a monument to jagged barbs.] do you know how many times I've watched someone collapse at a party? Topple over in the street? Hells, I watched Petras drop like a rock to the floor once because of a poison-laced protest from the Lower City dregs.
[And there, just the smallest muttered interlude:]
....come to think of it, it might explain a few things.
[Oh, but jokes and acidity aside, it wasn't ever like this. Brazenly attuned to a closely guarded estate, when for all the world tonight's assailants could've waited. Stayed there biding their time even longer, just like Fenris had said they'd already done. It's not as if he doesn't sleep. Doesn't dream.
The open window. The pause before that overwhelming crack— and he's had hours to ruminate on it all, playing it over and over again until he can finally piece together everything his mind had failed to comprehend in the moment. Noise. Heat. Momentum. Shattered glass.
He honestly thought it was a bomb at first.
Stupid as that feels in hindsight, he did. But once the scenario made sense it somehow became worse— a product of thin numbers: how close had the bullet trailed near Fenris' neck and shoulders? The back of his skull, his ribs— when even glass might've torn into his skin through the thin excuse for modern armor, did anyone at all check him for blood?
Did Fenris check himself?
Is he bleeding now?
Would anyone else care if he was?]
But you?
What am I supposed to do if you're out there and I'm in here, and they start tracking you down? [He's not clutching the blanket like he had been at the start; it hangs heavy and hot— like a wet rag for matching contours— across his narrow shoulders, bare arms pushed across his knees. The lantern buzzing. Buzzing.
(What if he decides he wants to keep you.
Things he should say, thinks of saying, wants to say, fixates on time and time again just like the open window, just like the overwhelming crack, before— )]
[What am I supposed to do if you're out there and I'm in here, and they start tracking you down?
And it stops him short. He nearly replies anyway, his tongue moving faster than his mind, too lost in his mounting anger and tension to think about what either of them are actually saying. It's snarling instinct, a seething desire to bite and tear and release tension: you cannot be so foolish as that, child or not, you cannot think that I had a choice, something short and sharp and cutting. Something patently mean and utterly unfair, and yet all the more satisfying for it.
But his mind doubles back, and suddenly all that anger hits a wall and shatters. His expression melts from a fierce scowl into something more startled, his eyes darting about Astarion's face as he tries to understand.]
What do you mean, track me down? I—
[A breath. A beat. And as tension slowly starts to drain from his body and his clever mind begins to work, he says slowly:]
[Dry. Irritatingly, stubbornly dry— which is saying so much when stubbornness already becomes them out of habit, grousing frown gone taut at all its corners.
(And if it does anything as far as favors go, it's that it balances out the untempered worry in his eyes. His browline. Where it pinches into thin marks smack dab in the middle of his forehead.) Aimed away for barely any real amount of time without an explanation before he's shifting on that bed: knees pushed into that aching cot around one flattened palm to help him twist around, feeling every last spring and metal wire underneath him as he goes, until he's facing Fenris finally— and pulling him back to get a better look at his own guard's spine. His neck. Shoulders, arms— anything, really.
[He says it a little dazedly, the answer falling from his lips as he obediently follows where pale hands direct him. No, of course they haven't; if he isn't bleeding out or nursing a broken bone, what would be the point? Every master knows that. Bruises and cuts are his own to deal with as and when he sees fit; it's why there's more than a few scars etched into the lines of his body. A snarling knot of scar tissue against one thigh; a deep slice along his ribs . . . it adds up over three centuries, no matter how good a bodyguard he is.
Cool hands brush along his spine, his hips, his shoulders, finding nothing but unbroken skin until at last— ah, and he is too well trained to wince as Astarion's fingers finally find crusted blood. Shards of glass had done more work than he realized, slicing deep into his left bicep. His shirt acted as temporary gauze, but a flimsy one; at Astarion's light touch, a jolt of pain runs through him, fresh blood bubbling to the surface as it reopens.
And he'll deal with it, he will, but far more important to him is this conversation. He catches Astarion's hand with his right, stopping him from further inspection, because this is important.]
You were the target, not I, Astarion. And I am not shocked because you care, I simply—
[How to explain that it's nothing to do with Astarion and everything to do with his own life and experiences? How to distill three centuries of casual dismissal into one simple explanation? I did not realize you would fret, I did not think it possible, and it sounds like such a disservice to his charge, but he doesn't mean it that way. Fenris' eyes dart about his face, struggling to come up with the right words, before he finally settles on:]
I did not . . . I am not used to that being a consideration.
[He catches Astarion beneath the chin, tipping his head up so their eyes meet. Softer, then:]
And it was you who were the target. I care little for if you've seen it happen before . . . it is still frightening, no matter that it did not succeed.
In a fraction of a second, Astarion does more than that. Narrow knots inside his chest finally unwinding, right down to the last bit of deadbolt tension, brought down by the compound nightmare of his overturned world meeting the mark of its antithesis.
And in less than that same second— ]
I've no idea.
[A puff of air. A scoff tugged just at the corner.]
Trying not to think about that, actually. [Tone clipped in a willfingly open show of total honesty, managing the effort of keeping his chin held so high that Fenris' hold barely has any resistance or gravity to speak of; he doesn't mind if the one person he trusts in this place actually knows he's not infallible— knows he won't be judged for any of this like the prized idiot he's been treated as— but the thing is he does actually mind that blot of red on his guardian's torn sleeve. The one he only partway saw through the gash in nighttime clothing.
Everything in his silhouette's gone aristocratic in response. Strictly: crisp. Authoritative.
He's not terrible at being a magister, when it's all said and done.]
Hold still. Let me work.
[That said, he's not pulling away from the fingers curled against his chin. There has to be something deliberate in the fact that he only works around them, eyeline dropped.]
[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?
[It will take time— Fenris is right about that. But for now, at the very least, there's a rare (and much-needed) comfort in the unexpected sanctuary of this moment. Forged mostly by the little things, like the subtle shred of fabric under his fingertips, or the fact that once he's pulled the lamp closer he can at least relax at the sight of a wound that's not as bad as he'd expected when he found it. And like being left alone together, too (even if it means knowing he'll have to put up with the opposite: waking up without anyone beside him later, which is a real damned shame considering he'd just started getting used to the idea of not having to be on his own anymore), at least until this whole nightmare gets resolved.
It was nice, while it lasted.
Click go his nails against each other, the little makeup kit left behind by the servant that normally stays here doing better work than his manicure at plucking out shards of abrading glass— but he still has to make sure the pieces don't pop off into space after he's finished catching them, so it's turned into a nominally joined effort on two fronts: picking the fragments free and then carefully maneuvering them onto the nightstand's edge. Clack go the pieces when they finally drop onto the wood, a few of them looking gruesomely big for how deeply they'd been embedded.
After that, comes the scissors, and a freshly uncapped bottle of alcohol for cleaning makeup (the very same kit again) saves the day, using a few cotton eyeshadow pads as gauze through the wrap of disinfected sleeve cloth.
One good soak, and he sets in on cleaning.]
Dalyria. [Astarion almost laughs when he admits it, though he's still fairly grim-faced on principle thanks to the task of daubing up blood. All tight lip lines and an angled stoop across his folded ankle, leaning forward. His eyes aren't as good as they used to be (if they ever were that good when he was a kid, he hasn't any idea, really)— but they're not that bad, either.
And frankly: fuck getting glasses. He refuses.]
She and I— well, mm. [All right, all right:] Mostly her, got him back up on his feet and vomiting using charcoal from the nearby fire. There wasn't much that much poison in his system, so once she mixed it with cold water and forced him to drink it, a handful or so seconds later: out came the rest.
He was lucky he lived at all, but then I suppose that's the way of Petras in general.
[A beat, and then.]
After that, I was mostly just curious. She wasn't terrible to listen prattle on about blood and gauze and whatnot. Kept me from losing my mind from all the usual bleak mundanity, anyway.
[There's something so precariously wonderful about this moment.
He's so aware of it. Even as he basks in it (the tension easing out of his body in ticks, his whole self gently but surely slumping towards his charge), there's a whisper in the back of his mind that urges him to savor this. Memorize it. Remember every detail (the buzz of the lantern irritating to elven ears and the warmth of its glow; the feel of the mattress groaning between their combined weight, ancient springs creaking each time Astarion draws out another sliver of glass). Remember the way it feels to have chilly fingers gently pressed against bare skin, Astarion's expression pinched as he focuses. Remember how it feels to be cared for . . .
And how it feels is, not to put too fine a point on it, good.
Simple and soft and warm in a way Fenris knew once, a long, long time ago. Memories that linger only in whispers and faint sensations . . . his mother's hand stroking through his hair, her scent all around him and her body soft as he curled in close . . . and it's not the same right now. He isn't so soft-eyed as to go doeish, his body still upright and still as he lets Astarion work, but the feeling is there. Warmth blooms in the center of his chest, every soft touch feeling like sunlight dappling on his skin.
Intimacy. That's the word, isn't it? Intimate, to allow Astarion so close. To listen to these stories and know them for the secrets they are, not because the information contained therein is so valuable, but because he knows for a fact Astarion has never told anyone before.]
Clever thing.
[Dalyria, he means, though from the way he stares at Astarion as he works, perhaps he means both. There's a faint smile on his lips, and let them both pretend it's leftover from the derisive little snort he'd made about Petras.]
Is that how you grew close? Trying to escape that bleak mundanity?
[The words fascinate him a little. It isn't that Astarion's never spoken of his frustrations before, but that was limited to his family. If my father didn't put a leash on me, if my brother wasn't such a stuck-up brat, but always there was the assurance that it was internal, not external.
And Fenris won't be a brat about it. He won't scoff over the perceived problems of the rich; he won't sneer that Astarion knows nothing of hardship. He might have a few weeks ago, but . . . things are different now, and he is not so callous as all that. His gaze is softer, his expression more settled as his voice rumbles between them.]
[Maybe yes. Maybe. Maybe. It feels likely if only because what pulls in the back of his throat towards the word yes is just this moment: the culmination of wanting to escape, in every winding facet. First absurd lust, consumptive and recklessly demanding. The dizziness of drug and drink, then anger, spite, conflict—
Then the brush of warm fingers on his neck. The soft smile in the mirror. The way they'd laughed before that fucking gunshot—
Gods.
(Don't think about it. Don't think about it.)
Clink goes another shard of glass against the nightstand. He has to squint (and press, in fact, more than a few times while cleaning) just to make sure there's nothing left hiding in there, merciless as glass can be: the last thing he wants is to leave something in there if it takes days for Fenris to take the time to see a healer. Not that he imagines his father would go that far in selfish pursuit of seeing this mess through to a quick completion, but....well, as tonight more than effectively proves: things happen.]
Never really gave it any thought, to tell you the truth. I mean, I suppose some part of me probably did in the moment, but how much of that was the culprit if we're weighing the naivety of her sincerity and the convenience of having that little circle of hopeless hearts loitering around to lean on....?
Mm.
[Again, the bottle. Again, the frigid press of cloth that bites Astarion's own undamaged fingers.
He can't imagine how it feels for Fenris.]
You were going to tell me about someone before, though. The one Violet reminded you of. [There. Mostly clean. Enough to wrap up, at least, packing it with treated cotton and a makeshift bandage, all tied fastidiously in place, his bloodied nails doing well with fastening those knots.]
And considering there's no windows in this room to be shot through for daring to broach the subject....
[He watches Astarion so closely in those first few moments, struggling to eke meaning out of every breath, every hesitation . . . for there's still so much he doesn't understand. Chalk it up to differences in both country and class; chalk it up to the fact this is the first time in three centuries that Fenris has bothered to think about anyone rich as someone worth understanding.
And in the end, he knows he falls short. There's something lurking in the back of Astarion's mind that he isn't privy to. Later, he'll put it together in canny guess, thinking more of himself again and all they've gone through instead of Dalyria and her keen touch, but for now . . . he takes those words and tucks them away, categorizing them as another piece of the puzzle that makes up his Astarion.
He's quiet as the other elf ties the bandage in place. It's a surprisingly neat job done well, and he full well intends to compliment him on it, startled and all the more impressed for it. He intends to take those blood-stained fingers and return the favor, and indeed, even catches Astarion's hand in his own—
And then there's that question.
Ah.
And the way he freezes and stiffens has nothing to do with Astarion. It isn't a bad question to ask. It's just that the thought of her will always raise his hackles and make him bare his teeth in a snarl; that's just the way of it.]
Hadriana.
[You could blaspheme with less derision. With his free hand, he snags one of those alcohol soaked pads, his mouth tight as he carefully begins wiping at Astarion's fingers. It won't take much to get the blood off, but still, Fenris focuses on his work.]
Do not mistake me: I am no friend of Violet's. But she is what Hadriana wished to be, I suppose you might say. If she had been born here, she would have been one of her hangers-on, I have no doubt, eagerly enacting any of her schemes in the hopes that it might raise her social rank, never once realizing that your friend was merely using her for cheap labor and easy sport. A loyal dog, [and there's a wry, self-loathing little smirk that twists over Fenris' face during those words,] and useful assistant.
She is my former master's assistant. His heir, at least in theory. A spiteful, petty thing, but a useful one. She is a middling mage, clever with technology and magic both, but too low-born to ever accomplish anything without riding the coattails of another. She dreams endlessly of glory she will never have, and she loves my master so very much.
[Blech. He sticks his tongue out for that bit, an immature bit of mockery that's there and gone.]
She competed with me for a long time. Impudent little brat, for I had been part of that family when her mother's mother was still a babe, and we both of us had no reason to think I would not be there long after she passed. And yet she thought she could usurp me when it came to who our master's favorite was. Her ploys were petty and childish, not unlike your friend Violet's social schemes. And I will not say they always failed: they didn't. There were plenty of times when she won, but it never lasted, for she never understood that it was in Danarius' best interests to keep her on a short leash. Better to have a fanatically loyal apprentice than a drunk-on-power mistress that would ruin your favorite toy as soon as she could.
[Beneath the nails next . . . for all that his hands are calloused, he's surprisingly delicate when it comes to washing away the dried blood.]
Now, I suppose, she has all she wanted: I am gone, and he cannot get me back. [Maybe, maybe, the eternal warning of his heart whispering in the back of his mind.] I doubt very much he's raised her up, but I am certain that he's fixated on her in his loss. Likely he's drowning his sorrows with her in his bed while he scours the world for more processed lyrium to forge a replacement for me.
[And it's funny, for he says it so wryly. Pathetic, his tone states, and he shouldn't be so cavalier about the possibility of another going through what he had— but in truth, he isn't. It would horrify him; gods know he's had nightmares over the scenario. But the possibility is so remote, and anyway, his mind is fixated on Hadriana, not Danarius.]
A pity she is in Tevinter. [He glances up at Astarion, his gaze a little lighter.] It would be fascinating to watch you and your pack tear her to bits. Violet alone would make a meal of her, I suspect.
[He stays stock still. Lets his guardian work while he listens— for once, at least— without any amount of fussing on his own end. His left ankle's falling asleep by now, but there's nothing in him that minds the leveled cost of kindness on a night that could suck the notion marrow-dry without expending anything more than what's already played out.
It feels....nice.
Stinging cold and all, it really does feel nice. Right down to the swipe of damp cotton underneath his nail beds, dragging away caked-on grit and powdered glass and blood all at once, and for a little while he realizes he could lose himself in this. The return of their truce, and the settled sense of comfort it provides.
What Fenris talks about: less so.
(Though that brief mockery? Adorable.)]
Either that, or they'd tear each other to shreds from the sound of it. [One smooth scoff forging the segue between one thought to the next.]
Cant say I don't know the type.... [in theory] but being jealous of an enslaved guard d—ian is a new one, even for me. [Whew. Smooth recovery there. Job well done, Astarion.
But gods, fumbled thoughtlessness aside there's still so much more to unpack now than ever before as far as all those monumental revelations go, most of all when they're settled down like this: in absolute silence otherwise. No phones, no interruptions. No worries about listening ears or watching eyes. His bed, Fenris said. Did that mean— was only Hadriana that to Danarius? Was intimacy her sole means of thwarting jealousy (or).... and never mind that generations implies a longer time in service. And while elves are long lived anyway, and Astarion doubts Fenris is older than his father, it still begs the immediate(ly stupid) question:]
[He glances up at that near slip of the tongue, quiet amusement clear in his expression. I heard that, but he won't press it farther than that. Sometimes intent does matter, and Astarion putting in the effort to sheathe his tongue is worth more than perfection in doing so.
Then it's back down to cleaning— only to raise his gaze again, that amusement richer now.]
I was not lying. I told you around three hundred, and I meant it . . .
[Which is true. But they're in a far different place than they were all those weeks and months ago, and this is a far different conversation than a heated alleyway exchange.]
. . . but I cannot tell you more than that. I do not have an exact year, and memories of my past are . . . cloudy at times. Danarius cited it as the result of repeated concussions.
[He shrugs a shoulder. The explanation had made sense at the time, and it was rare enough his master would answer questions as-is.]
I know whom I have served. I remember being recruited to serve Danarius' grandfather, and watching both he and his father grow. [It always happened so fast to his elven eyes, ages and milestones blurring wildly.] And I know, based on their lineage, that I must be at least three hundred. But beyond that . . . I guess, and I keep track as much as I am able.
[And the thing is: he assumes that's what it's like for everyone. Oh, perhaps his memories are a bit more blurred due to head trauma (and never mind he does not make it a habit to wander around with a concussion; never mind that it has been a long time since he's been injured that badly), but surely all long-lived races undergo similar forgetfulness. Not being able to recall a name or a face, not remembering details or when or where or why something happened—
Surely that's how it must be for everyone. Why wouldn't it be? He has no trouble when it comes to day-to-day matters, and what bits of his past he remembers, well. That must be the only significant bits worth mentioning, hm?]
[And not out of suspicion that initial passing mention had been a lie, but because time served isn't exactly life. Because what if there was more beyond that stretch, when everything else seems so brittle according to phrases like memories of my past are cloudy at times. Repeated concussions. (Repeated concussions doing what? Fighting? Training? Being beaten? Punished? Protecting an entire line the way he's stuck doing the same damned thing now, just for a bunch of elves instead?) Stupid, the way Astarion reaches to pull those fringe-heavy bangs out of Fenris' eyes just to squint at him like something might be visible behind autumnal eyes or their housing, but also consider in reverse: he doesn't care. He doesn't care about futility or whether or not he matches its intensity in terms of playing the role of an overinvested idiot—
Maybe there's a crease somewhere. A wrinkle in the right place; a lack of one in another; a memory rattling around in that unsettlingly attractive head. Something waiting to be glimpsed.]
Recruitment could've been a bloody lifetime. Or— mm.
[Pulling back with a scoff, he resituates himself: pulling up off his own now-asleep heel (ow) and wiping rapidly drying fingers on his shirt as he drops back to lay down fully.]
Maybe I haven't got a clue what I'm talking about.
[The bed's so cramped. There's barely any room for laying parallel; Astarion has to wiggle more on his side so he can knock at the empty space beside him in a demand for Fenris to come too.
It's been a long night. He's still loitering at the edge.
Not lately. Not as far as I can ascertain, anyway.
[The bed is cramped and uncomfortable and Fenris doesn't care. They could be lying on the damned floor and he'd still follow where those patting fingers led, squirming and wriggling until he's fitted himself within that small space. Their bodies jostle together, elbows and knees and ankles, and oh, it's been too long a night for this. With a soft grunt of effort Fenris pulls the pale elf towards him, gently urging him into resting half atop him, safely encircled by his arms.
The searching look that Astarion had given him lingers in his mind. There must be something there, but so far as Fenris is concerned, there isn't. They have not divulged everything to one another, but there is nothing he is actively keeping back. And yet there was such concern in those narrowed silver eyes . . . he exhales slowly, long and loud, and doesn't realize how much like a wearied hound he sounds when he does it.]
But in the past few years . . . very little. A day or two here or there . . .
[And it sounds so much more suspicious now that he says it out loud. It's not that he wasn't aware of it before, it's just . . . that was how it was. Always, that was how it was. Danarius never seemed to mind, and the few times Fenris had gotten up the courage to ask, the answer was always the same. You were injured. You were hurt. You practiced too much. You were foolish and clumsy.
His fingers stroke gently through Astarion's hair, a small frown on his face now.]
What did you mean, recruitment could have been a lifetime?
Just— nothing, I don't know. [It's stupid to try and explain it, whatever it even is. Some kind of nagging hunch clawing at the back of his mind, despite the fact that it doesn't even make sense: trying to leap into accusations of magisters abusing magitech for crude experimentation beyond the scars Fenris already has without proof is about as ridiculous as calling them villains.
They're people.
shitty, shitty people.
They don't get the excuse of a narrative; they don't deserve it, besides. What sane person could look at a soft-mouthed hound like this and not value the kindness of his odd, lingering presence. The way he presses in, though gods know it has to ache when he's scraped up and bandaged tight via the most makeshift treatment known to all elfkind.]
Did you....I mean did....erhgh. [He's thinking. He's thinking.] Was it always after something happened? A bad fight? Punishment?
Maybe could get our estate healer to help, once this is all over.
[After all:] It'll be a problem if you wake up with a start one day and don't recognize the people you've been hired to safeguard. I don't think my parents would look all too kindly on that kind of workplace mishap.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
doggish) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
no subject
[Halfway through tugging off his shirt, elaborate jewelry jingling in the second before he lifts his hair, hoisting it high above the nape of his neck (it doesn't matter that they're still in the middle of bickering warfare over what Fenris' duties are or aren't in regards to undressing Astarion after a long day; the sun elf still commits to expectantly waiting to see if and when his bodyguard will act as nursemaid and dourly-irate-lady-in-waiting both), just for fun. Still catching the edge of Fenris' attention through the corner of his mirror, just like that first night.
He's captivated, as today's gone and proved.
That doesn't make him well-behaved.]
Dalyria, I mean. [Violet at least is predictable as taxes. And just as mean.
As for the rest— mysterious reminder included— he'll circle back once he's assessed the damage to his carefully manicured reputation.]
no subject
Tonight he rises, crossing the room in two swift strides so that he might come to stand behind Astarion. And unlike that first night, there's no cold indifference in his eyes as he stares down at his charge. He isn't equal parts defensive and indignant, ready to bat this errant cub down for the crime of being so impudent; he doesn't impudently demand to know what his master wants of him, or protest that it isn't his job (though it isn't).
He simply smiles as he peers down at the slender line of a pale neck bared. Then, in one smooth motion, he ducks down, pressing his lips to the nape warmly. Hello, little sun elf. Hello, little brat, his broad hands warm as they slide slowly down the span of a tapered waist.]
That you were sweet.
[His voice a rumble as he kisses him again and again, his lips aimless in their goal. Hello, hello, laying an invisible claim at the crook of his shoulder, along the side of his neck, nosing against his hairline as he keeps up his adoring work. His hands slide forward, arms wrapping sturdily around Astarion's slender frame.]
That you were, mph, doting—
[A grin in his voice, though he does not stop his kisses.]
Adoring— kind and soft and the sort to give all your money away to the destitute—
[And now the (docile) trap is sprung, for his arms tighten their grip, ensuring Astarion can't possibly wriggle away as Fenris teases.]
Such a caring older brother—
no subject
Tch— !!
[Before they're snapped open again, prompting a harsh flick of his ears. An irritated snort. A fussy, wriggling push that turns into a flood of rolling aftershocks, all mirrored: dragging, flopping, outright writhing to the tune of his own jewelry in the most undignified fit imaginable— indignant cries of no! no, quit it— quit it, I hate you I loathe you I'll— I'll order you hanged, I will! losing all their spark for the fact that he's grinning (sneering?) like a lunatic, pale fingers latched onto equally pale hair when he reaches back to yank at the only bit of Fenris he's managed to take hold of, barely containing his own ire, let alone amusement.
He isn't even allowed to play with his own brother like this.]
1/3
Nor any of the other elves, if it came to that. No master wants to see the slave brats squabbling in the dirt like pups; it's distasteful and undignified, and no matter that Tevinter believes elves can't help themselves from such savagery, still. It oughtn't happen in a magister's household. What playmates Fenris had (so long ago he cannot recall their names or their faces, just fleeting impressions of laughter and spite) contented themselves with quieter means of play, scrapping behind wine casks or sharpening their tongues on one another.
He isn't thinking of Danarius now. He isn't thinking of his past and all the horrors contained therein; he isn't thinking of the pain that wracks his body with every breath. He does not think about dignity nor propriety, class or rank; he doesn't think about what might happen if someone were to walk in, or all the ways in which his life would be miserable. For the first time in a long time, Fenris thinks only of the here and now— and the wriggling little beast caught in his arms.
Tevene bursts from his lips as fingers knot in his hair; giddy laughter fills the air as they writhe together, Fenris refusing to release him and Astarion doing his damnedest to get away, until (inevitably) they overbalance and end up tumbling on the carpeted floor with a loud thump. From there it's limbs and hand and tussling, the two of them rolling around on the floor like pups, nipping as they scrabble for purchase, Fenris half-inclined to give Astarion his way just to keep the fight going longer— hands in his hair, hands on his wrists, until at last—
At last, training triumphs over sheer force of will: Astarion pinned on his back, his hands pinned above his hand and Fenris straddling his hips.]
Now, what was that? You'll order me hanged . . .?
[A reckless sort of grin as he arches his back, hips pushing down hard against Astarion's lithe frame. He'll spare them both the obvious joke of being hung, but trust that it flashes through both their minds, for he catches Astarion's eye in silent, amused acknowledgement.]
Little magistrate-in-training, I would love to see you try.
[He would. He really, really would. A breeze drifts through the open window, wafting the curtains gently as he smirks down at him.]
Perhaps it's manners I need to focus on next when it comes to you, hm? How to say please and thank you instead of simply—
no subject
[And it's nothing.
Nothing an ordinary person might notice, anyway. Nothing that echoes through the room or makes itself known— and yet still all at once Fenris is on his feet, amusement dissipating as wariness takes its place.]
Stay down.
[He hisses it. His gun has already appeared like magic in his hand, his body angled tight as he inches towards the open window. Not directly at it, no, he's no fool, but from the side, so that he might see whomever waits in the darkness before they see him.]
Do the maids normally keep your windows open?
[Because neither he nor Astarion had left them that way. Fenris waits for a long few moments— and then, quite carefully, reaches for a nearby hand mirror. His foot kicks at the longer mirror at the same time, nudging it this way and that; it takes a tricky few seconds, but soon enough his lyrium glints and glows in the shared reflection. For a moment nothing happens—
— and then all at once glass shatters as two bullets rip through the middle of it, embedding themselves in the far wall. His reflection is scattered among a million pieces of discarded glass; there's a shout from downstairs, a cry of shock—]
Come on—
[No time to fret. No time to focus on others. No time to do anything except roughly grab Astarion and haul him forward, all but slinging him out the door as Fenris rushes behind, expecting to feel pain blossoming between his shoulderblades the entire time— and indeed, there's another noiseless feeling of pressure before a bullet shatters Astarion's perfume bottles; another embeds itself in the oaken door as Fenris slams it shut behind them.
Beneath them, the household is in an uproar: voices are rising in shouts and cries, lights turning on as the noise of gunfire rouses even the most languid of the household. There's shouts for the police; the front door slams open and shut as some of the estate guards rush out, but they won't find anything.]
no subject
It was a kidnapping attempt.
[And suddenly it's later. Suddenly an hour has passed, though it feels like a day. But the night hasn't ended; the guards have returned empty-handed, bewildered and frustrated. Astarion sits in a corner in his father's office, Talindra wrapping a blanket around his shoulders as she quietly fusses; Fenris stands before Lord Ancunín, trying to resist the urge to rub his face blearily.
Focus.]
They meant to kill me, and, I assume, swarm in afterwards. It was a sniper that was firing . . . a professional, albeit a young one. He left no traces, [he adds at his lord's inquiring look.] He must have waited for hours, but he didn't smoke nor drink. He brought nothing with him that might be left behind: just his weapon. It meant he could flee quickly if the job went badly.
no subject
Trading one form of attentiveness for another while everything else plays out.
(And what choice has he ever had, anyway?)
'An assailant with no evidence, no description, and no trace.' Lord Ancunín drawls, closing out Fenris' assessment with one of his own. 'Commendations are in order, Wolf, for catching what my guards could not. Consider a third of your debt repaid.'
Though it comes with the added gauntness of a look designed to work as punctuation for gratitude: any Patriar knows better than to let their rewards come without a warning, lest they recreate the infamous dog-throwing-children-off-of-bridges problem via naïve generosity alone.
'Now,' he starts again from the perch that is the corner of his desk, index finger digging sternly into the underside of his thumb in thought, 'what would be your suggestion as to where we proceed from here?'
It's the police captain stood nearby (tucked inside the corner of the doorway, waiting for acknowledgement thus far), that speaks up first, clearing her throat while her arms fold. It has the added effect of flexing her precinct's distinctive emblem: a blaze-red fist engulfed in distinct flame. 'It would be best to set a detachment outside a secured room while we solve this, with no doors and no windows th— '
The elf's cold glare stops her in her tracks once it slides her way.
His tone isn't much kinder.
'The police did not thwart an assault on my property, Captain Portyr. So I will ask that you forgive my inability to trust in competency without proof. Perhaps when you find this assassin or his allies we might then reopen the matter of what you may or may not do for my estate.'
It isn't a debate or a discussion; already he's returned to meeting Fenris' eye.
'Now, then. As you were saying.']
no subject
The first layer: professionalism. Analysis. Bending all his mind around this mystery, not because it is his duty to solve it, but to prevent it from happening again. Analyzing everything from angles to motivations, vulnerable spots and potential disasters, and he is good at it, insofar as one can be good. The truth is, there's only so many precautions one can take, and it's ever been a struggle to balance between his masters' whims and his own understanding of safety. I will not let them intimidate me into cowardice, I'll go down to the market either way, Danarius' father had said once, and never mind that there were so many potential security threats that it made his head ache. Fenris had slept for ten hours after that trip, cold sweat drenching his clothes and all of him sick with prolonged tension. He gives what advice he can, knowing that there is so much more that cannot be controlled.
The second: safety. Not Astarion's, but his own. Not safety from guns or knives, but from phrases like consider a third of your debt repaid. He keeps his expression stoic even as his head dips down in deferential, silent gratitude: thank you, my lord, and he cannot be too giddy nor too indifferent. Pleased, but not vulgarly so; grateful, but not slavering. That debt can be tacked on as easily as it was erased, and men like his lord can be so fickle when all the dust has settled. They spend too much time ruminating once all the fear and gratitude has faded and find they didn't care for his attitude, or the glint in his eye, or just him in general . . . and so such a reward doesn't last.
And don't ever look smug at the humiliation of another. Don't ever think that just because you're the favorite right now doesn't mean you can't fall from grace. Don't ever look too smug, too arrogant, too happy, too anything, for the whims of the patriar are endlessly fickle, and only a fool thinks he can play his masters forever.
And finally, the third: his own feelings. The little shriek of terror that only began once all the dust settled, the urge to glance over and check on Astarion again and again, the nausea of what might have happened and how close it all came— smother them all. Keep them from ever rising, not just because his feelings are wildly unprofessional, but because this was too close. It's a miracle they weren't discovered; it's a miracle Astarion isn't dead or kidnapped, and he will have to process the shock and relief and grief and anger that backlashes from it. But not yet, little wolf. Not yet. Not until you know you aren't being watched; not until you know that your lord isn't watching you like a hawk for any kind of tell.]
I suspect it will take time to find this assailant, and subsequently, whomever paid him. A saferoom would not be a bad idea to establish, but it is unrealistic to expect Astarion to stay in there until this is resolved.
[And here, now, is why it's a bad idea to get involved with your charges. What he knows will please Astarion and what he knows to be the best way forward are at odds, and it's not that he's in risk of choosing the former . . . but gods, it's hard not to glance over apologetically as he says it.
But he doesn't. Eyes straight ahead, spine rigid, voice flat and steady: he is the picture of professionalism.]
But I would limit external activities to places which are already secure. A club would be a poor idea, but a visit to a friend's house less so, so long as proper precautions were taken. Background checks on local staff wherever he might go, staying out during the daytime instead of venturing out at night . . . and lingering in spaces which are closed off and have more than one exit.
[A pause, and then:]
I would extend those rules to your entire family. Simply because Astarion was the target this time does not mean he is the only one they are interested in. For now, their motivations are unknown, and perhaps they care little which heir they take, so long as they might ransom them. For that matter: their motivations might be utterly unrelated. Professional does not always equate to sane, and there are many people in the world who do not care for motivations so long as they're paid. It may be an attempt at a political stunt, or a twisted attempt to appease a celebrity . . . [Fenris shrugs one shoulder.] Until we have more information, my advice is simply to treat all incidents with due wariness, and linger in safe places as much as possible.
no subject
It would've choked less. [Gritted at Fenris from his small corner in an equally small room nearly four hours later— light from a faulty little magitech lantern buzzing at just the right temperature to be grating while it does its best to illuminate his narrow face, his broad ears and tufted mane, all sprouted from the very same blanket Talindra had bundled him in earlier. There's no clock in here (the servant's wing is more emergency-bunkrooms for long shifts than actual live-in apartments aside from the higher ranking staff, but their rooms have windows, washrooms, doors— plural)— and he wasn't ever given the chance to go back for his phone; he doesn't know what time it is. He isn't tired enough to sleep.
Least of all when Fenris' suggestion meant the grand Lord Ancunín immediately agreed....and reassigned Fenris to his own watch instead for the time being, whilst relegating his eldest son to a flock of policing guards and this cramped little excuse for a saferoom instead.
'You'll be assigned to me until this resolves,' he'd said to Fenris. 'the media will have no doubt swarmed like flies, and I cannot risk my duties for the sake of intimidation.'
The rest is in the air. The rest is frustratingly, maddeningly in the air; no one's settling anything in the middle of the night when the lord and lady of the house still have their duties come morning, alongside the raucous addition of a media circus clambering just outside their gates. You are free to do as you like when I am home, directed at their prized guard dog, really just means don't stray too far, and what that means is just....
Astarion's had four hours on his own, and all he's done— in spite of the crispness of his glare now—
Is worry.]
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).]
no subject
[And there, just the smallest muttered interlude:]
....come to think of it, it might explain a few things.
[Oh, but jokes and acidity aside, it wasn't ever like this. Brazenly attuned to a closely guarded estate, when for all the world tonight's assailants could've waited. Stayed there biding their time even longer, just like Fenris had said they'd already done. It's not as if he doesn't sleep. Doesn't dream.
The open window. The pause before that overwhelming crack— and he's had hours to ruminate on it all, playing it over and over again until he can finally piece together everything his mind had failed to comprehend in the moment. Noise. Heat. Momentum. Shattered glass.
He honestly thought it was a bomb at first.
Stupid as that feels in hindsight, he did. But once the scenario made sense it somehow became worse— a product of thin numbers: how close had the bullet trailed near Fenris' neck and shoulders? The back of his skull, his ribs— when even glass might've torn into his skin through the thin excuse for modern armor, did anyone at all check him for blood?
Did Fenris check himself?
Is he bleeding now?
Would anyone else care if he was?]
But you?
What am I supposed to do if you're out there and I'm in here, and they start tracking you down? [He's not clutching the blanket like he had been at the start; it hangs heavy and hot— like a wet rag for matching contours— across his narrow shoulders, bare arms pushed across his knees. The lantern buzzing. Buzzing.
(What if he decides he wants to keep you.
Things he should say, thinks of saying, wants to say, fixates on time and time again just like the open window, just like the overwhelming crack, before— )]
You could've tried harder to stay with me.
[Oh, Astarion....
Not even you believe that.]
no subject
And it stops him short. He nearly replies anyway, his tongue moving faster than his mind, too lost in his mounting anger and tension to think about what either of them are actually saying. It's snarling instinct, a seething desire to bite and tear and release tension: you cannot be so foolish as that, child or not, you cannot think that I had a choice, something short and sharp and cutting. Something patently mean and utterly unfair, and yet all the more satisfying for it.
But his mind doubles back, and suddenly all that anger hits a wall and shatters. His expression melts from a fierce scowl into something more startled, his eyes darting about Astarion's face as he tries to understand.]
What do you mean, track me down? I—
[A breath. A beat. And as tension slowly starts to drain from his body and his clever mind begins to work, he says slowly:]
. . . you were worried for me?
no subject
[Dry. Irritatingly, stubbornly dry— which is saying so much when stubbornness already becomes them out of habit, grousing frown gone taut at all its corners.
(And if it does anything as far as favors go, it's that it balances out the untempered worry in his eyes. His browline. Where it pinches into thin marks smack dab in the middle of his forehead.) Aimed away for barely any real amount of time without an explanation before he's shifting on that bed: knees pushed into that aching cot around one flattened palm to help him twist around, feeling every last spring and metal wire underneath him as he goes, until he's facing Fenris finally— and pulling him back to get a better look at his own guard's spine. His neck. Shoulders, arms— anything, really.
One agitated puff signaling his intent.]
Has anyone even looked you over yet?
no subject
[He says it a little dazedly, the answer falling from his lips as he obediently follows where pale hands direct him. No, of course they haven't; if he isn't bleeding out or nursing a broken bone, what would be the point? Every master knows that. Bruises and cuts are his own to deal with as and when he sees fit; it's why there's more than a few scars etched into the lines of his body. A snarling knot of scar tissue against one thigh; a deep slice along his ribs . . . it adds up over three centuries, no matter how good a bodyguard he is.
Cool hands brush along his spine, his hips, his shoulders, finding nothing but unbroken skin until at last— ah, and he is too well trained to wince as Astarion's fingers finally find crusted blood. Shards of glass had done more work than he realized, slicing deep into his left bicep. His shirt acted as temporary gauze, but a flimsy one; at Astarion's light touch, a jolt of pain runs through him, fresh blood bubbling to the surface as it reopens.
And he'll deal with it, he will, but far more important to him is this conversation. He catches Astarion's hand with his right, stopping him from further inspection, because this is important.]
You were the target, not I, Astarion. And I am not shocked because you care, I simply—
[How to explain that it's nothing to do with Astarion and everything to do with his own life and experiences? How to distill three centuries of casual dismissal into one simple explanation? I did not realize you would fret, I did not think it possible, and it sounds like such a disservice to his charge, but he doesn't mean it that way. Fenris' eyes dart about his face, struggling to come up with the right words, before he finally settles on:]
I did not . . . I am not used to that being a consideration.
[He catches Astarion beneath the chin, tipping his head up so their eyes meet. Softer, then:]
And it was you who were the target. I care little for if you've seen it happen before . . . it is still frightening, no matter that it did not succeed.
Are you all right?
no subject
In a fraction of a second, Astarion does more than that. Narrow knots inside his chest finally unwinding, right down to the last bit of deadbolt tension, brought down by the compound nightmare of his overturned world meeting the mark of its antithesis.
And in less than that same second— ]
I've no idea.
[A puff of air. A scoff tugged just at the corner.]
Trying not to think about that, actually. [Tone clipped in a willfingly open show of total honesty, managing the effort of keeping his chin held so high that Fenris' hold barely has any resistance or gravity to speak of; he doesn't mind if the one person he trusts in this place actually knows he's not infallible— knows he won't be judged for any of this like the prized idiot he's been treated as— but the thing is he does actually mind that blot of red on his guardian's torn sleeve. The one he only partway saw through the gash in nighttime clothing.
Everything in his silhouette's gone aristocratic in response. Strictly: crisp. Authoritative.
He's not terrible at being a magister, when it's all said and done.]
Hold still. Let me work.
[That said, he's not pulling away from the fingers curled against his chin. There has to be something deliberate in the fact that he only works around them, eyeline dropped.]
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?
no subject
It was nice, while it lasted.
Click go his nails against each other, the little makeup kit left behind by the servant that normally stays here doing better work than his manicure at plucking out shards of abrading glass— but he still has to make sure the pieces don't pop off into space after he's finished catching them, so it's turned into a nominally joined effort on two fronts: picking the fragments free and then carefully maneuvering them onto the nightstand's edge. Clack go the pieces when they finally drop onto the wood, a few of them looking gruesomely big for how deeply they'd been embedded.
After that, comes the scissors, and a freshly uncapped bottle of alcohol for cleaning makeup (the very same kit again) saves the day, using a few cotton eyeshadow pads as gauze through the wrap of disinfected sleeve cloth.
One good soak, and he sets in on cleaning.]
Dalyria. [Astarion almost laughs when he admits it, though he's still fairly grim-faced on principle thanks to the task of daubing up blood. All tight lip lines and an angled stoop across his folded ankle, leaning forward. His eyes aren't as good as they used to be (if they ever were that good when he was a kid, he hasn't any idea, really)— but they're not that bad, either.
And frankly: fuck getting glasses. He refuses.]
She and I— well, mm. [All right, all right:] Mostly her, got him back up on his feet and vomiting using charcoal from the nearby fire. There wasn't much that much poison in his system, so once she mixed it with cold water and forced him to drink it, a handful or so seconds later: out came the rest.
He was lucky he lived at all, but then I suppose that's the way of Petras in general.
[A beat, and then.]
After that, I was mostly just curious. She wasn't terrible to listen prattle on about blood and gauze and whatnot. Kept me from losing my mind from all the usual bleak mundanity, anyway.
no subject
He's so aware of it. Even as he basks in it (the tension easing out of his body in ticks, his whole self gently but surely slumping towards his charge), there's a whisper in the back of his mind that urges him to savor this. Memorize it. Remember every detail (the buzz of the lantern irritating to elven ears and the warmth of its glow; the feel of the mattress groaning between their combined weight, ancient springs creaking each time Astarion draws out another sliver of glass). Remember the way it feels to have chilly fingers gently pressed against bare skin, Astarion's expression pinched as he focuses. Remember how it feels to be cared for . . .
And how it feels is, not to put too fine a point on it, good.
Simple and soft and warm in a way Fenris knew once, a long, long time ago. Memories that linger only in whispers and faint sensations . . . his mother's hand stroking through his hair, her scent all around him and her body soft as he curled in close . . . and it's not the same right now. He isn't so soft-eyed as to go doeish, his body still upright and still as he lets Astarion work, but the feeling is there. Warmth blooms in the center of his chest, every soft touch feeling like sunlight dappling on his skin.
Intimacy. That's the word, isn't it? Intimate, to allow Astarion so close. To listen to these stories and know them for the secrets they are, not because the information contained therein is so valuable, but because he knows for a fact Astarion has never told anyone before.]
Clever thing.
[Dalyria, he means, though from the way he stares at Astarion as he works, perhaps he means both. There's a faint smile on his lips, and let them both pretend it's leftover from the derisive little snort he'd made about Petras.]
Is that how you grew close? Trying to escape that bleak mundanity?
[The words fascinate him a little. It isn't that Astarion's never spoken of his frustrations before, but that was limited to his family. If my father didn't put a leash on me, if my brother wasn't such a stuck-up brat, but always there was the assurance that it was internal, not external.
And Fenris won't be a brat about it. He won't scoff over the perceived problems of the rich; he won't sneer that Astarion knows nothing of hardship. He might have a few weeks ago, but . . . things are different now, and he is not so callous as all that. His gaze is softer, his expression more settled as his voice rumbles between them.]
no subject
[Maybe yes. Maybe. Maybe. It feels likely if only because what pulls in the back of his throat towards the word yes is just this moment: the culmination of wanting to escape, in every winding facet. First absurd lust, consumptive and recklessly demanding. The dizziness of drug and drink, then anger, spite, conflict—
Then the brush of warm fingers on his neck. The soft smile in the mirror. The way they'd laughed before that fucking gunshot—
Gods.
(Don't think about it. Don't think about it.)
Clink goes another shard of glass against the nightstand. He has to squint (and press, in fact, more than a few times while cleaning) just to make sure there's nothing left hiding in there, merciless as glass can be: the last thing he wants is to leave something in there if it takes days for Fenris to take the time to see a healer. Not that he imagines his father would go that far in selfish pursuit of seeing this mess through to a quick completion, but....well, as tonight more than effectively proves: things happen.]
Never really gave it any thought, to tell you the truth. I mean, I suppose some part of me probably did in the moment, but how much of that was the culprit if we're weighing the naivety of her sincerity and the convenience of having that little circle of hopeless hearts loitering around to lean on....?
Mm.
[Again, the bottle. Again, the frigid press of cloth that bites Astarion's own undamaged fingers.
He can't imagine how it feels for Fenris.]
You were going to tell me about someone before, though. The one Violet reminded you of. [There. Mostly clean. Enough to wrap up, at least, packing it with treated cotton and a makeshift bandage, all tied fastidiously in place, his bloodied nails doing well with fastening those knots.]
And considering there's no windows in this room to be shot through for daring to broach the subject....
I want to hear about her.
no subject
And in the end, he knows he falls short. There's something lurking in the back of Astarion's mind that he isn't privy to. Later, he'll put it together in canny guess, thinking more of himself again and all they've gone through instead of Dalyria and her keen touch, but for now . . . he takes those words and tucks them away, categorizing them as another piece of the puzzle that makes up his Astarion.
He's quiet as the other elf ties the bandage in place. It's a surprisingly neat job done well, and he full well intends to compliment him on it, startled and all the more impressed for it. He intends to take those blood-stained fingers and return the favor, and indeed, even catches Astarion's hand in his own—
And then there's that question.
Ah.
And the way he freezes and stiffens has nothing to do with Astarion. It isn't a bad question to ask. It's just that the thought of her will always raise his hackles and make him bare his teeth in a snarl; that's just the way of it.]
Hadriana.
[You could blaspheme with less derision. With his free hand, he snags one of those alcohol soaked pads, his mouth tight as he carefully begins wiping at Astarion's fingers. It won't take much to get the blood off, but still, Fenris focuses on his work.]
Do not mistake me: I am no friend of Violet's. But she is what Hadriana wished to be, I suppose you might say. If she had been born here, she would have been one of her hangers-on, I have no doubt, eagerly enacting any of her schemes in the hopes that it might raise her social rank, never once realizing that your friend was merely using her for cheap labor and easy sport. A loyal dog, [and there's a wry, self-loathing little smirk that twists over Fenris' face during those words,] and useful assistant.
She is my former master's assistant. His heir, at least in theory. A spiteful, petty thing, but a useful one. She is a middling mage, clever with technology and magic both, but too low-born to ever accomplish anything without riding the coattails of another. She dreams endlessly of glory she will never have, and she loves my master so very much.
[Blech. He sticks his tongue out for that bit, an immature bit of mockery that's there and gone.]
She competed with me for a long time. Impudent little brat, for I had been part of that family when her mother's mother was still a babe, and we both of us had no reason to think I would not be there long after she passed. And yet she thought she could usurp me when it came to who our master's favorite was. Her ploys were petty and childish, not unlike your friend Violet's social schemes. And I will not say they always failed: they didn't. There were plenty of times when she won, but it never lasted, for she never understood that it was in Danarius' best interests to keep her on a short leash. Better to have a fanatically loyal apprentice than a drunk-on-power mistress that would ruin your favorite toy as soon as she could.
[Beneath the nails next . . . for all that his hands are calloused, he's surprisingly delicate when it comes to washing away the dried blood.]
Now, I suppose, she has all she wanted: I am gone, and he cannot get me back. [Maybe, maybe, the eternal warning of his heart whispering in the back of his mind.] I doubt very much he's raised her up, but I am certain that he's fixated on her in his loss. Likely he's drowning his sorrows with her in his bed while he scours the world for more processed lyrium to forge a replacement for me.
[And it's funny, for he says it so wryly. Pathetic, his tone states, and he shouldn't be so cavalier about the possibility of another going through what he had— but in truth, he isn't. It would horrify him; gods know he's had nightmares over the scenario. But the possibility is so remote, and anyway, his mind is fixated on Hadriana, not Danarius.]
A pity she is in Tevinter. [He glances up at Astarion, his gaze a little lighter.] It would be fascinating to watch you and your pack tear her to bits. Violet alone would make a meal of her, I suspect.
no subject
It feels....nice.
Stinging cold and all, it really does feel nice. Right down to the swipe of damp cotton underneath his nail beds, dragging away caked-on grit and powdered glass and blood all at once, and for a little while he realizes he could lose himself in this. The return of their truce, and the settled sense of comfort it provides.
What Fenris talks about: less so.
(Though that brief mockery? Adorable.)]
Either that, or they'd tear each other to shreds from the sound of it. [One smooth scoff forging the segue between one thought to the next.]
Cant say I don't know the type.... [in theory] but being jealous of an enslaved guard d—ian is a new one, even for me. [Whew. Smooth recovery there. Job well done, Astarion.
But gods, fumbled thoughtlessness aside there's still so much more to unpack now than ever before as far as all those monumental revelations go, most of all when they're settled down like this: in absolute silence otherwise. No phones, no interruptions. No worries about listening ears or watching eyes. His bed, Fenris said. Did that mean— was only Hadriana that to Danarius? Was intimacy her sole means of thwarting jealousy (or).... and never mind that generations implies a longer time in service. And while elves are long lived anyway, and Astarion doubts Fenris is older than his father, it still begs the immediate(ly stupid) question:]
How old are you really, anyway?
no subject
Then it's back down to cleaning— only to raise his gaze again, that amusement richer now.]
I was not lying. I told you around three hundred, and I meant it . . .
[Which is true. But they're in a far different place than they were all those weeks and months ago, and this is a far different conversation than a heated alleyway exchange.]
. . . but I cannot tell you more than that. I do not have an exact year, and memories of my past are . . . cloudy at times. Danarius cited it as the result of repeated concussions.
[He shrugs a shoulder. The explanation had made sense at the time, and it was rare enough his master would answer questions as-is.]
I know whom I have served. I remember being recruited to serve Danarius' grandfather, and watching both he and his father grow. [It always happened so fast to his elven eyes, ages and milestones blurring wildly.] And I know, based on their lineage, that I must be at least three hundred. But beyond that . . . I guess, and I keep track as much as I am able.
[And the thing is: he assumes that's what it's like for everyone. Oh, perhaps his memories are a bit more blurred due to head trauma (and never mind he does not make it a habit to wander around with a concussion; never mind that it has been a long time since he's been injured that badly), but surely all long-lived races undergo similar forgetfulness. Not being able to recall a name or a face, not remembering details or when or where or why something happened—
Surely that's how it must be for everyone. Why wouldn't it be? He has no trouble when it comes to day-to-day matters, and what bits of his past he remembers, well. That must be the only significant bits worth mentioning, hm?]
Is that older or younger than you expected?
no subject
[And not out of suspicion that initial passing mention had been a lie, but because time served isn't exactly life. Because what if there was more beyond that stretch, when everything else seems so brittle according to phrases like memories of my past are cloudy at times. Repeated concussions. (Repeated concussions doing what? Fighting? Training? Being beaten? Punished? Protecting an entire line the way he's stuck doing the same damned thing now, just for a bunch of elves instead?) Stupid, the way Astarion reaches to pull those fringe-heavy bangs out of Fenris' eyes just to squint at him like something might be visible behind autumnal eyes or their housing, but also consider in reverse: he doesn't care. He doesn't care about futility or whether or not he matches its intensity in terms of playing the role of an overinvested idiot—
Maybe there's a crease somewhere. A wrinkle in the right place; a lack of one in another; a memory rattling around in that unsettlingly attractive head. Something waiting to be glimpsed.]
Recruitment could've been a bloody lifetime. Or— mm.
[Pulling back with a scoff, he resituates himself: pulling up off his own now-asleep heel (ow) and wiping rapidly drying fingers on his shirt as he drops back to lay down fully.]
Maybe I haven't got a clue what I'm talking about.
[The bed's so cramped. There's barely any room for laying parallel; Astarion has to wiggle more on his side so he can knock at the empty space beside him in a demand for Fenris to come too.
It's been a long night. He's still loitering at the edge.
Come here.]
....do you often struggle with memory issues?
Aside from the past, I mean.
no subject
[The bed is cramped and uncomfortable and Fenris doesn't care. They could be lying on the damned floor and he'd still follow where those patting fingers led, squirming and wriggling until he's fitted himself within that small space. Their bodies jostle together, elbows and knees and ankles, and oh, it's been too long a night for this. With a soft grunt of effort Fenris pulls the pale elf towards him, gently urging him into resting half atop him, safely encircled by his arms.
The searching look that Astarion had given him lingers in his mind. There must be something there, but so far as Fenris is concerned, there isn't. They have not divulged everything to one another, but there is nothing he is actively keeping back. And yet there was such concern in those narrowed silver eyes . . . he exhales slowly, long and loud, and doesn't realize how much like a wearied hound he sounds when he does it.]
But in the past few years . . . very little. A day or two here or there . . .
[And it sounds so much more suspicious now that he says it out loud. It's not that he wasn't aware of it before, it's just . . . that was how it was. Always, that was how it was. Danarius never seemed to mind, and the few times Fenris had gotten up the courage to ask, the answer was always the same. You were injured. You were hurt. You practiced too much. You were foolish and clumsy.
His fingers stroke gently through Astarion's hair, a small frown on his face now.]
What did you mean, recruitment could have been a lifetime?
no subject
They're people.
shitty, shitty people.
They don't get the excuse of a narrative; they don't deserve it, besides. What sane person could look at a soft-mouthed hound like this and not value the kindness of his odd, lingering presence. The way he presses in, though gods know it has to ache when he's scraped up and bandaged tight via the most makeshift treatment known to all elfkind.]
Did you....I mean did....erhgh. [He's thinking. He's thinking.] Was it always after something happened? A bad fight? Punishment?
Maybe could get our estate healer to help, once this is all over.
[After all:] It'll be a problem if you wake up with a start one day and don't recognize the people you've been hired to safeguard. I don't think my parents would look all too kindly on that kind of workplace mishap.
[I don't want you to forget me.]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)