faderift | [CLOSED] You hate my bad behavior

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[CLOSED] You hate my bad behavior

WHO: Astarion, Loki, Emet-Selch, Dante, possibly others etc
WHAT: catch all for doing some Good for the Cause
WHEN: somewhere around the week following Satinalia party 2.0
WHERE: various
NOTES: violence, brief gore (noted in the specific subject line)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

By default, Dante is hyper aware of his surroundings and knowing where Astarion is at all times is calculated into his spatial awareness. The fact that his battle partner is at his back makes it easier to keep it in his mind where he is, it also helps that Astarion doesn't shamble about like a puppet ready to fall to pieces.

"Why would anyone have it out for us..." Dante growled skewering a few corpses like a kebab on his spear before slamming them back and forth against their undead brethren. Their lifeless bodies went flying into the side of the plateau or rolling down the hill taking out a few that were hobbling up the incline, "...didn't anyone tell them we're good people..."

He punctuated by kicking the flailing bodies off his spear and letting it revert back into a sword. All the better to lob off heads, head lobbing was pretty effective, but there were so many of them and while Dante could keep up this momentum for a while, he was concerned about Astarion. He was protecting his back, but he also had to get in closer to attack.

"...what do you think the odds are that we're the most...alive creatures within pissing distance?"

Was what Dante wanted to think anyway, undead drawn to warmth and life didn't seem too far to reach.

"You holding up?" Dante said kicking a handful of corpses back so he could hack at them one at a time as they lunged for them.

“A necromancer? An apostate in need of a few new— bodies—” He grunts, busy with his own (substantially less flashy) work: plucking up stragglers, keeping distance with the occasional retreat towards Dante's flank any time pressing out too far proved more risky than fortuitous.

Over half a year in Thedas, and he isn't the fledgling killer he'd been before on arrival, stumbling through the Fade in desperate need of protection, practically adhered to Fenris' side for everything he himself lacked (and everything that marked elf possessed in spades). His dagger sinks in deep between calcified ribs, ichor pouring down its length. It does the favor of distracting him from the resentment of remembering a muted expression of pride etched across an otherwise dour face.

Something they'd drank to, after surviving the wastes.

Bone snaps beneath his hands.

“Maybe someone possessed. Or an ancient, utterly resentful spirit.” Those, at least, this world seems to have in spades. “And besides, didn’t anyone ever tell you? Good people always die first.”

Still, this is exhausting work. Possibly divine payback for his opting to abstain from Riftwatch's most recent attack. The herd is thinning, the bodies dredging themselves up from nearby bog beds lessening, but he's only a vampire spawn. Barely even that, anymore. After cutting down his own share, he's shifted more to a defensive position; branching out far less overall.

“I’m fine,” he snaps, panting through his teeth by the thinnest amount before adding all too quickly, “there, at the edge of the water— a demon— ”

Gesture offhanded quite literally, as he's forced to drag one of his twin blades loose from the nearest clawing corpse to motion towards the muddied mire where a sickly green glow is only just visible against the brush, no doubt fully submerged beneath the surface.

And besides, didn’t anyone ever tell you? Good people always die first.

"Maybe," Dante said, the shrug could be heard in the sound of his voice in lieu of his ability to gesture. He was otherwise preoccupied with putting as many of the undead back into the dirt as he could manage before they could be overwhelmed, "but not today!"

Even though it felt like they were making progress he could sense Astarion was wearing thin retreating closer to Dante who moved to bat some incoming corpses away from him. He wasn't entirely sure if there was a touch of resentment there, he understood it having experimented enough to know what coming here had taken from him. How it had leased and minimized his own abilities and how it created consequences for the use of his power.

To someone who'd been able to fight freely and with all of his skill for most of his life, considering the consequences was a hard pill to swallow. Not being able to do more when he was used to doing things that were impossible slapped harder than he thought it would. He was a doer and a loner, waiting and following leads was never his specialty and not being able to have a go at their primary enemy was certainly a frustration the boiled in the pit of his stomach somewhere.

He kept it in check, but that didn't mean he couldn't understand the frustration.

Having the demon pointed out to him Dante refocused his attention to the edge of the water where he could see what Astarion was talking about. What leapt out of the green glow was a spindly, disjointed creature, its face distorted by large mandibles, a whiplike tail lashing about it, its mouth appeared to be a gaping hole stretching to its neck, and from here Dante could not count the creature's eyes.

On the face of it the demon was quite terrifying and Dante could only assume that this demon was the source of their current situation, "the sake's head, huh?"

The momentary distraction had cost him and he felt the sting of an arrow pierce his right shoulder, the timing was good, at least on behalf of the demon that promptly disappeared and then reappeared, springing up between himself and Astarion. It threw out of the way, disengaging him from his partner in the process, probably the purpose. Stunned for a moment Dante stretched his hand out realizing the Sparda Sword had also been separated from him in the attack.

That wasn't his immediate concern, however, when he could roll himself out of the mud, he took stock of their situation. A demon now in their midst was enough chaos to allow the Undead leverage over them, leverage they didn't have when Astarion was at his back.

"Astarion!"

Where the hell was he?

A blinding burst of nauseating green light and then—

Gone.

No shock of white hair visible amongst a miserable backdrop, no coy commentary amidst the groaning din. Sharp as Astarion’s senses are, he’d lost his footing in the initial, disorienting snap of that creature’s relocation, and sprawled out atop rain-slicked grass his eyeline is a mess of looming figures— all made worse by that emaciated, eye encrusted creature, twisting snakelike towards him. The whispering he hears isn’t Dante’s, but it does, so easily eclipse whatever call might otherwise catch his attention.

Fear is a wicked thing. Astarion might as well be perpetually poisoned with it for everything he’s kept from his own world. Everything he’s learned from this one—

But the remarkable thing about knowledge is that it makes even the most wretched nightmares thinner at the seams: he knows what this demon is. What it preys on. Recognizes its face from countless pressed pages back in the Gallows’ study. It isn’t a calming realization— it just gives him enough bitter animosity to willfully force those whispers aside the moment overgrown claws come crashing down.

He darts sideways. Rolls to his heels into what’s left of the gathered undead, the literal definition of dodging a rock to fit himself into an unforgivably hard place. There, at least, he can see Dante’s distinct weapon laid out in the muck. Somewhere beyond it, far over the thorny span of that monster’s shoulder, Dante himself.

His mind is made up by the time the undead take hold of him. It stays on that decisive path when he lunges forward, pulling against their hold to let the weighty leather of that borrowed coat slide off completely in the same breath, dislodging him entirely from an otherwise damning grasp. He has to be swift. Shapeless. And he is, springing ahead in a serpentine pattern that might stand as a testament to former vampiric prowess, not yet forgotten. Silent as death, toes over heels, even across clinging mud, until he’s snatched that sword up and—

strewth

Spindly claws have wound their way around his ankle like an anchor, yanking him back against his own momentum and leaving him flat against the earth, all the air lost from his lungs on impact alone: ungraceful, chest-first.

He levers himself up with gloved hands, pulling that sword back, and heaving it towards Dante with as much force as he can muster.

There's a cacophony of activity spiraling around them in the dark, dead bodies possessed by demons descending on them was enough to deal with without throwing a demon who could dart in and out of his line of vision into the mix. Between throwing corpses off of him and defending himself with his fists and well-aimed kicks and dodging blades and arrows in the process, he could barely make out the scuffle taking place elsewhere. Still, Astarion managed to catch his eye and now that Dante knew his location, he could fight his way in that direction, shouldering off corpses, ignoring their weapons to the best of his own ability when it came to pain.

He managed to pull himself away from the discordant bramble of limbs growling and screeching at them just in time to catch the Sparda and for one brief moment his mind returned to a different fight. One of similar circumstances, where a woman with his mother's face threw this same sword to him before she was swallowed up...and Dante hadn't been able to do a damned thing to save her from Urizen, from Vergil. Snapping back to the present moment it was Astarion's face he was seeing and determined not to relive that same miserable moment he decided to access his Devil Trigger, regardless of the consequences.

It wrapped Dante in a swirl of light that was both fire and the void, an entirely different creature assimilating him and emerging and it was difficult to tell if this new beast was some brand of demon or dragon or both or neither. His inky black skin was protected by an armor of scales, with bursts of molten red coruscating beneath the cracks, like the flow of basaltic lava. His hands and feet ended in claws, and even his face was unrecognizable with blazing eyes gazing out of it and bared teeth now two rows of fangs, not the same playful impishness that was Dante.

Spreading his wings aggressively Dante threw back the remaining corpses still trying to clamor for his attention. This was followed by a a swift swing from the Sparda, now eliciting flames, and when the fire ignited one corpse it seemed to hop to the next. Dante didn't pay it much attention, it was the best thing for them really, and he had more important things to worry about.

While he couldn't technically use his wings to fly, Dante could glide and hover, plus they gave him the leverage he needed to launch himself between the demon and corpses looming over Astarion before they could start tearing into him. Pulling his companion up from the mud he wrapped his left arm and a leathery armored wing around him. It was the safest place Dante could think of right now especially given the limit he had on using this power. Beneath the ferocity of this form, the chainmail of scales, there was a strong scent of blood and a sese that this new form was actually hurting the man underneath it.

It was. So, with the speed granted to him by this place he put several yards between themselves, the demon, and the corpses wanting only to draw out the demon--something that would be easier to dispatch and would deal with their overall problem.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, not looking down at Astarion, but addressing him while keeping his eyes peeled for the telltale signs of green that meant the demon was about to strike. The voice that came out of him wasn't even recognizable, it was something harder, mechanical, it lacked much of the warmth Dante usually spoke with.

There he is at last.

The scent Astarion had picked up before when they'd first met. The strange ripple of a visual flicker present in low firelight, now fully bared beneath him where he clings to the unexpected pattern of jagged scaling rather than skin, or cloth, or—

Anything recognizable, really.

But it’s him, all the same.

“Not to worry, I wasn’t about to let something so unforgivably hideous do me in.” It slips free as something near to a breathy chuckle in the shadow of that wing's curling span, barring the worst of the battle from his own field of view. “Though I’ll be honest, playing the handsome hero is normally my role.”

On the heels of Astarion's voice comes yet another faint bloom of preemptive green, crawling towards Dante's inhuman silhouette. One second of warning. One moment to react before they'll no doubt face a reprise of all earlier chaos.

"Atta boy," Dante responded in kind, glad to hear that Astarion's indomitable spirit was alive and well and not crushed by their current circumstances. A clawed hand came to rest on his head briefly, a gesture of appreciation for that spirit before freeing it up for the attack that was certainly forthcoming, "you'll get to be the handsome hero the next time we play this game, I promise."

That voice that was so far from anything human, that sounded like words being growled instead of spoken belied the humor that was clearly intended for Astarion's sake. As much humor as he could muster given their current state of affairs. For the most part his gaze was fixed, all of his senses seemed to be attuned for where the creature might approach from. Judging by its behavior patterns and its strategy for thinning the heard, separating Astarion from his side, Dante wasn't taken by surprise when the sickly green light of the Fade betrayed its position.

Beneath them.

The hand on Astarion's head curled around his waist as he quickly sidestepped the attack, coming face-to-face with the demon when it sprung up from beneath their feet. The Sparda in hand quickly shifted from blade to spear and ha rammed it right into the maw of the demon, the bony spines gripping the creature, holding it in place while allowing the spear to shift once more into a sword. Splitting the demon's head in half was the goal, but Dante didn't stop there, he swung the sword downward, splitting it in half and with a few more strikes bisected it across the middle and diagonally. There was little time to make any kind of sport of it and he wanted to make sure the creature was dead.

At least he hoped the creature would die, they would be truly out of their depth if it could survive this.

Thankfully for everyone present, despite being a particularly tenacious terror demon, it's no fear demon. No pristinely manifested form of festering, calcified fright made real. And close as they are to one another, it's more than easy to blot out any attempts the creature's presence might make to draw upon old memories— all of it blotted out by the weight of a clawed hand pressed tight against his side.

The sword splinters gnarled, twisted flesh as it slams to muddied earth, boring in for all the force expended. Within moments, their once-adversary burns away like ash, unravelling as though the Fade's magic is entirely spent and done. The air is clearer, the shambling undead— either unshackled or simply having sunk back into menial hibernation in the muck— are so thinned as to be nonexistent in the wake of Dante's prior attack. Even the rain's stopped, though to be fair, it'd stopped hours ago; Astarion's just keenly aware of it now.

"Well." He exhales, catching his own breath by way of it now that everything seems to be coming down. "That's one way to wake up."

Not the best way, but certainly one way.

A wave of relief washed over Dante as the horde of undead seemed to melt back into the earth as though they'd never been. So, the demon was the epicenter of the disruption and taking it out had been the right call after all. Good, because he couldn't maintain his Devil Trigger much longer and feeling somewhat reassured at this point, he dropped the transformation.

He'd only used his Devil Trigger in distant, isolated training just to see what he could do here and it was a punishing experience. He was fighting for his own footing now doing his level best not to put his weight down on Astarion, but finding it unavoidable not to lean on him a little bit. Once he'd relinquished his power, he felt his entire body sag, he couldn't see it but his skin was ashen, the color drained from the amount of blood required to fuel the ability.

That was new.

There were unprovoked cuts all over his body and each one percolating with his blood, power in exchange for pain. Power for a price.

Vergil would hate it...granted Dante wasn't having much fun to be entirely fair. He was also dealing with an arrowhead lodged in his shoulder and anticipating the good time he'd have digging that out unless he could sweettalk Astarion into doing it for him. Something to sort out later. Immediate-to-soon, or before he passed out completely.

"Yeah?" Dante said, the lingering visteges of humor on the edge of his voice as he looked at Astarion the a curtain of silver hair matted to his face, "I love a good wake-up bitch slap, it's kinky."

Jutting contours melt away into battered skin and tacky fabric, and where Dante tries to keep from dropping his weight entirely against Astarion, Astarion himself is more than content to reach high and drag the wearied man forward, using that shift as a means to wrap his arm beneath Dante's own around the curvature of his back, shouldering the whole of his exhaustion.

He is, if nothing else, shockingly strong.

Their footsteps back inside are slow, Astarion's voice uniquely light.

"I somehow doubt that demon shared your affinity. A shame." Mild, almost distractingly so— which might very well be the point, given the care shown when he helps Dante ease down onto the bedroll he'd abandoned earlier.

"You two might've made a cute couple."

When drawn in to use Astarion as a crutch, Dante didn't fight it, it was foreign to be the one leaning on someone else and it's been a long time since he's had to rely on anyone in this way. Going with it He curls an arm around Astarion's shoulders as they hobble their way back to the shanty and while he doesn't deliberately bear down on his companion, he's still surprised that Astarion could shoulder him all the way...but thinking back on it he'd picked up the Sparda and lobbed it in Dante's direction and he hld his own in close combat for an impressive amount of time.

Astarion was deceptively strong, and Dante was, decidedly, impressed.

"My disappointment is immeasurable, and my day is ruined. First the mop, then ass-face, my love life is cursed," Dante attempted to match the tone of the conversation but his voice was strained, and every gesture took monumental effort, even though he was being guided. Laying down, however, was something he did easily enough finally releasing his sword and letting it fall to the floor with a thud.

Now that he was still the injuries were more vibrant to him than they were when his adrenaline was still pumping through him and he was more concerned about their survival, but it brough him back to the arrow. His transformation had snapped the body of it off and left the head inside of his shoulder. It wouldn't heal effectively if left alone, "ah...speaking of kinky, I need to ask a favor...well guess there's no way to gracefully ask someone to go digging around their injuries to pull out an arrowhead. Do you mind?"

He's so graceful.

"Well. Since you asked nicely." Astarion gently huffs, a breathy noise only vaguely related to something of a laugh. He's busy looking over those injuries with his eyes as much as his own hands, noting the deepest, the most likely to fester before they have a chance to mend naturally by way of Dante's own regeneration, or a visit to a healer.

At last he settles on the gash in Dante's shoulder, studying it for a lengthy, drawn-out beat.

And then he pulls out one of his own glassy daggers, tucking it between sharp teeth while plucking up the alcohol from the night before, still half-laid on its side by cooling embers: the blade's washed first, bathed in a splash of spirits until its edge is clear and slick. The fact that he opts to straddle Dante is a practical choice, despite— well, despite Astarion being precisely who he is.

Without a roaring fire, the house is dark, even to Astarion's hawkish eyes. The more leverage he has, the more access to the wound, the clearer his line of sight, the better this will go.

More importantly, the less painful it will be overall.

The blade hovers in midair as Astarion leans in, voice almost thready when he asks, "Should I get you something to bite down on, darling?"

Dante watched Astarion set about working a mixture of curiosity and appreciation etched into a face that clearly wanted little more than to fall asleep knowing there was still work to be done. He knew Astarion wasn't a healer, but he seemed to have some idea of what he was doing, more than Dante anyway who simply would have gone ham with a knife until he managed to dig the thing out. If the injury had been in a better place, somewhere he could actually see what he was doing, he might have done it. Probably best all-around that this was a shoulder wound, and it was Astarion's clever fingers doing the work rather than his own shovel hands.

When Astarion straddles him, Dante didn't think anything of it, who he is or what that entailed has very little bearing on the favor that's being done for the half-demon currently. It might not be a big deal but taking someone's help especially when he's injured is a huge ask for Dante and while the view is nothing to complain about the service being granted to him is worthy of the respect it is owed.

When the subject of biting down on something came up, Dante considered that for a moment, it was probably a good idea, better than potentially biting down on his tongue...always a possibility.

"Pretty please?" Hey, he's asking nicely, but he's also looking around for something that would be suitable his eyes dropping to his waist. Belt, he has one of those, it's not currently buckled so he moves with his uninjured side to attempt to yank it free, "this should work, right?"

“So long as you don’t somehow have the natural jaw strength of a dire tiger.” Astarion murmurs absently, not bothering to look as Dante does what he has to for the sake of precaution; he’s still studying the injury, relieved it hasn’t begun closing yet.

It’d only make this worse, after all.

Blade flat against the outer edge of the wound, Astarion uses it as a guideline to sink the flattened tip of his dagger in deep, waiting until he feels harsh weight scrape along its side when shifting it, rather than the open give of flesh. Blood wells, strong enough to dilate his eyes on instinct—

But he doesn’t need it anymore. The lack of craving doing wonders to keep the whole of him focused on the task at hand.

His mind stays clear when he twists the knife, forcing an opening broad enough for his own fingertips to slip just inside, easily catching the brittle end of that arrow— and pulling it free with a single, fluid motion. Yanking against the grain to keep it from slipping.

He only exhales when it’s done. When he can set to work flushing the wound with a dash more alcohol, cloth quickly pressed down to stem any livid bleeding in the aftermath.

“There— it’s over. You’re all right.”

The way he says it, it isn’t teasing. Or joking. Just...low. Sincere, as much as it is hushed.

"Well, I like this belt so let's hope not," and because he liked it that Dante folded it with the interior of the belt taking the belt taking the damage should his bite become aggressive. It was pain, he's endured worse, but he's also not as durable as he once was, he felt closer to his humanity that way, but it did have its disadvantages.

Fortunately for the both of them this place was inconsistent when it came to his healing factor, small injuries Dante noticed could mend quite easily, multiple small injuries took longer to heal, and he suspected that the worse the injury was the longer it would take to heal. The shoulder injury compounded with other small injuries and the penalty of his Devil Trigger had taken its toll on Dante's ability to heal himself.

He would require more time than he had when they experimented with the knife in the tavern.

He inhaled, trying to keep his breathing even, telling himself he needed nothing more than to endure it, that it was pain and pain would pass, that there were worse things. That didn't stop him from throwing his head back and unleashing his displeasure in howl that was choked by the belt he was bearing down on. Blood quickly became mingled with sweat as the moments ticked down too slowly for Dante's liking even though he knew Astarion was doing his best. It took every ounce of what he had left not to move a single muscle even though raw nerves and exposed tissue were searing from the incision of the blade.

It was hardly more pleasant when Astarion's fingers penetrated his shoulder to retrieve the arrowhead eliciting another noise that was part shock and something very raw and guttural. There was a mild sensation of relief when it was over only to feel the shock of pain once again as the wound was cleaned with alcohol. If he'd been burned worse by anything else in his life, he had no memory of it but apparently, he was too exhausted from fighting, pain, and the struggle not to move a muscle that his only protestation was a tired groan while Astarion administered the final touches.

Finally, it's just breathing, slow breathing, body collapsed and muscles finally loosening now that he could move without causing more damage. He looked up at Astarion blinking owlishly as if trying to clear the fog brought on by the livewire of pain.

"Thank you," his voice is hoarse and brittle, but he manages enough strength to find it, and enough strength to reach up and smooth Astarion's hair out of his face before letting his hand drop back to his side, "and if I forget to tell you later, you're first-class."

He's punch-drunk for sure, but he can manage the compliment before unconsciousness overwhelms him, Astarion's earned that much.

Rough fingers brush the curls from his face, pressing them aside with care, and Astarion in turn...freezes. Goes utterly still in the seconds between its start and Dante's own withdrawal, red eyes gone slightly wide, as though waiting for something to sour. Or sharpen. Or—

Funny, that for all his wicked games when it comes to touch and teasing, it's those genuine offerings that overwhelm.

But once refocused, binding the wound is a tedious process, particularly with the supplies they have on hand. Sparing, to say the least; the mission was meant to be far simpler a thing in theory than in practice, and once Dante slips away into slumber, Astarion finishes the lengthier process of wrapping it— alongside any other deeper injuries— before rising to (first) retrieve Dante’s battered jacket from where he’d been forced to shed it in the fight, pressing on in search of that lost cargo.

When he finds it, he wastes no time in sinking it deep into the mire by force, rescuing only a few scraps of recognizably patterned cloth beforehand (and ensuring they’re dirtied enough to be rendered nigh unusable).

It doesn’t feel as satisfying as he’d hoped, his sabotage. And not because it comes easily. Just—

He doesn’t know.

It can’t be guilt, but maybe— maybe just a touch of something bordering on thinking it a shame that Dante had fought so hard for something he’s now decisively undone. But the world is cruel, and life is unfair, and if nothing else they’ve slain the demon plaguing this stretch, acquiring proof of effort in the process. It’s not as if they’ll be going home empty-handed, after all.

When he returns, he tucks the ruined fabric within their pack, and lays Dante’s coat overtop of him. A stand in for a blanket when they have none.

Like so much else, it’s not the worst substitute.

The disbelief on his companion's face is the last thing etched into mind before Dante slips into unconsciousness. He's out before Astarion even begins dressing his wounds, his body slipping into full recovery mode, sleep being the greatest healer but also the most time consuming. For Astarion that was likely a blessing in disguise, it would give him all the time he needed to sink the cargo and then some.

Blissfully unaware, he wouldn't know what to mage of the sabotage if it was a factor in his mind, considering they'd come all this way for it together. Sticking it to the man? Upset that their lives had been endangered because of some paltry items they'd only be getting scraps off of? The reality was that Dante could sympathize with the sentiment and a part of him ached at Astarion being out here so close to getting hurt because of his own stubborn and competitive nature. Dante's self-awareness was the reason he often worked alone, he didn't even like the thought of bringing Trish or Lady with him on missions and they were the most badass women he knew.

He cared too much, and he'd lost to much in front of his own eyes to put himself through it.

Fortunately, his thoughts were plagued by nothing, just emptiness a black void of nothing for an extended period of time that the half-demon couldn't even begin to wonder at. It was probably the best kind of healing sleep, within hours the smaller injuries had closed, stitching themselves back together as though they'd never been there. Like perfectly polished alabaster, impervious and untouchable. The deeper wounds took much longer to heal, was he there for a day, was he there longer, he didn't know, but when he finally opened his eyes those injuries, while not completely healed, were raw and pink and still ached.

It was enough to move, to stretch his arms and scrub his face and finally roll himself up into a sitting position. He wasn't fully aware of where he was, if he was alone or not, he was aware of the weight of his jacket falling into his lap, the heavy, well-worn material as faithful to him as it had ever been, "damn...how long have I been out..."

Spoken mostly to himself.

“Long enough that I had to check to make sure you weren’t dead on more than one occasion.” Astarion hums with a mellow sort of cheer. The kind that chases an exceedingly long day— or in this case, a particularly long stretch of them.

From where he’s settled at Dante’s side, Astarion lifts one hand to pat gently along the midpoint of that coat where it rests across his ribs. Good morning.

Well. Good morning despite the hour, which— between a lit fire and the dismal blanketing of pitch-dark rain outside, seems to indicate it’s the dead of night.

“Feeling better?”

It was Dante's turn to be surprised, that Astarion had kept watch over him for this long, that he'd stayed was really more than anyone could ask. It's more than what Dante would have asked, there were a dozen other things Astarion could have done that didn't involve tending to a temporarily comatose Dante.

"My hero. I'd be lost without you," it was meant to be playful, but the reality of it wasn't too far off. There was appreciation there as well and an understanding that Astarion must have been on guard and doing the lion's share of the work to tend to the fire and make sure they weren't disturbed by anything untoward.

"Much better and all I needed was a nap," hooking an arm around Astarion's shoulder he dragged him in for a playful head nudge before pulling back with a pat to the shoulder that expressed his gratitude, "I owe you one."

Of course, how he'd repay the debt was another question entirely and one he could square up another day.

"Have you slept at all; you look a little beat?"

That grasp (and its accompanying rough-edged, affectionate scuff) earns a faint hiss from Astarion, who wasn’t ever really built for such adoring, teasing engagements— though it’s all bark and no literal bite, given that he doesn’t do anything more than huff and snarl. Quick to bloom, quicker to vanish.

“You do owe me,” he presses, the words easily mistaken for humor if it wasn’t Astarion himself breathing them.

Astarion, who’d been aided at a detrimental cost by the man at his side not one full day prior. Astarion, who just finished sabotaging those efforts without so much as a moment of hesitation.

And still, he tries to level the scales in his favor.

“But you’re right. I spent most of my time scouting for our missing cargo while you were out, trusting that with the threat removed you’d be more than safe.”

He reaches for the pack nearby, pulling out those patches of tattered cloth, and offering them to his own companion.

“...I’m afraid this is all that was left.”

Unfortunately for Astarion, Dante's playful affections were on the roughhousing side, something that tends to happen when growing up with a brother he'd spent most of his formative years playfighting with. A gentle head butting and a light cuffing around the shoulder was tender compared to what he'd grown up with, but it took time for Dante to learn his own strength and he managed it well when playing with others.

"Whatever you want," Dante began, pausing thoughtfully to consider before adding an addendum, "within reason."

He left it open, but not too open, even Dante's ability to redeem on favors was limited especially if satisfaction was meant to be immediate. Why he felt the need to owe anyone anything was something deeply rooted into his conscience and his own peculiar code of honor. If he felt a debt was great enough then there was never really an end to the repayment maybe it was a flaw on his part, but he didn't see it that way as long as he had what he needed then he wanted very little else.

When the subject shifted to their objective Dante took the tattered cloth from Astarion, turning it over in his hands. His expression was unfathomable and for several moments he just looked at the cloth as though it had any capacity to tell him anything, it didn't, so he just exhaled, it was a dispirited sound verging on just a touch of frustration.

"All that for nothing huh?" He moved from his spot to stand his coat pooling on the floor along with anything else not attached to him. As for the fabric, he dropped it unceremoniously onto the pack, "well I guess there's nothing for it, is what it is."

He grabbed his shirt it was still hanging near the fire, warm, and stuffed himself into it heedless of his own state, but there didn't seem to be any pain. He couldn't quite look at Astarion, not for the moment anyway, the guilt he felt for being out here and the danger Astarion had been in etching its way into the trusty old Dante conscience.

Once he was mostly put together, he wound his way back to his companion, snatching up his coat to wrap around the other man he managed to half-way find his gaze, "we'll leave in the morning so get some rest."

“Not going back to sleep?” He asks, studying Dante’s silhouette as it slips beneath the surface of his shirt.

As the man refuses to face him directly, even as that coat settles heavily across his shoulders. So deliberate a choice, that Astarion can’t stop the rise of welling—

Something.

Something he can’t quite place.

"Heh not sure I could sleep anymore even if I wanted to," Dante did sit back down scooting up against a wall for support, it seemed stable enough, "besides, it's your turn to take a break and my turn to keep watch."

More than true considering Astarion offered to keep watch first beore the storm of undead, granted he dozed off but that didn't change the fact. Coupled with him doing more than his share of work when Dante had been out of commission. That didn't include tending to his injuries and finding the cargo or lack thereof.

"Hey," he gave Astarion a gentle nudge, "I'm not going anywhere so if you want...well I'm not exactly pillowy, but it's better than nothing."

Dante was offering his uninjured side to Astarion if he wanted to rest against something that wasn't the tarped floor.

It'll keep him here, he thinks. The first notion that comes slithering to mind in the moments between Dante's offer and the subsequent nudge that chases it. Because if Dante decides to press further out into the mire, inhuman as he is, Astarion wonders if there might be some trace to be picked up on. The supplies would still be ruined of course, but what of scent? Footprints? What if, despite the ease of his entire appearance, he managed to unravel Astarion's act?

Disappointment, maybe. Or...nothing. At times there seems to be so little capable of fazing him.

Still, though, the thought twists in the back of Astarion's skull, uncomfortable. He doesn't want it, the possibility of transparency in this deception, tame or not.

So he sinks without hesitation into that offer, winding near and close like a wounded animal seeking out warmth. Comfort. Heavy in his posture, arms curling around Dante's own, fingers twisting in thin fabric. A slow, docile descent into rest, anchored by contact. The scent of lilac oil clinging just as much.

"You'll do just fine," Astarion promises, his eyes shut. Breathing slowed with each passing second.

"So long as you stay."

Making room as Astarion curled up at his side Dante took note of all of the things he already knew about him but stood out in stark contrast anyway Dante ran warmer than normal and Astarion naturally ran a bit cooler than most. It was probably due to the riddle of his being, but the half-demon was no less inclined to bundle him closer anyway. He detected the scent of something floral, though Dante was not up to specs on his ability to scent out different kinds of flora. This amused him for a few moments because how this scent could still cling to him after everything else...well it wasn't a complain...it was almost soothing.

"I promise, I'm not going anywhere," he murmured as Astarion began drifting off and while he might have been mildly curious about the site of the cargo, it wasn't enough to break his promise or to leave Astarion without his protection. True they defeated a demon prowling the area and there'd been no corpses shambling about sense, but it was also about repaying Astarion for taking care of his injuries and for the danger he'd been in. So here he remained wide awake and still entertaining his thoughts with every bit of vampire lore, both good and bad, he could think of while every now and then reaching over to stoke the fire or checking on Astarion.

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cw: gross injury stuff

cw: we love to see it!

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