[I don’t deal in charity, is what he opens his mouth to snap wryly back, when—
When, what? It’s such a whirlwind, that shift. Or it will be when he recalls it later, wondering what actually happened versus the snippets of absolute nothing that Astarion recalls (less than nothing, in fact: only the deadened hang of silence surrounding them, offsetting the churning of the Foundry’s machinery and billowing smoke; the way Fenris hardly inhaled before he asked, or the hum of his low-set voice catching across level syllables)— over something so nominal as being offered an arrangement they already have.
But it isn’t the arrangement they have, is it?
He’d given Fenris the option that first night because they were drunk and injured and— above everything else after a revelation as overtly sundering as the one they put behind them— exhausted. And he left that offer open in part because it meant Astarion could keep watch in a sense, selfishly offsetting the risk of reprise. A better chance at keeping still more loss at bay when he's already tired. Already wounded from its endless reach.
(And, of course, Astarion is Astarion: he’d opened his door more than once to the others in Riftwatch that struck a chord with him, a claustrophobic sanctuary. A narrow den of iniquity.)
But Fenris isn’t Astarion. He values his privacy, so far as the pale elf can tell: slinking around like a hungry stray when the itch strikes, looking for an open space by the fire (knowing that it’s there, alongside a blanket and a meal and whatever else suits whichever night of the week it is— cards, chatter, silence and an uncorked bottle of wine— sometimes he comes in just to sit and sleep, curling up without a word) but he’d wander out on his own time, sure enough.
Astarion doesn’t need it. He doesn’t distinctly crave it, either, sating his gnawing urges by roaming for touch, rather than secure space and simple companionship.
Or.
Or that’s only what he tells himself.
He’s stilled completely in Fenris’ grasp, meeting his stare for a few dumbstruck seconds before dropping it entirely— opting not to make the work of wiping away whole smears of blood more uncomfortable than it could be. Like the turning of gears in his head, like the snap of learned instinct taking over, his momentary flicker of doe-eyed bewilderment passes, giving way to a paper thin smile.
(It pulls at those cuts on his chin, making them well a touch more.)]
If it pleases me.
[Oh, Astarion, always so afraid of a kind hand that he has to shy from it.]
...It might. [It does.] Taking up space in Hightown does sound like the perfect way to bring yet more discomfort to Kirkwall’s pampered elite.
[It isn’t just about that, but those are the words that slip from between his fangs all the same. Easier, always, to make light of everything. To laugh.
He’s never been offered something like this before. Not without an ulterior motive. A lustful heart.]
But first, [He starts mildly, putting a few fingers to the edge of that gauze to brush it aside, assuming he looks passable enough to roam the streets in search of a healer.] you and I ought to find some actual treatment for these wounds.
no subject
When, what? It’s such a whirlwind, that shift. Or it will be when he recalls it later, wondering what actually happened versus the snippets of absolute nothing that Astarion recalls (less than nothing, in fact: only the deadened hang of silence surrounding them, offsetting the churning of the Foundry’s machinery and billowing smoke; the way Fenris hardly inhaled before he asked, or the hum of his low-set voice catching across level syllables)— over something so nominal as being offered an arrangement they already have.
But it isn’t the arrangement they have, is it?
He’d given Fenris the option that first night because they were drunk and injured and— above everything else after a revelation as overtly sundering as the one they put behind them— exhausted. And he left that offer open in part because it meant Astarion could keep watch in a sense, selfishly offsetting the risk of reprise. A better chance at keeping still more loss at bay when he's already tired. Already wounded from its endless reach.
(And, of course, Astarion is Astarion: he’d opened his door more than once to the others in Riftwatch that struck a chord with him, a claustrophobic sanctuary. A narrow den of iniquity.)
But Fenris isn’t Astarion. He values his privacy, so far as the pale elf can tell: slinking around like a hungry stray when the itch strikes, looking for an open space by the fire (knowing that it’s there, alongside a blanket and a meal and whatever else suits whichever night of the week it is— cards, chatter, silence and an uncorked bottle of wine— sometimes he comes in just to sit and sleep, curling up without a word) but he’d wander out on his own time, sure enough.
Astarion doesn’t need it. He doesn’t distinctly crave it, either, sating his gnawing urges by roaming for touch, rather than secure space and simple companionship.
Or.
Or that’s only what he tells himself.
He’s stilled completely in Fenris’ grasp, meeting his stare for a few dumbstruck seconds before dropping it entirely— opting not to make the work of wiping away whole smears of blood more uncomfortable than it could be. Like the turning of gears in his head, like the snap of learned instinct taking over, his momentary flicker of doe-eyed bewilderment passes, giving way to a paper thin smile.
(It pulls at those cuts on his chin, making them well a touch more.)]
If it pleases me.
[Oh, Astarion, always so afraid of a kind hand that he has to shy from it.]
...It might. [It does.] Taking up space in Hightown does sound like the perfect way to bring yet more discomfort to Kirkwall’s pampered elite.
[It isn’t just about that, but those are the words that slip from between his fangs all the same. Easier, always, to make light of everything. To laugh.
He’s never been offered something like this before. Not without an ulterior motive. A lustful heart.]
But first, [He starts mildly, putting a few fingers to the edge of that gauze to brush it aside, assuming he looks passable enough to roam the streets in search of a healer.] you and I ought to find some actual treatment for these wounds.