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----1627 DR----
Astarion was in the upstairs study, going through correspondence.
There was the usual flurry of frantically phrased quest petitions, most of them entirely uninteresting. There was an invitation to speak at the Ravenguard memorial. There was a letter written on birch bark, detailing a study finding that wild Deep Rothe populations were returning to sustainable levels in the Underdark for the first time since seven thousand starving vampires arrived there. Wasn't that nice. He knew a couple of druids and rangers who would be happy about that.
Someone knocked at the study door. He looked up.
The person in the doorway looked like a child, but was not. She was, in fact, considerably more tolerable than most people who looked like adults. She wore a loose green dress. She had mousy brown hair and gleaming red eyes.
"He's waking up," she said.
"Thank you Jaessica," said Astarion.
Astarion stood and went downstairs. Jaessica followed him to the kitchen. She watched him ignite the stove using the only cantrip he knew, get a pot from the rack on the wall, and fetch out some onions.
Jaessica perched herself on a stool and stayed for some of the process. There was a sort of alien interest to it. A sequence of events that was so entirely disconnected from either of them, but still made relevant by circumstance.
"I'm going to the Eastway docks today," she said, after a while.
"That's nice," said Astarion distractedly. He was cutting onions and muscle memory kept telling him he should be stabbing them.
"I'm going to play 'Dead Kidnapper'," she added. This was a popular game with her, whose goal was to manifest the title into existence.
"That's nice," Astarion said again, then engaging slightly more: "Who is going with you?"
Because one of the very few rules in the house that was actually a rule and not just a vague guideline was that rogues did not go adventuring alone.
"Aldric," Jaessica said.
Astarion made a disgusted noise. If she had said Dalyria or Hannah or someone pleasant, Astarion would've suggested that Jaessica bring them back afterwards for dinner. But Aldric was insufferable.
He didn't actually say as much, because Jaessica was in a phase where she interpreted disapproval as encouragement. She had been in this phase for two decades now. Astarion was extremely ready for the next phase.
"Do you have enough knives?" he asked instead.
"I have a knife," she said, evasively.
"You should have more than one," he told her as he finished with the onion.
"If I'm covered in knives I'll look like an adventurer and no one's going to try to kidnap me," Jaessica said, a note of exasperation in her voice. "If I lose the knife I'll just use my teeth."
Astarion made another disgusted noise. "You really want to put your mouth all over strange dockworkers?"
"Wow," said Jaessica. "Those are words that you just said."
She jumped down off the stool.
"I'm going now," she said, disappearing out the side door into the front hall.
"There are daggers in the shoe rack," Astarion called after her. But not with much force. The knife thing wasn't a rule like the rogue thing was. And she was over a century old. She could make her own decisions.
Astarion put the onions and other necessary things into the pot. He had a container of spices that had been mixed by someone who had any idea how they tasted. He measured out a spoonful of it and sprinkled it over.
The shape of that action made him think suddenly and very intensely of Gale. And then, as the pot began to simmer, he needed to take a moment to compose himself.
He kept having to do that. That wasn't like him. How strange. How time changed things. When it was actually permitted to move forward.
He fetched out some strips of willow bark and shaved a generous portion of them into the developing soup. That reminded him of Halsin, which was considerably safer. Thank everything for Halsin.
Astarion measured whether the soup was done by the structural integrity of the onions. Then he ladled it into a mug. Bowls and spoons had recently followed lockpicks into retirement.
Astarion took the mug into the bedroom across the hall. The room was small, because that was convenient. There was a table and a window--curtained, shuttered and locked as all windows were in the house. There was a bed, and there was a half-elf in the bed. He had been drowsing, but woke entirely as soon as Astarion entered.
"Hey, it's Magistrate Ancunin," the half-elf said, which was a little less of a joke than it used to be. "What's a fancy guy like you doing in a place like this?"
"Slumming," said Astarion.
Astarion walked over and put his hand on the side of Staeve's face. Staeve turned into his palm. As if Astarion were warm. As if he were made of sunlight--something a person would instinctively turn towards.
"Where would you like to go today?" Astarion asked.
"Amn," Staeve said.
"Try again," Astarion said. Correct answers included nearby parks and entertainment buildings that were open at night.
"Sharess' Caress," said Staeve.
"Let's start with the window," Astarion said dryly. "And see where that leads."
Astarion helped Staeve to the table by the window. Staeve didn't lean on him quite as heavily as he had yesterday, but he seemed very stiff and when he sat Astarion pushed the mug of soup and willow bark into his hands. As Staeve drank, Astarion drew back the curtains, unlocked and unbolted the shutters, and opened them.
Staeve had been having fun lately with running jokes about how everyone in the house had a liquid diet now-a-nights. But he didn't continue on that theme right now. He drank his soup and looked out the window at the street outside. It was brightly lit by streetlamps and the moon.
"Remember when we saved the city?" Staeve said.
"I do, in fact," Astarion said.
"Wild shit," Staeve said.
"Yes," Astarion agreed.
Staeve took another drink of soup, then asked: "Where's Jaessica?"
"Murdering villains near Heapside," said Astarion.
"Aw," said Staeve. "What a sweet kid."
When Staeve was done with his soup, Astarion combed and braided his hair. Shadowheart had taught him how to do this. Shadowheart was older than Staeve, but she had not spent her life throwing her body violently into danger. So. Some things were different.
Staeve made the process difficult. He kept turning his head when Astarion was in the middle of a braid to press his cheek into Astarion's fingers. Or reaching up to take his hand. And then Astarion had to stop and let that happen, lose the braid, and start again.
The fifth time he was interrupted Astarion couldn't take it anymore. He stopped Staeve, catching the wrist of his interruptive hand, leaned down, and kissed him. On the temple, just above his left eye.
Staeve closed his eyes and smiled. As if he'd just gotten away with something. As if he'd just managed to steal something, despite it being freely given. As if he were exactly where he wanted to be.
Then he turned away and looked out the window again.
"I think Astarion has a crush on me," he told the city, as if it were a person. "How embarrassing."
And Astarion might have said something clever or cutting in response. But he couldn't, because just then he had to take a moment to compose himself.
He kept having to do that. That wasn't like him. How strange.