Work Text:
Astarion hates Sharess's Caress. For all his lascivious boasting, the place repulses him. The perfumes and incenses make his throat itch, now that he doesn't have the tadpole to protect him from their cloying abrasiveness. He'd thought his senses heightened after first sampling the blood of thinking creatures, but once the elder brain had been destroyed and he'd felt the tadpole disintegrate behind his eye, he had nearly been hit in the face by how much sharper… everything felt.
He's faster. Stronger. His sight, smell, and hearing are even more improved. He's more durable than he can ever remember being in his entire unlife. It feels… incredible.
He'd watched from the streets with a stab of shame as the battle atop the brain raged. He'd killed a few mindflayers on the ground and told himself that he was helping, but he knew his place should have been up there, with the rest of… his friends. And her.
I hope you die screaming, he'd said, meaning every word in the moment. He'd relished in the way her face had crumbled, shock and sorrow writ large in her eyes as her mouth dropped open. He hadn't stuck around to witness the fallout, shouldering his way past Gale and Shadowheart as Tav had beseechingly called his name in a voice that sounded heavy with pain.
He hadn't stopped. Hadn't so much as looked back. He'd disappeared into the catacombs and then into the sewers, full of self-righteous fury. It's easy for her, he'd seethed bitterly. She isn't set to lose everything when the tadpoles are gone.
He'd heard the occasional familiar voice calling out to him in the sewers for nigh on a tenday, after that. Sometimes Tav was accompanied by Karlach or Gale, sometimes she was alone. He'd deliberately hidden from her, sustaining himself on Bhaalists that he caught wandering to and from the temple they'd rescued Lae'zel from before killing Cazador.
It had continued, right up until the confrontation with the brain. She hadn't come calling for him since.
It had taken him longer than it should to realise that she'd been right. Now that he's free—truly free, from Cazador and the tadpole—he knows that she'd seen the ritual for what it really was; another trap that would have enslaved him to power, just as surely as Cazador had enslaved him to his will two centuries ago.
He'd cried; he'd raged; he'd regretted—but none of it changed the fundamental fact that he'd gone and thrown away the best thing that had ever happened to him. Had poured oil on it and cast the firebolt himself, sending any potential he'd had for happiness up in flames before he'd even realised what he was doing.
He'd been… so looking forward to freedom, at her side. To not be reliant on her or anyone else for protection, to be able to stand beside her as an equal. Now that he has his freedom, it tastes like ash on his tongue without her.
His forehead is just as cool as the wood of the table it's resting on as he groans to himself. He knows he looks like a drunkard, but he doesn't care. He lifts his face to take another long pull of his wine, cursing his superior hearing that can't block out the sheer amount of thank the gods we're alive! sex taking place all around him.
He freezes when he hears a familiar voice floating up from downstairs. It's faint, so faint that he thinks he might have imagined it, but then he hears it again. "Just through the curtains? Thank you."
His entire body locks up, breath he doesn't truly need stopping short.
Tav.
Tav is here.
He's out of his chair and moving toward the sound of her voice without even thinking about it, bottle absently grasped in his hand. His mind is too wrapped up in her—what is she doing here? She'd found the place distasteful when they'd stumbled in looking for lodgings in their first days in the city. Why would she come back?
"I remember you," one of the drow twins, the woman, he never caught her name, drawls invitingly. "Welcome back, sweetling. Where's your partner?"
There's an awful beat of silence.
"Oh, he didn't… in the attack…?" the drow's voice is all honeyed sympathy.
Astarion is down the stairs now, staring at the curtain that separates him from them.
"Oh, ah, no," Tav says awkwardly. "Well, I mean—I don't know. He… he left me. Before the invasion," there's a plaintive edge to her voice that makes Astarion close his eyes in shame, as if he has any right to feel hurt by it.
"I'm so sorry to hear that," the drow's voice takes on a familiar cadence. Astarion's gut curdles at the sound of it.
He knows this game. He's played it more times than he cares to remember. It had been one of the surest ways to guarantee a mark for the night: Target the heartbroken. People in pain are looking for a quick remedy, and thus are easily manipulated.
"I…" Tav hesitates. "I was wondering if your brother… but I can see he's not here, so…"
"Oh, he is," there's a seductive purr to the drow's voice. "He's just freshening up at the moment. Why don't we go and get you a drink until he comes back down?"
"I… okay."
Astarion's gut curdles, lips pulling back in an instinctive snarl. What is she doing? He distinctly remembers her telling him that the drow man had put her off so entirely that she'd felt dirty all afternoon from his leering. Astarion had agreed with her. Why is she looking to hire that wretch?
He doesn't have long to wonder; the drow woman pushes the curtains aside, and Tav steps into his line of sight.
She looks… tired. Wan and exhausted, looking around skittishly as if she isn't truly sure she wants to be here.
He chokes on his first breath since he heard her voice, just in time for her to look up and meet his eyes.
She looks wonderful. Her hair has been left to curl around her face, inky and gleaming in the candlelight, long pointed ears just poking through. Big blue eyes widen at the sight of him, cheeks flooding crimson as she registers who she's seeing.
She freezes. The drow, who has a hand on her lower back, stops and looks around. "What is—oh," she looks between them.
There's another long, awful silence.
"I think," the drow says delicately, "I should go."
Astarion barely notices her withdraw.
"I—what are you doing here?" Tav demands, once she's over her shock.
He raises an eyebrow, shaking his bottle ever so slightly. "Drinking, darling. The Caress has the cheapest spirits in town, and I'm somewhat light on coppers at present."
It's an effective business tactic; make the drinks cheap, and patrons are likely to get drunk enough to make other, larger, more impulsive purchases later.
"But never mind me," he looks over her shoulder, where the drow woman has been rejoined by her brother; both of them are watching them openly. "What are you doing here? Other than making a big mistake?"
She puffs up in anger, dark brows drawn together in a scowl. "Excuse me?"
"The drow, darling?" he scoffs. "Last I heard, he made you want to jump into the Chionthar. Or an acid bath." He does not bother to lower his voice. Let the man hear him.
"You… you do not get to judge my choices, Astarion!" She hisses, perhaps conscious of causing a scene. "You left me. You told me you hoped I died! You've lost all right to comment on who I share my body with!"
He sighs, taking a swig of his drink. It tastes like vinegar going down, but he's had enough of it at this point that the taste barely gives him pause. "You're right," he concedes, feeling the alcohol hit his gut like a lead weight. "I have no right. Except," he leans closer, gratified by the way her breathing hitches, even as she leans away from him, "I know you, my dear. You will regret it, afterwards."
"You don't know that," she spits, voice unsteady. "I… I just want to…" she huffs, "how did you put it? Lose myself?"
Astarion manages not to flinch at the reminder of their moonlit romp in the forest, but only just. He straightens, lifting himself away from her space. "There are plenty of ways to do that that don't include letting a high-end prostitute take advantage of you to make a fistful of coin, love," he shakes his bottle at her again. "Drink, for example, is a wonderful thing to drown one's sorrows with."
She crosses her arms, eyes narrowed at him. "That's what you're doing? Drowning sorrows?"
"What else, dearest?" he shrugs. "I may have gained my freedom, but I lost everything else. You can hardly blame me for feel a little sorry for myself."
There's a brief pause.
Tav's voice is small. "Stop that," she demands softly.
He raises his eyebrows. "Stop what?""
"Stop calling me those… those…!" she flounders before her shoulders square in defiance. "I know that's how you talk to everyone, but I don't appreciate being called those things anymore. Not by you."
He actually flinches this time. "My apologies."
She scoffs. "Of all the things for you to apologise for. Leave me alone, Astarion."
His jaw snaps shut. "Very well," he says tightly, the small hope he hadn't realised he'd still been harbouring withering and dying in his chest. Ridiculous. He'd known it was over the moment he snapped that staff over his knee and condemned seven thousand spawn to an eternity trapped underground. "Enjoy your… purchase, da—" he cuts himself off. "Tav." He salutes her with the bottle and spins on his heel to take the stairs again.
He makes a point to sit by the only staircase toward the rooms until closing. He sees the drow twins pass a few times with various clients, but none of them are Tav.
He's staring out the window from his seat three nights later, sipping at a goblet of wine as he watches the street below in the early hours of the morning. He must have been more lost in thought than he realised, because he doesn't even notice that he has company until someone drops into the plush seat opposite him.
He scowls, turning to tell the intruder to leave before he takes in his guest.
Tav looks nervous. Her shoulders are hunched, knees pressed together and her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
"Hello, again," he says, at a loss for what to say.
"Hello."
He blinks again. "Is there something I can do for you?"
She's silent for so long that he doesn't think she's going to answer him. Then, "Why did you stop me?"
He's nonplussed. "I beg your pardon?"
"The other night," she gestures to the stairs down to the ground floor. "You stopped me from… well." She shuffles awkwardly. "Why?"
He frowns. "Why did I notice you on a self-destructive path and step in?" he clarifies.
"Yes." She nods. "I know you, too, you know. You enjoy watching people fuck up and hurt themselves. Given how much you apparently hate me now," she pauses to clear her throat, "I'd have thought you'd have relished in it. Gloated, afterwards, even."
He sighs, head thunking back against his chair. "I do not hate you, nor do I enjoy your pain. Quite the opposite, dear." He presses his lips into a line, realising he'd used an endearment after she'd expressly forbidden him to. "Apologies, force of habit."
She waves it off. "You have a funny way of showing it," she purses her lips. "You told me you hoped I died, Astarion. That's hardly a declaration of affection."
He sighs, reaching up to rub his nose. He's grateful that he can't blush, otherwise his entire face would be red with shame about now. "I was not… myself, down there." She raises an eyebrow. "I wasn't thinking clearly. All I could see was the power the ritual offered and the safety it promised," he admits on an exhale. "In my mind, in that moment, you were standing between me and being safe."
"I only ever wanted you to be safe!" She says incredulously. "It was why we were there in the first place!"
"I know," he holds up a hand. "It only took me a tenday or so to realise that you were right. Of course you were," he huffs, irritated at himself. If only he could have seen that in the chamber, at the time. Where might they be now, if he hadn't been such a monumental fool?
She sits in silence for a little while. Astarion watches her, not daring to so much as breathe.
"Why didn't you come back?" She asks in a tiny voice. "Everyone said you would. They said you just needed to cool off and we could work it out." She bites her lip, her voice shrinking to such a small whisper that he almost didn't hear it, even with his new and improved hearing. "I… I waited for you."
He grimaces. "Well, there was the trifling matter of the invasion." He gestures out the window. "Congratulations, by the way, on your victory." He raises his glass to her before taking a sip.
She smiles a little. "I didn't do it alone," she shakes her head. "The others were all with me."
"And I'm very glad they were," he acknowledges, tipping his head. "That could not have been an easy battle."
"The hardest. We almost lost several times." She agrees readily. "But that's not what I'm here to talk about. Why didn't you come back after the battle? We're still in the Elfsong." She pauses, then shrugs. "Well, Gale, Shadowheart and I are, and Shadowheart's parents."
"I suppose," he sighs, "I was unsure of my welcome. And I was ashamed. I behaved abominably down in that crypt." He grimaces again, staring down into his cup.
"Yes," she says firmly. "You did. The gur were forced to kill all the spawn in their cells, after you trapped them there. Including the children."
Shame floods his gut anew. He stares at his own knee for fear of looking at any part of her and facing her judgement. He can picture it; the gur loosing silver-tipped crossbow bolts between the bars, like shooting fish in a barrel.
"It probably would have been a disaster to let them go free," she acknowledges. "They were feral, and starving. Some of them just wanted to be put out of their misery. It could be argued that killing them was a kindness."
"Except you still believe they should have been given a chance," Astarion murmurs.
"I do. Everyone deserves a chance," she says. "Like your siblings; they've made their choices. Aurelia, Dalyria, Yousen and Leon have headed for the Underdark. Petras and Violet decided to try their hand at hunting thinking prey within the city walls; they were swiftly hunted down in turn and exterminated by the Fist."
He nods. "I can't say I'm terribly surprised. Violet was always a vicious creature, and Petras had aspirations of hunting people. Neither of them were particularly bright."
"And you?" She asks, eyebrow raised. "What have you been feeding on since the crypt?"
"Bhaalists," he answers promptly.
She snorts. "Well, I'll not complain about that. You're probably doing the city a justice."
"Their numbers are getting a little thin, I must admit," he shakes his head with a sigh. "I'll have to find a new food source soon."
He misses his former primary food source, he thinks, eyes darting down to her neck, almost as much as he misses the rest of her. His puncture scars are covered by a scarf, but likely wouldn't be more than two silvery dots by now. He looks away before she can comment.
"And where are you living?"
He snorts. "You can't smell it on me?" It's not like the sewers come equipped with bathing facilities. Truthfully, it's a surprise they let him in.
He looks up in time to see her nose wrinkle. "Well, yes. But I don't know if you're living in the sewers or simply hunting in them."
There's another awkward silence.
He clears his throat. "Not that I'm not pleased to see you," he says smoothly, doing his best to ignore the writhing in his stomach, "but why are you here? I was under the impression that you didn't wish to speak to me." Given the way their last encounter had gone, it had seemed a pretty safe bet.
"Are you?" She asks softly. "Pleased to see me?"
He regards her. He's not sure what expression she sees on his face; he feels far too raw at the moment, walking this delicate tightrope, to school his expression. Before Cazador's death, he couldn't afford to show his emotions on his face like this; now, he's had a little too much wine and a little too much self-flagellation to summon the energy to conceal whatever it is.
"Always," he says simply, tilting his head.
Her cheeks warm under his regard. It brings him some absurd kind of pride, to know that he can still elicit that response, even after two months of separation.
She clears her throat. "I suppose I came because I… I have to know why you did it," she bites her lip. He wants to take it between his own teeth with a ferocity that shocks even him. "You didn't just leave me; you abandoned all of us. Right up until the end… we all hoped you would come back. We searched for you. We waited. I waited."
He snorts. "Please, darling," he internally winces at the use of the pet name, but she ignores it, so he soldiers on. "After what I said to you? I didn't know how to face you. I've always been a coward at heart. And I'm relatively certain that Karlach, at the very least, would have snapped me in two for hurting you."
Tav shakes her head a little, ponytail bouncing behind her head. "She was worried about you. We all were. You might have gotten a bit of a tongue-lashing from Jaheira," she admits, "or a few snide comments from Lae'zel, but we would have accepted you home."
His smile is rueful. "Well. It's too late for that, now."
"Most of them are gone," she shrugs. "Karlach's engine started burning up, so Wyll convinced her to go back to Avernus with him while he hunts Mizora. And Lae'zel travelled to the Astral Plane with Voss to begin the githyanki rebellion. Jaheira went home and took Minsc with her, and Halsin went to check on the former shadow-cursed lands, to see how they're getting along."
He finds himself interested, despite himself. He regrets not saying goodbye to Karlach, at least. Aside from Tav, she was probably the one he got on with best. "You mentioned that Shadowheart and Gale are still with you?"
She smiles, bobbing her head. "Yes. They're both busy with their own things, though. Shadowheart is dedicating herself to her parents' recovery. I think she plans to take them away from here so that her mother can live out the rest of her life somewhere peaceful. And Gale is searching the Chionthar for the crown. He's decided to give it to Mystra in exchange for curing him of the orb."
"And you?" He regards her through hooded eyes.
She chews on her bottom lip. "I mostly keep to myself," she sighs. "Shadowheart bullies me into helping out with the relief efforts sometimes; she says I can't keep… moping." Her lips quirk a little. "It was why I was here the other night. To… try to do something outrageous to snap myself out of… this funk." She waves her hand between them.
"I know you didn't go upstairs," he admits, and her cheeks turn pink. "I was here until closing."
"I took your advice," she admits softly, "and got very, very drunk."
"And did it help?"
She shakes her head. "No. Nothing does." She wraps her arms around herself and looks up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. "I… I wish I could just hate you already and get it over with," she whispers. "But I can't. I just want you to come back."
He leans forward, holding his hand out, palm up, as if in a dream. "I'm sorry, darling," he murmurs tenderly, fingers curling around her own when she tentatively sets them on his. "I never should have left you like that."
"No, you shouldn't have," she sniffles. "You should have been there to celebrate Cazador's death with me, and in the fight with the brain, and, and, to say goodbye to our friends." She reaches up with her free hand to wipe the tears spilling down her cheeks.
He leans forward, drawing her knuckles to his mouth, throat too tight to speak. He thinks he may be trembling—or maybe it's her; her skin is warm under cool lips. She does not pull her hand away.
"Come home, Astarion," she whispers. "Please."
He presses his forehead to her hand, nearly bent over double in his chair. "How can I?" he asks forlornly. "After what I did? What I said—and all those spawn…?"
"I can forgive you," she gasps, trying to tug her hand back. He holds on. "For being angry and saying something you didn't mean in the heat of the moment."
"And the spawn?" he presses, because that's not a small thing. Seven thousand people met their ends because of him. And all for nothing, in the end.
"The gur would have hunted them anyway," she says thickly, and he recognises from her voice that she's holding back tears. "And, and, I want you back more than I care about them." Her voice drops to a whisper. "I'm so selfish."
He lifts his head. "No more so than me."
He tugs on her hand. She stumbles out of her chair and all but crashes into him. He wraps an arm around her waist and draws her into his lap; her arms snake around his neck and then they're kissing.
She tastes of the salt from her tears, breath hitching through her nose against his face. He buries his other hand in her hair to angle her head properly, tongue sliding into her mouth when she parts her lips to gasp.
It feels like a warm bath in the dead of winter. It feels like feast after famine.
It feels like coming home.
"I love you," she breathes against his lips, hands cupping his face. "I love you. Please come back."
"How could I say no?" he murmurs, pressing his lips back to hers. "I've missed you so, my darling."
She brings him back to her room at the Elfsong.
"We didn't need the big space after everyone left, so we downgraded to private rooms," she explains quietly, shuffling about the room. A large bed takes up the majority of the space, with a wardrobe and a barrel tub on either side. She reaches out and closes the shutters on the window, latching them firmly and drawing heavy drapes over them. Come sunrise, there will be no sunlight in this room.
"I still have all your things," she says diffidently, opening the closet next.
"Thank you," he accepts the pack she hands him.
"Everything in it is clean," she says with pink cheeks. "I washed it all. If you want to take a quick bath, I'll go and find Shadowheart to let her know I got back alright."
"Alright," he agrees easily. He really does smell bad.
She uses a scroll to fill the tub for him before she goes, leaving him standing in the middle of her room, holding a scruffy pack. He rummages through it on the bed, pulling out his old, comfortable camp clothing, a coarse bar of soap, and the small vial of his perfume.
He curls his fingers around the small glass bottle, feeling somewhat chastened; he hasn't been keeping up with his usual grooming routine as of late. He can't see his reflection, so he can only imagine what a fright he must look.
He allows himself to luxuriate in the bath when he sinks into it, steam wafting around his form as he methodically runs a soapy washcloth over his body. As careful as he's tried to be in the sewers, it had been inevitable that he'd get at least something on his skin.
The hinges of the door creak as it opens. Astarion, having already smelled her coming, doesn't react when Tav enters the room. She, on the other hand, squeaks when she notices him still in the tub. "I'm sorry!"
"For what?" he asks, frowning over his shoulder at her.
"I thought you'd be finished," she says, spinning and all but slamming the door. She stands awkwardly, facing the wall and unwilling to turn around.
He clicks his tongue. "There's no need to be bashful, darling," he brings the washcloth up to run over his neck. "You've seen it all before."
"Well, yes," the tips of her pointed ears are red; she remains looking resolutely away. "But that was… different. I don't want to make you… uncomfortable."
"While I appreciate your attempt to preserve my modesty," Astarion says with wry humour, "there's no need for you to stand awkwardly in your own doorway. You can turn around."
Her face is pink as she slowly turns, keeping her eyes angled toward the floor.
"Did you speak with dear Shadowheart?" he asks, in an attempt to get her to relax. "I thought she'd be asleep at this hour. It must be nearly sunrise."
"It's full moon," Tav shakes her head. "Her father's a werewolf, so she and her mother are staying up to see the night through with him. The innkeeper is letting them use the cellar to confine him."
"I see," he says softly.
She creeps over to the bed, still careful not to look at him. He feels a rush of affection for her—still trying to respect his comfort, even after so long apart. Even after how poorly he treated her.
He hurries through the rest of his bath, though he takes the time to scrub his hair properly clean. She covers her face with her hands while he dresses; he has a small smile on his face by the time he sits before her at the foot of the bed.
"I'm decent," he says softly.
She finally meets his gaze. "Do you feel better?"
"Much," he admits with a sigh. "I don't think I realised just how badly I needed that until I was already in the water."
She reaches out toward his hair, hesitating for a moment before taking a damp, limp curl between her fingers. "You look better."
"I was in a state, was I?" he asks, grinning wide enough for his fangs to show.
"Maybe a little," she lowers her hand to cup his face, thumb smoothing over his cheek. He turns to press his lips to her palm. Her smile, so small and fragile, wavers. "Stay with me?"
"For as long as you'll have me, darling," he promises easily.
"Even if I want you to stay forever?" her voice is small.
"Even then," he promises. "I'll always be here, my love, for as long as you want me."
She exhales. He feels the warmth of her breath on his face as she scoots closer and tilts her face up to his. "Good. Don't leave again."
"As my lady commands," he agrees, leaning down to press his lips to hers.
She clings to him, much like she did in the brothel. Crawling into his lap, she runs her fingers through damp curls and moans against his lips when he takes her bottom one between his.
Somehow, they end up stretched out along the bed, trading kisses and soft touches. Astarion luxuriates in her attentions after going so long without, basking in her adoration like a cat in a sunbeam.
"We'll need to talk properly about what happened in the crypt," she says drowsily after a while. "Not right now, but… soon."
"I know," he acknowledges.
"Can you just…" she tucks her head under his chin, "hold me? While I trance?" He wraps his arms around her in response. She heaves a shuddering breath. "Thank you."
"Thank you," he murmurs into her hair.
"Shadowheart will want to talk to you tomorrow," she yawns. "So, you might want to prepare for that. She'll probably bring Gale with her, too."
Astarion groans. "Protect me, love?"
Her answering chuckle is slightly mean. "Maybe."
Well, he supposes. He deserves that.