What Shall We Become 43 - ???
Behold, the consequences of your actions.
On AO3.
A voice cracks you over the head. You jerk up, flail around expecting to’ve launched yourself outta bed. Then come to your senses in a red glow, with a giant, red glowing woman poking the upper half of her body inside the tent.
“Hey!” she says. You recognize that word from her using it, not from the dirt potion. That you done and went slept off.
“Karlach?” you say.
She grins. Says what you guess is, “That’s the name, soldier!”
Then she tosses something, only you ain’t ready and it hits you right in the chest and tumbles onto the piece of wood planking next to you. The empty one. Astarion ain’t here.
“Ooh, sorry,” Karlach says.
You know that bottle before you even uncork it and smell the dirt and vaguely mint. Down it as you glance around, ears straining, trying to ignore the way it roils up to singe the back of your sinuses.
“Gale said you’d probably need that,” Karlach says as you cough through the taste.
You nod. Twist around to find your pack and water skin (and loop your soul jar around your neck). “Thanks.”
Only she don’t respond. You get the skin uncorked and take a giant swig before you glance over…
She smooths a shit eating grin.
“What?” you say.
She flaps both her hands. “Nothing. Guess it wasn’t all bad, eh?”
You can only sit there and blink at her. You’re fully clothed. Astarion was fully clothed last you saw him. Ain’t no way she could tell nothing (a subtle—you hope—sniff and it just smells like Astarion and the cave in here).
“Anyway!” Karlach says. “I’ll let you get your stuff. Meet outside, yeah? The other are all holed up in some big, old temple across the lake. Chock full of them Absolute fuckers. Figured we’d come collect you two before we start smashing heads.”
“Did you find Sweetums?” you say “Or Halsin or Scratch?”
Her face falls a second. Then lights back up. “I bet those three are all fine and waiting for us wherever you get outta this place. A druid and two animals? They’re probably wondering what’s taking our asses so long. Anyway. Wyll and I’ll get you two packed up and we’ll get moving, yeah?”
“Wyll’s here? Is, um, is Astarion outside?”
Where else would he be? Crawled up the side of the cave wall?
Again, a glint to Karlach’s eyes. “Oh yeah. He’s bitching, from the sound of it.” Then she smacks the tent pole. “Up and at ‘em, Snuggles.”
Snuggles?
The fuck?
But Karlach retreats and you gather up your things. Secure your damp hip wrap. Promise to burn the goddamned thing the second you get some goddamn pants (though Astarion’s hand slid so easily up this thing, stroking along your thigh—)
No. Nope.
Everybody is out there, waiting for you. Karlach clears her throat, and Wyll glances over with a warm smile. Does a double-take.
You look down at yourself—the borrowed tunic comes up above your collarbones; either your hair is a total mess, or…Astarion’s bite? But he gave you a healing potion. That should’a taken care of it and you washed up.
The vampire himself smiles at you, too. A tiny thing, a knowing thing. And just a touch…no, you’re reading into things. People do that, especially after letting somebody fingerbang them for the first time. And y’all’s, uh, relationship (you duck inside the tent to snatch up your bag so they can’t see your cheeks warm) ain’t exactly conventional. Of course you feel weird, the adrenaline worn off and the crazy dissolved. So of course you’re reading shit, a weird distance, into the man. That’s called projection.
You’ll talk to him about it. Like an adult, all confidant and responsible enough to have a frank conversation about hitting third base (is fingering third base?).
“Here, let me,” Wyll says. He takes the pack from you. “From what we’ve been able to gather, the two of you have had quite the adventure down here.”
“Except the dragon fight me and Wyll got stuck between,” Karlach says.
“The what?” you say. There’s dragons? In the giant cave?
“Oh please,” Astarion says. “Stop trying to steal our spotlight, darling Karlach. There’s no dragons in the Underdark.”
“You told him they was disguised as people, right, Wyll?” Karlach says.
Astarion rolls his eyes, catches your gaze, and then winks.
“Right,” you drawl. “That’s, uh, cool.”
Then the goblin man who had his hand between your legs scales up the rigged rope ladder of the boat Wyll and Karlach brought. Takes a few steps on deck, and then flops down. “Ugh, finally. A little help, for once.”
Too bad you don’t got a spare shoe to throw at him.
Wyll’s smile is a warm thing. He nods to their boat. “Go on. I’ll get all this packed up. We’ve got food and potions aboard, and I insist you take what you need.”
And it occurs to you, for the first time in weeks, that you’re actually safe. (Relatively.) The relief makes your bones go to jello. You nod and shuffle over on strangely heavy feet. Have a harder time hauling yourself up that rope ladder.
Astarion…ignores you. Lies splayed out with his eyes closed. You hover nearby a moment, realize you look like a creeper, and then find somewhere to stash yourself.
Y’all are back on the water in under thirty minutes.
At some point in all this, Gale must’a found flour and fucking butter, because they packed biscuits. Or scones, since they’re tougher and crumblier than real biscuits. They’re cold, now, and plain (why do you think of grape jelly and a strong, wrinkled hand in yours) and they’re the best thing you ever put in your mouth.
You’ve tasted Astarion’s tongue.
So you mind your business a while. Take inventory of your meager shit after all y’all’s stuff gets dropped nearby. You got approximately one armor chest plate that don’t fit, your soul jar, the clothes on your back, three empty potion bottles, and your goddamn dildo.
You sigh.
When a shadow falls over you. Got a moment to clock the white hair, and then Astarion plonks down.
“Oh,” you say. Like a smart person.
“Hello, my sweet,” he says. Glances your way and his smile seems soft, this time. The same one he wore as he pulled you into his lap. But he looks away real quick and begins to dig through his own bag.
You need to do it. You need to talk to him. Bad shit happened the last time you didn’t, and you’re generally capable of learning from your fuck-ups.
Generally.
“Hey,” you say. “I, uh.”
How the fuck do people do this? “We need to talk” makes you wanna dive off the boat and sink forever into the freshwater sea. “Are we boyfriend and girlfriend” is the most saccharine, juvenile bullshit to ever leak outta your brain and thinking them words makes you wanna puke.
Then Astarion catches wind. Looks to you. Actually holds your gaze and his face is calm. Serious.
Your palms sweat.
He pulls out a scroll. One you gave him. Unrolls it and holds it up and says to you, “Darling, this is Magic Missile.”
He pulls out another scroll, three in all. Starts identifying them. Goes quiet for a second as he skims them, and then starts to explain what they are and what they do. To you. Which, yeah, cool. You’re glad he’s excited. You let him take them because he could use them.
But it leaves you sitting there, stomach cold and twisting around them biscuits you just scarfed down. He’s…he’s different. Gone is the man you was starting to see down here. Back is the man from the surface, all glib gestures, voice high and lilting.
He don’t give you a chance to break in. Soon, you realize you’re just there to be an audience. You can only sit and nod and mmm-hmm until he falls silent, lips moving as he reads.
He regrets it, doesn’t he. You gave him what he wanted and now he’s good to go. You did your part. Or maybe, even worse, you screwed it up, somehow. Weren’t want he was looking for, but he only realized it after you messed up his hand, after you ruined his shirt. You made weird sounds, you hid your face, you did something.
Or it was just the adrenaline. You were thinking it; maybe he did, too. It was just stress relief. Y’all wasn’t going steady or nothing (do people even say that outside old movies). He got you off (but not himself) and now the group is back together and mission accomplished.
Your throat is too tight. You try to swallow past that. You ain’t gonna cry in front of nobody, especially not him. You bite into your cheeks as your eyes threaten to water, but it ain’t enough of a distraction.
“Darling?”
You clear your throat. Keep your voice steady as you can through sheer will when you look at him. “Mmm-hmm?”
Because speaking actual words will set you off. And you will not give nobody that.
“We’re here,” Astarion says.
Holy shit, y’all are. Got so caught up in your own head, staring into your lap that you didn’t notice the giant fucking statue. Or the lit up docks. Or the group on them docks, waving at y’all.
“Are you alright?” Astarion says.
You’re peachy. Just fine. Couldn’t be better. Stupid fucking girl.
“Yeah,” you say. And then stand up so you can wave. Because that’s normal. That’s what somebody who ain’t bothered at all would do.
There’s more duergar moving around deeper in. You can focus on that. Especially since they’re hovering around cages, and the last group was slavers.
The others welcome you back. Gale takes your hand in his to help you hop down. His gaze flickers over your face for a second, but his smile don’t falter.
“I caught some of what you’ve all been through. You’ll need to give me a full recount, you know,” he says.
“For them potions? Done,” you say.
Shadowheart says nothing, but her eyes narrow into something suspiciously like smug. But it ain’t until you feel Lae’zel’s cold appraisal that somebody finally says something.
“You were attacked along the way?” she says.
You blink. Beside her, Shadowheart hides a snort behind her hand.
“No?” you say.
Lae’zel crosses her arms. Settles into a wider stance. “Then what has left those bruises on your neck? Or is that your innate feebleness?”
Your hands clap up. Behind you, Karlach snickers through her nose. The others are all smiling or looking away. Gale gives you a sort of sympathy eyebrow shrug.
Jesus fucking lord. You whip around to Astarion, who give you the most obviously-guilty innocent look.
That bitch left hickeys on you. For god and country to see!
“Motherfucker,” you say.
“Apparently not,” Shadowheart says. She don’t look the least bit sorry to have said that, neither.
“I’m gonna start the fire at your tent,” you say.
“Why is everyone amused?” Lae’zel says.
Time to go. You shoulder your pack and turn to the most responsible person here. “Wyll, where’s the camp?”
He’s also smiling at you, but he still lifts his forearm to give you his hero bow and leads y’all off the docks and to a chamber off a big ass stairwell.
The whole place is covered in ancient cobwebs, smells like mold, is buried under three inches of dust and old bones so brittle they’ve splintered where somebody clearly stepped on them
Fucking yikes.
Everybody’s tents is set up around a popping, snapping fire. You almost fall to your knees, weeping, as the scent of onions and gravy washes over you from a pot set on a bed of glowing coals nearby.
You’ll be roughing it by a campfire again. Like you did when you first stumbled outta the butthole ship. At least it don’t rain in a giant, underground, abandoned death temple.
You hope.
The ground crunches and you look up to find Gale approaching. He presents you with a bundle. Inside is clothing, a whole twelve-pack of potions, and…and a light blue tent.
A tent of your own. You been sleeping in the open or in Astarion’s tent for over a week. You fell asleep next to him after coming in his lap. And now he’s pulling away. After leaving hickeys all over your neck.
You find him nearby, setting up his own tent. The familiar red. The wooded board inside. His collection of pillows finally appearing from the depths of his bag as he sets up a camp proper.
He looks up. Finds you watching. Glances to the tent poles in your arms.
Are y’all together? A thing? Does he want you near him? Or has he had his fill, gotten a joke out of it (as you always, always been scared he’d do)?
He nods to your pile of stuff. Tosses you an approving smile. Goes back to arranging his pillows.
Gale watches you still. You force on your own smile. Voice strained, but you commit through to normalcy. “Thanks, Gale.”
His gaze lingers a moment. And if he asks, you’re gonna lose your shit. Please don’t. Please just go.
“My pleasure,” he says. Nods. “If…if there’s anything else you need, you only have to ask.”
Aaand you can’t talk again. Can only hold your fixed-ass rictus of a smile as he leaves you. Keep your face blank—you are made of stone, and stone don’t fucking cry like a fucking infant. Set up your new tent (there’s little diamond shapes embroidered on it, that’s genuinely pretty) and get your shit squared away.
And as you toss your pack inside and start to duck in after it (change your clothes, change your clothes), a cool presence comes up beside you. Spicy herbs and old basement.
“How charming,” Astarion says.
You can’t look at him. Barely keep yourself level enough to manage, “Yeah. I think I like it.”
See if he says anything. See if he asks why you need a separate tent.
He hums. Stands there.
What are you two? What even is this?
Then he leans in. The hairs on the back of your neck lift. “Those love bites look charming on you as well.”
This isn’t fair. It ain’t fucking fair that you been freaking out the last hour, and this fucking shitlord can spit out one sentence and destroy whatever certainty you’d started to build up.
When you turn, his face is inches from yours. He stares at your neck, gaze flicking up to your lips, and then to meet your own.
“What?” you say, instead of something sensible like “why’ve you been avoiding me” or “you don’t get to leave me high and dry and come sauntering back” or “but seriously, are we boyfriend and girlfriend?”
He’s not touching you. Barely.
His eyelids droop, slitting his gaze into something that prickles hot down your spine.
“We’ll have to figure out one thing, lover,” he says. “Will it be your tent or mine?”
And he slips away like an eel. Like a fucking rat. Leaves you there, gawping, cheeks on fire and head spinning and heart aching.
What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?
What’s even happening? What…this…fuck?
You fucked up. Y’all gotta de-worm y’all’s brains, figure out how the fuck a bunch of cult fuckers is using them worms and magic to control people and why, and then probably murder a bunch of them (and slavers, because slavers and you got the power to do something about that, now).
So on top of that, you add “I let a fucked up vampire man fingerbang me and now I don’t know what to do about it.” Ten outta ten, no notes, perfect idiot score.
You watch Astarion sashay back to his pillows. Pause to give you a fucking wink over his shoulder, and then duck inside.
You are so, overwhelmingly fucked.
***
That's a wrap! These Two Shitheads will be appearing in the next fic, Fingers Sifting Black Earth. I hope to post the first chapter on Xmas, since it's a Wednesday. Thank you again everyone who's taken the time outta their day to drop me a note or a comment or a like! Y'all are why I'm still going 😊
