[ Bosky leaps at the invitation, butting his forehead into the slack of Astarion's fingers — there's no crumb of affection the beast turns away when it's offered, though he has, at least, gotten better at chewing on fingers. (At almost hip-height, nobody had thought the habit particularly reassuring. Save, of course, Laezel.)
Tav smiles. Patient, less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning, when she'd thought Astarion beautiful but strange, like the last bird of its kind. A sweet song, but hard to understand — made for someone, but not her. She follows his line of sight for a moment, taking another cursory glance around. Only campfire smoke, the shudder of wind through trees; she cocks her head, as if truly straining to listen. And then, cheeks bunching upwards, ]
Just you, I think.
[ She likes a tidy camp. Everything has its place. The fire flickers, casting soft shadows over a nearby bedroll, a small quiver of arrows; a bowl of wispweed, a stone mortar and pestle, a scent that still lingers under the edge of her nails. Tav hesitates for half-a-step, the way she does when she has something to say, brows twisting into some unnameable, careful expression. ]
Do you need to eat, before?
[ It feels very terrible, and frequently so, that she can't look after his needs well. None of them ask, beyond those moments when past ghosts start to nip at their heels. But she can hardly offer Astarion anything as easily as an apple: an odd book, perhaps, or a shining, pearlescent comb, but nothing sustains as well as Have you eaten?, and considering what he needs to fulfil that question.
She does try to offer, anyway. Twice a week, like clockwork. ]
"fancy lads" truly the nicest possible way of describing them
[ Her first response prompts a sort of scoff, half oh, you and half oh, please, but nothing more explicit given that he can't really argue the point. They'd all cottoned onto him annoyingly quickly, after all.
He looks down at Bosky as the beast pants excitedly, wiggling enough to practically be petting himself. He's still looking at the dire wolf (mostly wondering to himself how the creature changes so drastically in battle, when he doesn't appear much more dangerous in camp than Scratch — save for his former habit of nibbling on proffered fingers) when she asks if he needs to feed. It's a small blessing — he doesn't like being caught off-guard, and the question (at least the way she asks it) somehow always does.
At first, it's an easy yes. She's offered her neck to him willingly; why would he ever say no?
(Less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning. He's noticed, of course. It's— almost a shame. The degree to which she's considerate of him, of his needs, is singular. It makes him feel a little sick — that's as close as he can really come to describing the sensation of fondness or the anxiety that a door might be closed that he wants, for better or worse, to be open. But he gets the sense that her song is meant for someone else, too.)
And so, after a moment of thought, he waves a hand in dismissal, the gesture accompanied by a roll of his eyes. ]
I couldn't possibly, little duck. Not when you look so pale already.
[ A beat. Thank you for asking hangs on his tongue. Instead: ]
—Who should I wake, after? Is it the wizard's turn, next?
[ Don't I always look like this? she wants to say, but that gets locked behind her teeth. Grace, in all things, like the beasts and the trees and the green: her own personal creed, really, defined and refined again over time. In another life, perhaps she would have been a druid. Halsin, and even Jaheira, at least seem to think so, but that's such a silly thing to think. No animal escapes what it really is. Something always survives.
Her answer isn't immediate. Instead, Tav crouches down, both hands digging into Bosky's fur. The wolf makes a soft noise, a grumbling sort of half-whine at such a manual accost for his attention. (And away from his very favorite person, too.) She practically presses her face into the soft concave of Bosky's ear, placing a quiet, low instruction. (Go see if—. And the rest, inaudible.) Whatever it is, it makes him bound off into the night, a looming shape venturing beyond the thicket.
Satisfied, Tav straightens. Brushes a little dirt from her palms, tipping her chin into a short nod. ]
Wyll, please. [ A definitive answer, the play decided, though it's not without a small grin. Not shy, exactly, but maybe a little smaller, like the first pass of a secret that she thinks is funny: ] Gale hates it when you wake him so close to sunrise. You're very good at needling him sometimes.
[ (It's one of the very best things, about traveling with this group of people, all their Illithid-shaped dangers aside. That they keep her secrets, and make her laugh, and she's allowed to keep theirs in turn.
What right does she have, to ask for more than that?)
Tav makes as if to move towards the heat of the fire. An open arm in gesture, or maybe more questioning: ]
I'd like to keep you company, until Bosky comes back. [ Another definitive. A pause, and then her expression flickers, suddenly unsure with a, ] If you'd— like.
[ An easy response to a comment that's delivered lightly enough that he doesn't take it as chiding — not seriously, anyway, if that smile on her face is any indication. As for what follows—
He's come to know that look well — the look she wears when she's thinking. It's not a mannerism he's really seen often, save on the shy, and she's not really that; it is, quite literally, thoughtfulness, not any anxiety as to what to say next, not in the traditional sense (at least as far as he can sense it, anyway). She doesn't say anything without seeming to think it through, which makes her somewhat unusual in their camp, what with the abundance of hot tempers and general stubbornness.
A slight frown crosses his face as he watches Bosky lope away, natural curiosity as to what she's said buzzing like a mosquito in his pointed ear. The offer to stay up with him until the direwolf returns — which a part of him strongly suspects won't be until his shift, as it were, is over — is another consideration that's almost irritating for the fact that he knows few others would make the same gesture, and even fewer would genuinely mean it. ]
I'd like it very much, [ he says, adopting the kind of tone one might use to placate a child, though with enough of a twist of his lips as he delivers it that it's clear he does appreciate the thought. (Best not to be ungrateful, especially when that isn't the truth of the matter.) ]
I don't suppose you'll tell me what sort of errand you've sent that beast on?
[ There's a small stretch of silence that follows. Karlach, softly snoring nearby. Tav frowns and it changes the shape of her face, tightens her shoulders imperceptibly — displeasure, or a defensive measure, or a fissure of frosty anger that's characterized her before. It lasts only as long as it takes her to sit on one of the bedrolls by the fire. There, she blows out a heavy sigh, rumbling her lips into a soft raspberry. (That's not a very leadery thing to do, is it?) ]
I asked him to run through the forest, [ she tells Astarion, carefully. Her eyes cut sidelong to him, neutral, still thinking. ] To see if there are any animals out there larger than a rabbit.
[ It's not anger that made her frown. It's just— She feels— a little embarrassed, is the thing. Caught out on her small, secret plan, for a small, secret thought, that if not her own, a deer might do.
Quickly, as if what happened before isn't important, she adds, ]
You always ask for my secrets, Astarion. [ Even with the fact that it's hard to keep them, sometimes, with their visitors they share, crawling just behind their eye sockets. ] I won't have any left, soon.
[ She smiles at him. She's not really upset, this isn't at all like how she didn't speak to Gale for half a tenday that one time, and she could always say no. Tav has before. But there's a premium to the truth, one that she always pays before telling — she's never been the best liar, anyway. ]
[ It's an answer that almost makes him feel guilty for asking, which is a nettlesome feeling in its own right. Before her, before all of this, he doesn't think he'd have thought twice about taking advantage of such an offer, such kindness. Why should he balk now? (The answer reveals itself easily enough: no one had offered him kindness before, not really. It's what makes him so inclined to follow her, even if he thinks her generosity is a danger to herself. Who else, after all, would keep an eye on the shadows behind her?)
In lieu of saying you didn't have to — because he will still feed on whatever Bosky ends up bringing back — he clicks his tongue, an only mildly reproachful tsk that travels between just the two of them as he comes to sit next to her by the campfire.
(It had been quite funny to see Gale so on the outs, if only because of the degree to which the wizard had been flabbergasted his usual charm had so utterly failed him — and to see stony anger manifested on Tav's usually soft features.) ]
Just because someone asks for a secret doesn't mean you have to tell them, [ he says, as though imparting some sage piece of wisdom. ] Well, except for me, I suppose. You must tell me.
[ He pauses, then, as he usually does when contemplating sharing even a shred of an earnest thought, the firelight dancing along the sharp edges of his face. ]
Go on, then. Ask me something in return.
now that i am sufficiently warmed up a month later, thank you queen
[ That same light softens her features further, hiding another scatter of pink underneath her blue markings, the stretch of a smile making it easier. You must tell me, and her eyes roll without any malice. To perhaps keep her hands busy, or to buy herself valuable time, Tav touches her own hair. Gently pulls the ties securing the braids together, undoing them one by one.
She hums. Considering, quiet. ]
Are you,
[ —happy? What a silly, trite thing to ask. None of them are very happy, not with the tadpoles that fester in their ocular sockets, how searching for a cure only leads to more and more obstacles. Tav isn't sure she is happy. Content, maybe. But they are so very close to Baldur's Gate, and how very long a pilgrimage it has been to get there, and soon there must be something better, clearer, on the horizon, something that means that life can feel less... less.
She could ask other things. What does he keep reading? Is there a story that is his favorite? Would he mind telling it to her? Was it true, that he can no longer remember what he looks like?
Those seem like real secrets. Indulgent and quiet. Tav looks into the crackling fire and feels the warmth spread through her chest. ]
You didn't like me very much, when we first met.
[ Well. There had been many extenuating circumstances. A knife to her throat, for example, and lies, which she didn't like; kindness, which Astarion liked even less than a refusal of coin. With an apologetic but truthful tone in her voice, she adds, ] I did not like you very much, either. [ But of course, life changes. As secure as the seasons, as beasts live and die, as an arrow slides true.
Maybe it is childish to ask. But like he's reminded her: just because someone asks doesn't mean you have to tell them. It would sound silly to say Do you like me, now? Is it still the same, do you think? and so she settles on, simply, ]
He smiles a little — a rare expression in that it's meant purely for himself, though it unfolds across his face for her to plainly see. His features only shift again when she speaks up, when she finds what she wants to say, because you didn't like me very much — despite the very broad boundaries drawn by his prompting — hadn't been very high on the list of things he'd expected her to hear.
What's also unexpected is the faint sense of guilt that accompanies it. She doesn't say it to scold him, hence the second part of her lead-up, which pries a laugh from his mouth, but he feels that twinge nonetheless. To be good still doesn't come completely easily to him, but he better understands the reasons why someone would choose such a path, rather than considering it outright foolish, as he once had.
And he better understands her, most importantly — that what he'd taken for naïveté is instead a sort of strength. She's gotten them all this far, which is no mean feat, even if one accounts for an unusual helping of dumb luck.
So he looks at her in the firelight, at the loosened braid of her hair, the terribly earnest way in which she regards him, and says, ] Can you not tell?
[ Once, he thinks, he would have loathed answering a question like this, would have sidestepped it or supplied some sugar-coated lie. Every other question that occurs to her would have been preferable to having to confess or feign affection or care.
To that end, he understands his initial answer to be almost cruel, considering that she's given voice to something that ... to say she was worried about it would be to oversell it, and to say that she cares, well. It begs something more concrete, doesn't it? His gaze drifts into the fire, that small smile coalescing again on his face — his voice is soft, as though betraying some sort of secret. ]
Of course it has.
[ A breath catches in his throat, as though he's stopped himself from saying anything further. From saying, do you think I would still be here if I did not care for you?
Instead, wry, a tease to set him back on a wavelength closer to his usual self: ] I find you quite tolerable, now.
Deft fingers push through the odd knot, continuing the untangling of her larger braids. Plucking at them, separating; the same, quick way she might for the fletching in her arrows. It is, now, a vie for time, but it happens yet again: a pleased smile, pitched not to the fire but the red of Astarion's eyes. Her own little flit of joy.
No. She cannot tell at all. But something inside of herself feels awfully rewarded, from cold to flush, now that he has handed her something very—
—well, concrete. ]
I am only so tolerable?
[ Mischief crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her hands drop to her lap, palms upward and relaxed. She leans, only the slightest fraction, into the circle of his space; sotto voce as she adds solemnly, the same way she might pass judgment on something much more serious: ] I believe you. [ Adds, with her own, very plain truth, ] I like that you do.
[ Tav wouldn't dare ask more of him, now. There are so many things she understands about the world, and so much more that she would like to — curiosity is her crutch, the thing that sends her peering at barrels and old shelves and standing before locked doors, thinking, only to mutter his name like a question — but, by the day, Astarion becomes that much clearer in shape.
She feels quite satisfied with herself, actually. Maybe that's terribly rude, but it buoys her. Her hands make short work of her loose hair, carding through quickly but haphazardly, rebraiding into two even parts. It takes a small beat of silence, but afterward, she wordlessly turns her head for him: a silent request to check that her work is even, since she only did so by feel.
And, perhaps, it is because her head is turned away that she can tell him: ]
He could find it in himself to be annoyed at that sheer earnestness, to deflect it, but— instead, he bites the inside of his cheek, only half-stopping the slight smile that spreads across his features in return. He knows, to some degree, that the warmth she offers to him now is worth hanging onto, if only because he'd experienced firsthand the way it had faded, changed in shape, in the first portion of their journey, when he'd still had more of an air of coldness about him — when he'd found it easier to lie.
(She'd blushed for him so easily, once. Maybe that's not something he ought to be chasing, but, well— he's always been a little greedy. And it's hardly as though she lacks any freedom of choice.)
So, ] I thought it was only fair, [ is all he says in response to her thanks, as he scoots a little closer.
His fingers are gentle as they find her braids, teasing out one or two uneven spots — as deft with her hair as with any lock or trap. Not that they really need so much adjustment, but she'd asked, and it's in his habit, now, to answer. Besides, he's a creature given to preening, and an extension of that trait to another isn't so much of a burden.
Other answers hang on his tongue — don't get used to it; it's our little secret, alright; similar half-thoughts — and he swallows them all, a long moment passing with just the crackling of the fire between them. Then his hands fall away, and— he doesn't move any further away, instead only repositioning himself to face the flames. ]
—Has it changed, for you?
[ A question she's already sort of answered, but, in the spirit of asking such things, he allows himself to speak the words aloud. ]
[ It's a little trancelike, at first. How warm it is, and how smoothly he rearranges the knots at the back of her skull. Her blinks slow, and then become slower still, like a moth coming to rest over light. She thinks, briefly, maybe impossibly, that this might be the last — the only, in some measure — another might do this for her. Who knows what awaits them in the city? After the cure, what will their lives look like? Hers will return, she is certain, to more of living just outside Baldur's Gate, to chasing birds and game through the woods, to Bosky's whines when he has mud on his nose. The two of them, just two, in amongst all the green.
But thoughts like that do so little to chase away the feeling that sits in her chest. It beats very strongly. It's that that emboldens her, makes her turn to look at him with a glint in her smile. ]
Yes. [ There's a laugh somewhere, tucked into the shape of her mouth as she echoes, ] Can't you tell?
[ Surely, it is very easy to guess, but he is speaking the words aloud anyway. It would be silly to mimic him much further, so Tav keeps her boldness. Offers more, and further. ]
I don't have anything very pretty to say. [ She hums lightly. ] I did not always see you very well. You are a very good liar. I did not always understand what you wanted, and it was very frustrating. Sometimes you are still very frustrating. And even when you said these things to me, about what you thought of, and what you needed, I could not always let myself trust them, because of the things I imagined you to be. It was very unfair. But I see you better now.
[ A fissure of something unpleasant worms its way past all that very solid surety. It always happens like this, in these times when it is more quiet at camp, late at night with her companions. Doubt. Self-consciousness. Her cheeks flush when she adds, a little haltingly, ]
[ He doesn't fear the idea of life after all of this — but he finds himself relishing it less than he once might have. Against his better judgment, he's grown used to their little camp — even fond of it, though he likely wouldn't say as much out loud. And he would miss them — miss her — were they all to splinter. The thought makes him uncomfortable, twists his gut into a knot he doesn't know how to untie.
Loneliness— he'd never liked it, per se (preferred it, perhaps, for the sake of self-preservation), but the idea of fearing it is somehow humiliating.
But she jokes, mimicking his cadence of speech, and it makes it easy for him to laugh, to roll his eyes, to think about other things — to think only about how close they are to each other, about the blush that colors her cheeks (that he'd once thought lost to him). ]
It doesn't require flowery turns of phrase for one's words to be considered pretty, little dove.
[ He glances at her sidelong, letting her parse his meaning for herself. Then, an allowance — a gentle confirmation:]
We see each other better, now. Besides, it wasn't so unfair.
[ A shrug, not argument so much as an understanding of what he is, how he works — he'd presented her with an image of himself that had not been entirely genuine. That she'd noticed the differences between what he'd put forth and what he was is not a fault. ]
All that to say — I'm glad of it. I suppose you'll do, as far as a mirror goes.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
me and ladies who have a lot banking on animal imagery 🤝 your fancy lads
Tav smiles. Patient, less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning, when she'd thought Astarion beautiful but strange, like the last bird of its kind. A sweet song, but hard to understand — made for someone, but not her. She follows his line of sight for a moment, taking another cursory glance around. Only campfire smoke, the shudder of wind through trees; she cocks her head, as if truly straining to listen. And then, cheeks bunching upwards, ]
Just you, I think.
[ She likes a tidy camp. Everything has its place. The fire flickers, casting soft shadows over a nearby bedroll, a small quiver of arrows; a bowl of wispweed, a stone mortar and pestle, a scent that still lingers under the edge of her nails. Tav hesitates for half-a-step, the way she does when she has something to say, brows twisting into some unnameable, careful expression. ]
Do you need to eat, before?
[ It feels very terrible, and frequently so, that she can't look after his needs well. None of them ask, beyond those moments when past ghosts start to nip at their heels. But she can hardly offer Astarion anything as easily as an apple: an odd book, perhaps, or a shining, pearlescent comb, but nothing sustains as well as Have you eaten?, and considering what he needs to fulfil that question.
She does try to offer, anyway. Twice a week, like clockwork. ]
"fancy lads" truly the nicest possible way of describing them
He looks down at Bosky as the beast pants excitedly, wiggling enough to practically be petting himself. He's still looking at the dire wolf (mostly wondering to himself how the creature changes so drastically in battle, when he doesn't appear much more dangerous in camp than Scratch — save for his former habit of nibbling on proffered fingers) when she asks if he needs to feed. It's a small blessing — he doesn't like being caught off-guard, and the question (at least the way she asks it) somehow always does.
At first, it's an easy yes. She's offered her neck to him willingly; why would he ever say no?
(Less and less pink than she'd been in the beginning. He's noticed, of course. It's— almost a shame. The degree to which she's considerate of him, of his needs, is singular. It makes him feel a little sick — that's as close as he can really come to describing the sensation of fondness or the anxiety that a door might be closed that he wants, for better or worse, to be open. But he gets the sense that her song is meant for someone else, too.)
And so, after a moment of thought, he waves a hand in dismissal, the gesture accompanied by a roll of his eyes. ]
I couldn't possibly, little duck. Not when you look so pale already.
[ A beat. Thank you for asking hangs on his tongue. Instead: ]
—Who should I wake, after? Is it the wizard's turn, next?
no subject
Her answer isn't immediate. Instead, Tav crouches down, both hands digging into Bosky's fur. The wolf makes a soft noise, a grumbling sort of half-whine at such a manual accost for his attention. (And away from his very favorite person, too.) She practically presses her face into the soft concave of Bosky's ear, placing a quiet, low instruction. (Go see if—. And the rest, inaudible.) Whatever it is, it makes him bound off into the night, a looming shape venturing beyond the thicket.
Satisfied, Tav straightens. Brushes a little dirt from her palms, tipping her chin into a short nod. ]
Wyll, please. [ A definitive answer, the play decided, though it's not without a small grin. Not shy, exactly, but maybe a little smaller, like the first pass of a secret that she thinks is funny: ] Gale hates it when you wake him so close to sunrise. You're very good at needling him sometimes.
[ (It's one of the very best things, about traveling with this group of people, all their Illithid-shaped dangers aside. That they keep her secrets, and make her laugh, and she's allowed to keep theirs in turn.
What right does she have, to ask for more than that?)
Tav makes as if to move towards the heat of the fire. An open arm in gesture, or maybe more questioning: ]
I'd like to keep you company, until Bosky comes back. [ Another definitive. A pause, and then her expression flickers, suddenly unsure with a, ] If you'd— like.
no subject
[ An easy response to a comment that's delivered lightly enough that he doesn't take it as chiding — not seriously, anyway, if that smile on her face is any indication. As for what follows—
He's come to know that look well — the look she wears when she's thinking. It's not a mannerism he's really seen often, save on the shy, and she's not really that; it is, quite literally, thoughtfulness, not any anxiety as to what to say next, not in the traditional sense (at least as far as he can sense it, anyway). She doesn't say anything without seeming to think it through, which makes her somewhat unusual in their camp, what with the abundance of hot tempers and general stubbornness.
A slight frown crosses his face as he watches Bosky lope away, natural curiosity as to what she's said buzzing like a mosquito in his pointed ear. The offer to stay up with him until the direwolf returns — which a part of him strongly suspects won't be until his shift, as it were, is over — is another consideration that's almost irritating for the fact that he knows few others would make the same gesture, and even fewer would genuinely mean it. ]
I'd like it very much, [ he says, adopting the kind of tone one might use to placate a child, though with enough of a twist of his lips as he delivers it that it's clear he does appreciate the thought. (Best not to be ungrateful, especially when that isn't the truth of the matter.) ]
I don't suppose you'll tell me what sort of errand you've sent that beast on?
no subject
I asked him to run through the forest, [ she tells Astarion, carefully. Her eyes cut sidelong to him, neutral, still thinking. ] To see if there are any animals out there larger than a rabbit.
[ It's not anger that made her frown. It's just— She feels— a little embarrassed, is the thing. Caught out on her small, secret plan, for a small, secret thought, that if not her own, a deer might do.
Quickly, as if what happened before isn't important, she adds, ]
You always ask for my secrets, Astarion. [ Even with the fact that it's hard to keep them, sometimes, with their visitors they share, crawling just behind their eye sockets. ] I won't have any left, soon.
[ She smiles at him. She's not really upset, this isn't at all like how she didn't speak to Gale for half a tenday that one time, and she could always say no. Tav has before. But there's a premium to the truth, one that she always pays before telling — she's never been the best liar, anyway. ]
no subject
In lieu of saying you didn't have to — because he will still feed on whatever Bosky ends up bringing back — he clicks his tongue, an only mildly reproachful tsk that travels between just the two of them as he comes to sit next to her by the campfire.
(It had been quite funny to see Gale so on the outs, if only because of the degree to which the wizard had been flabbergasted his usual charm had so utterly failed him — and to see stony anger manifested on Tav's usually soft features.) ]
Just because someone asks for a secret doesn't mean you have to tell them, [ he says, as though imparting some sage piece of wisdom. ] Well, except for me, I suppose. You must tell me.
[ He pauses, then, as he usually does when contemplating sharing even a shred of an earnest thought, the firelight dancing along the sharp edges of his face. ]
Go on, then. Ask me something in return.
now that i am sufficiently warmed up a month later, thank you queen
She hums. Considering, quiet. ]
Are you,
[ —happy? What a silly, trite thing to ask. None of them are very happy, not with the tadpoles that fester in their ocular sockets, how searching for a cure only leads to more and more obstacles. Tav isn't sure she is happy. Content, maybe. But they are so very close to Baldur's Gate, and how very long a pilgrimage it has been to get there, and soon there must be something better, clearer, on the horizon, something that means that life can feel less... less.
She could ask other things. What does he keep reading? Is there a story that is his favorite? Would he mind telling it to her? Was it true, that he can no longer remember what he looks like?
Those seem like real secrets. Indulgent and quiet. Tav looks into the crackling fire and feels the warmth spread through her chest. ]
You didn't like me very much, when we first met.
[ Well. There had been many extenuating circumstances. A knife to her throat, for example, and lies, which she didn't like; kindness, which Astarion liked even less than a refusal of coin. With an apologetic but truthful tone in her voice, she adds, ] I did not like you very much, either. [ But of course, life changes. As secure as the seasons, as beasts live and die, as an arrow slides true.
Maybe it is childish to ask. But like he's reminded her: just because someone asks doesn't mean you have to tell them. It would sound silly to say Do you like me, now? Is it still the same, do you think? and so she settles on, simply, ]
Has that changed?
😌
He smiles a little — a rare expression in that it's meant purely for himself, though it unfolds across his face for her to plainly see. His features only shift again when she speaks up, when she finds what she wants to say, because you didn't like me very much — despite the very broad boundaries drawn by his prompting — hadn't been very high on the list of things he'd expected her to hear.
What's also unexpected is the faint sense of guilt that accompanies it. She doesn't say it to scold him, hence the second part of her lead-up, which pries a laugh from his mouth, but he feels that twinge nonetheless. To be good still doesn't come completely easily to him, but he better understands the reasons why someone would choose such a path, rather than considering it outright foolish, as he once had.
And he better understands her, most importantly — that what he'd taken for naïveté is instead a sort of strength. She's gotten them all this far, which is no mean feat, even if one accounts for an unusual helping of dumb luck.
So he looks at her in the firelight, at the loosened braid of her hair, the terribly earnest way in which she regards him, and says, ] Can you not tell?
[ Once, he thinks, he would have loathed answering a question like this, would have sidestepped it or supplied some sugar-coated lie. Every other question that occurs to her would have been preferable to having to confess or feign affection or care.
To that end, he understands his initial answer to be almost cruel, considering that she's given voice to something that ... to say she was worried about it would be to oversell it, and to say that she cares, well. It begs something more concrete, doesn't it? His gaze drifts into the fire, that small smile coalescing again on his face — his voice is soft, as though betraying some sort of secret. ]
Of course it has.
[ A breath catches in his throat, as though he's stopped himself from saying anything further. From saying, do you think I would still be here if I did not care for you?
Instead, wry, a tease to set him back on a wavelength closer to his usual self: ] I find you quite tolerable, now.
no subject
Deft fingers push through the odd knot, continuing the untangling of her larger braids. Plucking at them, separating; the same, quick way she might for the fletching in her arrows. It is, now, a vie for time, but it happens yet again: a pleased smile, pitched not to the fire but the red of Astarion's eyes. Her own little flit of joy.
No. She cannot tell at all. But something inside of herself feels awfully rewarded, from cold to flush, now that he has handed her something very—
—well, concrete. ]
I am only so tolerable?
[ Mischief crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her hands drop to her lap, palms upward and relaxed. She leans, only the slightest fraction, into the circle of his space; sotto voce as she adds solemnly, the same way she might pass judgment on something much more serious: ] I believe you. [ Adds, with her own, very plain truth, ] I like that you do.
[ Tav wouldn't dare ask more of him, now. There are so many things she understands about the world, and so much more that she would like to — curiosity is her crutch, the thing that sends her peering at barrels and old shelves and standing before locked doors, thinking, only to mutter his name like a question — but, by the day, Astarion becomes that much clearer in shape.
She feels quite satisfied with herself, actually. Maybe that's terribly rude, but it buoys her. Her hands make short work of her loose hair, carding through quickly but haphazardly, rebraiding into two even parts. It takes a small beat of silence, but afterward, she wordlessly turns her head for him: a silent request to check that her work is even, since she only did so by feel.
And, perhaps, it is because her head is turned away that she can tell him: ]
That was a very good secret, Astarion. Thank you.
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He could find it in himself to be annoyed at that sheer earnestness, to deflect it, but— instead, he bites the inside of his cheek, only half-stopping the slight smile that spreads across his features in return. He knows, to some degree, that the warmth she offers to him now is worth hanging onto, if only because he'd experienced firsthand the way it had faded, changed in shape, in the first portion of their journey, when he'd still had more of an air of coldness about him — when he'd found it easier to lie.
(She'd blushed for him so easily, once. Maybe that's not something he ought to be chasing, but, well— he's always been a little greedy. And it's hardly as though she lacks any freedom of choice.)
So, ] I thought it was only fair, [ is all he says in response to her thanks, as he scoots a little closer.
His fingers are gentle as they find her braids, teasing out one or two uneven spots — as deft with her hair as with any lock or trap. Not that they really need so much adjustment, but she'd asked, and it's in his habit, now, to answer. Besides, he's a creature given to preening, and an extension of that trait to another isn't so much of a burden.
Other answers hang on his tongue — don't get used to it; it's our little secret, alright; similar half-thoughts — and he swallows them all, a long moment passing with just the crackling of the fire between them. Then his hands fall away, and— he doesn't move any further away, instead only repositioning himself to face the flames. ]
—Has it changed, for you?
[ A question she's already sort of answered, but, in the spirit of asking such things, he allows himself to speak the words aloud. ]
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But thoughts like that do so little to chase away the feeling that sits in her chest. It beats very strongly. It's that that emboldens her, makes her turn to look at him with a glint in her smile. ]
Yes. [ There's a laugh somewhere, tucked into the shape of her mouth as she echoes, ] Can't you tell?
[ Surely, it is very easy to guess, but he is speaking the words aloud anyway. It would be silly to mimic him much further, so Tav keeps her boldness. Offers more, and further. ]
I don't have anything very pretty to say. [ She hums lightly. ] I did not always see you very well. You are a very good liar. I did not always understand what you wanted, and it was very frustrating. Sometimes you are still very frustrating. And even when you said these things to me, about what you thought of, and what you needed, I could not always let myself trust them, because of the things I imagined you to be. It was very unfair. But I see you better now.
[ A fissure of something unpleasant worms its way past all that very solid surety. It always happens like this, in these times when it is more quiet at camp, late at night with her companions. Doubt. Self-consciousness. Her cheeks flush when she adds, a little haltingly, ]
I— think I see you better now. You let me.
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Loneliness— he'd never liked it, per se (preferred it, perhaps, for the sake of self-preservation), but the idea of fearing it is somehow humiliating.
But she jokes, mimicking his cadence of speech, and it makes it easy for him to laugh, to roll his eyes, to think about other things — to think only about how close they are to each other, about the blush that colors her cheeks (that he'd once thought lost to him). ]
It doesn't require flowery turns of phrase for one's words to be considered pretty, little dove.
[ He glances at her sidelong, letting her parse his meaning for herself. Then, an allowance — a gentle confirmation:]
We see each other better, now. Besides, it wasn't so unfair.
[ A shrug, not argument so much as an understanding of what he is, how he works — he'd presented her with an image of himself that had not been entirely genuine. That she'd noticed the differences between what he'd put forth and what he was is not a fault. ]
All that to say — I'm glad of it. I suppose you'll do, as far as a mirror goes.