Chapter Text
When a vampire spawn is in a bad mood, everyone knows it. And their vampire spawn wasn’t the most agreeable even when he was in a good mood. Though their camp wasn’t filled with many agreeable people in general, every so often someone would fall into a bad enough mood that everyone else began to walk on eggshells. Often it was Lae’zel, or Lae’zel and Shadowheart when they got into one of their spats. Occasionally it was Gale when he hadn’t been able to find a magical artifact in enough time to stop that sharp, needy pain from chewing on his insides. Even Withers could get prickly from time to time.
And sometimes, it was Astarion.
No one really knew how to handle him on a good day, with his guarded personality and affinity to wear so many masks he could put a court jester to shame. But on a good day, he didn’t mind. On a good day, he played along with everyone else -- sharing teasing jabs with Wyll, making light fun of Gale, gossiping with Shadowheart. Sometimes he even sat with Karlach and Tav near the fire, and those times were often when he was the most relaxed. Or, at least, with the most masks scattered on the ground around him -- with the least layers between him and the people who had slowly begun to think of him as a friend.
But sometimes, something inside him shifted, and every part of him sharpened.
Dusk had draped itself over camp and Astarion was glaring daggers at the fire. Gale had been preparing their meal for almost an hour now, taking great pleasure in the fact that he had actual ingredients to work with and not just moldy carrots and a stale loaf of bread. They’d walked amongst civilization that day, and all of them had come back with ingredients for a meal that they wanted him to make -- some purchased, some stolen. Astarion in particular had swiped a bottle of wine -- the most expensive Gale had seen in a long while.
“I would ask how you managed to conceal this, but I’m not sure I want to know,” he’d said when the vampire had handed it over to him without so much as a glance.
“Oh, in a manner equally as unsavory as all the ones you’re imagining in that overactive head of yours,” he’d lazily replied, but his words had been icier than usual. Gale was used to the man’s ribbings, but sometimes they had an extra bite to them that made him unsure of how to respond.
So, he’d taken the wine with nothing more than a nod and the promise to ensure that Astarion got a glass before it was gone.
“Don’t bother. If I wanted any, I’d have kept the whole thing for myself.”
Gale watched his back as he retreated into his tent, wondering what manner of creature he’d drained to put him in such a sour mood. Much like the wine, he didn’t want to know. He hadn’t seen Astarion again until the sun dipped below the horizon and the stew was already cooking. Most of them had followed the smell of food to the center of camp. Lae’zel was sharpening her sword, much to everyone’s annoyance. Well, everyone except Karlach, who was playing a lively game of fetch with Scratch. Around the fire, Shadowheart was lounging like a cat, brushing out her hair, and Wyll had gladly accepted a glass of wine when Gale offered it.
“Are you sure you don’t want any, Astarion? You stole it, after all.”
“Just as sure as the last two times you asked me,” he muttered at the same time that Wyll said, “Wait, stolen?”
Astarion rolled his eyes. Arms crossed, it almost looked like he was going to slip back into his silent brooding when his face twisted.
“Will that miserable Gith ever shut up,” he hissed.
“I doubt it,” Shadowheart replied, obviously bored. “That’s like asking if you’ll ever not take all day hogging the nearest stream because you have to wash your hair ‘just right’ -- or if you’ll ever not sink your fangs into a pretty neck.”
“At least I’m quiet about it. You don’t hear me bathing at a frequency high enough to give someone a headache.”
“No, but your perfume is strong enough to have the same effect.”
“Ah yes, pardon me for not wanting to smell like old boots and goblin guts. It seems I am quite in the minority in that regard.”
“Heads up!” came a shout, and seconds later a ball sailed over the fire, hitting the dirt and rolling into Astarion’s hip.
Scratch followed barely a moment later.
“Speak of the devil,” Astarion muttered under his breath, flicking the ball away and managing to redirect Scratch’s attention before the dog plowed him over. He couldn’t avoid the tail to the face, though, and his expression twisted as he bared his teeth and tried to swat at it.
“Sorry, fangs,” Karlach, said, jogging over to pick the dog up.
“Don’t apologize, just keep that filthy mutt away from me.”
If anyone could tell that Astarion was more bite than bark, it was Karlach. Then again, Karlach could usually tell when something was wrong with anyone at camp. Part of wearing her nonexistent heart on her sleeve.
“Are you feeling alright, Astarion?” she asked, still holding Scratch, who had started to wiggle the moment he’d dropped his ball.
“Fine. Why do you ask?” It was a usual Astarion response, but something about it wasn’t landing. The showmanship that usually made it sound more cordial and convincing -- or even venomous -- was missing, and the words fell into the dirt like a hissing snake.
“No reason,” she said, and similarly, there was something in her voice that was different. She eyed him a moment longer before setting Scratch down a safe distance away and launching his ball across camp. The dog took after it eagerly.
“If I’m never asked if I’m alright again, I might just have a chance at peace in this lifetime,” the vampire muttered. His brow hadn’t relaxed its tense furrow since he’d sat down.
“Karlach’s just trying to be friendly,” Wyll defended.
“Yes, one of her many vices.”
“Would you rather her be more like Lae’zel?” Shadowheart said, weaving her hair into a new braid.
“Hm, let’s see… A gith who has no consideration for people’s ears, or a bleeding heart who’s too big for her own good. Oh yes, I quite like my options.”
“Now, there’s no need for low blows, Astarion,” Gale interjected. “Sure, we might all be a little rough around the edges, but that’s nothing you’re exempt from, need I remind you.”
“I would say your edges are rougher than most,” Shadowheart hummed.
“Thank you for reminding me, I’d clearly lost sight of that.” Astarion stood. His hands were balled into fists -- an unusually obvious display of anger.
“Wait, aren’t you going to eat?” Gale called as the vampire turned to walk away. It was only recently that he’d convinced him to partake in “the pleasures of the living,” as he’d put it.
“Gale,” Astarion half turned. “I wouldn’t even drink the blood of someone who had eaten that stew, let alone the stew itself.”
With that, he stormed off into the forest. He would have rather eaten Gale’s stew than admit it was storming, but that’s what it was.
“Who pissed on his bedroll,” Wyll wondered before taking a long sip of wine.
“Haven’t the slightest, but I have no intention of allowing him to piss on mine. Bowls, everyone?”
“Well, he was right about one thing,” Shadowheart began, giving Gale a sly smirk.
“I don’t like what you’re implying…”
While Shadowheart convinced Gale that she’d only been pulling his leg and did in fact want some of his stew for supper, and Wyll was attempting to shout over Lae’zel's grinding to let her know that food was ready, across the camp, Karlach had stopped her game of fetch. Scratch stood by her side, tail wagging in anticipation. She stared out into the forest for a moment before shaking her head.
“Sorry, boy,” she said, giving him a pat before tossing the ball. She sent it in the direction of Withers, hoping the old bag of bones might pick up where she’d left off. She’d caught him occasionally entertaining the concept of fetch, though never with much confidence or commitment. But for now, he’d have to do.
“Karlach, are you eating?” Shadowheart called as the other woman strode past the fire.
“Uh, yeah -- in a minute.”
“Is everything all right?” Lae’zel asked, glancing around like she was anticipating a reason to use her newly sharpened weapon.
“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine! Just save me a bowl, ‘kay?” Her eyes hadn’t left the treeline.
Leaving the glow of camp behind, she followed her own light into the woods. By then the sun was gone and the indigo hue of the night had settled into the spaces between the trees. The forest was dark, but she imagined she was lit up like a banner. Hoping that nothing unsavory noticed her, she tried to think.
If I were a grumpy vampire, where would I go?
She didn’t have the slightest fucking clue. But she did know her friend, as much as he might argue otherwise.
She found him by the river. They’d all taken a dip in it a few days ago, when the sun was high and the air was hot. Wyll had climbed onto her shoulders, and Lae’zel onto Gale's, and they’d fought to see who could push the other off. Astarion had stayed on the shore, fully clothed, and pretended not to watch. Funny, since Karlach had been pretending not to watch him. There was a sadness to him that had left her unable to focus on much else.
Maybe that was why she managed to pick him out of the darkness.
“Fangs?” she called. There was no answer. She squinted at the blob that was vaguely vampire-shaped. “Astarion?”
The blob moved, and she saw that pointy face reflected in the light from her engine as she drew closer. The face was pointier than usual.
“Ugh,” he clicked his tongue, rolled his shoulders -- he wanted her to know he was displeased. “You. What do you want?”
“Aw, come on, you could at least pretend to be happy to see me,” she smiled softly.
“Excuse me if I’m not in the mood for pretending.”
“Alright, you’re excused. So, what’s got your hackles up, then?”
He didn’t seem to know what to do with anything she’d just said. He blinked, lips pulling into a frown as he stared apprehensively at her.
“Are you…” she shifted her weight, suddenly unsure. “Are you hungry? Do you want me to go get Tav, or… well. Tav?”
“That’s very sweet of you,” he spat in a way that suggested he didn’t think it was sweet at all. “But no, I’m not hungry. Besides, even if I was, the smell of Gale’s cooking would have put me off.”
“Okay,” she continued, ignoring his sharp comments. He’d amassed them around himself like spikes pointing at anything that might try to get close. A man who normally held people at arm’s length was holding himself like he was especially terrified someone might try to come near.
Oh. Wait a second.
“Do you maybe… want a hug?” she offered unassumingly, turning to cross one arm and glance off into the trees before feeling her attention pulled inevitably back to him.
“Do I--” Astarion took a step back, angling his shoulder toward her. His eyes were wide, and suddenly the anger was gone from his face. It had been replaced with… surprise. Genuine, raw surprise. It made Karlach’s engine ache.
“What,” he cleared his throat, trying to recover his biting tone. He only half managed. “What the hells would I want a hug for?”
“Oh, I dunno,” she shrugged. “Could make you feel better. Back in Avernus, there were times I would have done anything for someone to hold me and tell me everything was going to be okay. Even if they’d be lying,” she smiled. “Then again, even if someone had been around, I probably would have burned them to a crisp before they could count to five.”
He was looking at her like she’d sprouted another head, but he didn’t seem so angry anymore.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, no one will spontaneously combust if they hug you. Neither will you, by the way. So, you know… just a thought.” Trailing off, she let the offer hang in the air.
“I... Well--” he opened his mouth, then closed it, staring somewhere over her shoulder. “I mean…” It took him a moment of gaping like a fish out of water before he turned to face her head on again.
“Just a hug?” he asked. His eyes had gone round and painfully vulnerable, like even though he was asking, he didn’t think the outcome was up to him. Karlach wondered how her engine could hold up under the weight of all the pain she felt for her friend. And the desire to grab him and squeeze him until he understood how loved he was, and how unfair the world had treated him. She knew what that felt like, and she would have gone back in time without hesitation to change the things that had happened to him. To make his world a little kinder.
“‘Course, soldier. Hells, it doesn’t even have to be a proper hug. I can just put my arm around your shoulder or give you a pat on the back or something.”
He exhaled a sound that was almost a laugh, rolling his eyes up to the sky briefly, but there was the start of a smile twisting at the corner of his mouth.
“I… suppose you’re right. It won’t kill me,” he glanced down at his feet, shifting uncomfortably. “Besides, I’m not technically alive, anyway. Ha.”
This was all unfamiliar territory, but Karlach just did the thing she’d always wanted someone to do to her when she was feeling like shit -- with perhaps a bit more caution for Astarion because she knew things like this were hard for him. So, very slowly, she closed the distance between them. When she was standing in front of him, she tried to make herself as non-threatening as possible. He wouldn’t meet her eye.
“Fangs.”
He looked up.
“You good with this?”
She felt her chest swell with pride as he took a moment to actually consider it.
“Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I think I am.”
That was good enough for her. She lifted her hands, placing them on his biceps for a moment before pulling him into her. He was stiff as a board and his arms stayed pinned to his sides. Karlach waited, her hands placed lightly on his back -- the only contact between them besides their chests. It felt like minutes passed, but her patience paid off the moment she felt him relax. It was like he’d released all the useless air he’d been holding in his lungs, and suddenly he was going limp.
She felt him lean his weight against her and she tightened her arms around him. There was a light touch on either side of her ribs. Astarion slid his hands under her arms and around to her shoulder blades, the gesture flighty and unsure. Her furnace was flaming hot -- a fact that she couldn’t help -- but it seemed that Astarion didn’t mind the increase in temperature. He let out a trembling sigh and then his face was cautiously tucking into her neck. She had to resist the urge to pick him up and shake him and instead squeezed him gently, directing the rest of her energy to her tail, which was wagging not unlike Scratch’s.
She could feel the tension leaving Astarion’s shoulders. Taking a steadying breath, she risked him ripping her throat out and leaned down to rest her cheek on his fluffy nest of hair. Nails dug into the skin on her back, almost hard enough to leave a mark. She ran her palm in a line across his shoulders. It’s okay, it said. This doesn’t have to hurt. Gods, she hated that not enough people had touched him gently. She hated that he needed this so much and had never gotten it.
She hated it even more when he took a shuddering breath, releasing it through clenched teeth in a tensed, frustrated huff. He was carrying so much in that little body of his. So much pain, so much fury. So much fear and anguish. Karlach would have waited a century if that was the time it took for him to be okay again. But, after a few minutes, she felt his chest expand with another breath. This time, he let it out slowly, evenly. It was soft against her neck. By then, the tip of his nose was finally warming up, and his nails had stopped digging into her back. She tapped a pattern onto the skin between his shoulder blades -- the tempo of a song her mum used to sing to her when she was little. Astarion was resting on her completely now. If she stepped back, she figured he’d drop right into the dirt. The thought made her hold him tighter.
They stood like that until his skin wasn’t cold. Then, with a short, halting breath, he patted her back. Bumping her nose into his hair, she pulled her arms away. Astarion stepped back, looking a little dazed. His cheek was flushed from where it had been resting on her shoulder, and his usually perfect hair was sticking up at odd ends like it often did in the mornings before he got around to fixing it. He looked so alive , she thought. Like a bit of the person he might have been before everything that had happened to him. He blinked a few times, glancing around like he was remembering where he was.
“How’re we feeling, fangs?” she asked.
“I feel… warm,” he said, his voice floating somewhere beyond his body. When he spoke again, he was more himself. More tethered. “Well…” He shook his head and looked at her clearly. “You’re lucky my murderous mood has passed or I might have seen no other choice but to drag your body into the lake.”
It was an empty threat if she’d ever heard one, and she knew he knew it. She also knew that he was using that sad attempt at humor to try to draw focus away from what he was feeling.
“Oh, I don’t know. A simple ‘thank you’ would probably do the trick,” she smirked.
“Yes, I--” he stopped, lifting his chin and glancing off to the side as he seemed to think about it. Then, very reluctantly -- and with those big puppy dog eyes that would have gotten Karlach to do absolutely anything they asked of her -- he searched her face.
“Thank you,” he said, nodding once.
“Anytime, fancy boy. I mean that. I will hug you literally anytime.”
“Alright, don’t get ahead of yourself. I can’t just go around acting like you all the time . I do have a reputation to uphold.”
“Hey, I’ve got a reputation. Everyone knows I’m very scary.”
“Ha! Hahaha--”
She crossed her arms and hoped it would keep the smirk off her face while Astarion bent forward.
“Darling, we’re more scared of Withers than you.”
“Well, I guess Withers is pretty scary,” she tilted her head. Then, “You know, there was a time when you wouldn’t shake my hand because you were afraid I might snap you in two.”
“Yes… Yes, I suppose there was.”
She couldn’t stop her smile, now. She shifted her weight lightly from one foot to the other. “And look at you now, huh, soldier?”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop looking so… proud of me,” he shook himself like he might shed the notion and lifted his chin. “It makes me feel things I’d rather keep buried in my cold, dead heart, thank you very much.”
“Aw, c’mon, fangs. Feelings aren’t so bad.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“I am proud of you, you know.”
Astarion shuddered, which he tried to cover up by turning sideways and rolling his eyes very dramatically.
“I am. More and more every single day.”
“Alright -- you've made your point,” he muttered. She indulged him and didn't say anything else, lest she uproot those feelings he kept buried in his cold, dead heart. Supposedly.
“Gods, what’s become of me?”
“You’ve made new friends, you’ve gained your freedom -- I’d even go so far as to say you’ve got more good things coming your way, fancy boy.”
“If my old master doesn’t find me and make me regret ever being born, then sure, why not? That is if we don’t turn into tentacled monsters first.”
“Neither of those things are going to happen. Not on my watch,” she said, and he could tell that she meant it. It was so simple for her to offer her protection. Astarion wished it was as simple for him to believe her.
“Well,” he rolled his eyes dramatically. “While I appreciate the… sentiment, I’m not in the market for a knight in fiery armor, thank you.”
“That's fine. I'll still be here anyway. You know, just in case you need someone to carry you when your feet hurt.”
“Or someone to hunt me through the woods and accost me with hugs?”
“You liked it, pointy,” she grinned. “If you didn't, I'd be a smoking corpse by now, right?”
“You'd be surprised,” he grimaced. He'd let a lot happen to him that he didn't like, and no one had paid for it. No one but himself. But this… this hadn't been one of those things, and, alarmingly, he wanted her to know that. So, he told her in the only way he knew how.
“But enough about this strange rendezvous. I'd say we've both been dramatic enough for one night,” he smiled -- emptily, but more like himself.
“Me dramatic? You've been dramatic enough for the both of us for a year.”
He gasped dramatically. Together, they started off toward camp.
“Please. You're nothing but drama, darling. I've seen you cry at the sight of a flower.”
“That's not dramatic, that's-- well, okay, maybe a little. But believe it or not, you don’t see a lot of flowers in Avernus. I was just admiring nature.”
“Tsk, now you sound like Halsin.”
Karlach laughed brightly. Then her face fell, just a little.
“Do you think he's coming along alright without us?”
“See, there you go again, being dramatic.”
“Ugh, put a cork in it, will you?”
She was smiling. They both were.
It felt good.
Astarion's smile had thinned considerably by the time they made it back to camp, but Karlach was grinning from ear to pointy ear and still humming with pride. As soon as they stepped into the fire's light, everyone in camp seemed to pick up on the change in mood.
“Are you done pouting, Astarion?” Lae'zel greeted, and though the question was blunt, the fact that she was asking at all was as close to caring as the gith allowed herself to get.
“Only if you're done sharpening that weapon, darling. Soon you won't have any sword left .”
“Well, perhaps we can both call it a night, then. Though, at least me sharpening my weapon has a point to it.”
“.......Was that a pun?”
“Absolutely not.”
From across the fire, Gale turned to Wyll with a look. The latter smirked.
“Ah,” he sighed quietly. “Everything back to normal, then.”
“So it would seem,” Gale said, raising an eyebrow as he watched Astarion bow mockingly to Lae'zel while the gith glared at him. Karlach settled down next to Tav, and no one commented when Astarion planted himself between her and Shadowheart, who leaned into Astarion's shoulder to gossip about what he'd missed, namely that Gale's soup had been just as bad as he'd suspected, though every word of it was a lie, considering she'd had two bowls of it.
Gale smiled, nodding contently.
“So it would seem.”