[All it takes is that look. One silent question that Astarion need not ever articulate, for Leto will give him anything his heart desires— and sometimes that includes being freed from the burden of choice. His head turns, tipping gratefully into that cooling cloth, before he says firmly:]
But tomorrow, we will move into your rented rooms.
[There's still strain in his voice, his fingers flexing and tightening with every slow pass, but this is something to focus on. Already his mind darts forward, sorting through what needs to be done. They don't have half as many things as they did in Thedas, and at worst, they can pack the bare minimum and come back for more later— but oh, there's so many hands to help now . . . yes, they can do it before next nightfall, Leto is certain. He nods, his eyes hard as he affirms that to himself— only to soften in the next instant as he looks up at his vampiric mate.
I know. I know, my love. Astarion, who gives so much of himself even now: dipping his hand in water and ignoring the pain that must be shooting up his arm in favor of trying to soothe his Leto, and all the while his mind must be miles away, lingering in a palace in the Upper City . . . it's beyond difficult. Impossible in a way that's almost too hard to comprehend, for dulled panic has a way of clouding the mind and smothering the senses.
So let Leto return the favor, and free Astarion from having to think at all. Let them go to a place where he can, if not relax, at least rest assured that he is not the sole person between himself and his mortal mate's demise.]
We'll need privacy, still. And a place where no sunlight can possibly reach . . . if not, we'll build it ourselves. Curtains to begin with, and something more sturdy after tomorrow.
[What else? The pups will go anywhere they're loved, so no worries there. Ataashi will be incredibly unhappy, but at least he now has the ability to tell her why they're moving, and negotiate with her from there. Possibly she can roam outside the city's boarders for stints, though he suspects she'll only ever do that if she's going absolutely stir-crazy.
'Privacy may be difficult to come by,' Shadowheart remarks. 'But sunlight we can do— or not, as the case may be. There's a corner in the tavern inn that has no windows—']
Good. We'll settle there.
[From there, he falls silent. It's another half-hour before Shadowheart finishes her work, and by that time, she looks as exhausted as Leto feels. Dropping the bloody bandages onto the bedside table, she stands with a yawn. 'Rest for another few hours,' she orders him. 'I'll check on it again in the morning, but it should be fine.'
He's left with blackened bruises a soreness that pervades, but nothing gaping. Nothing bloody, and thank the gods for that. He listens to Shadowheart's slow footsteps as she heads downstairs, and wait until she's called out to the landlord (who has since risen, delighted at the thought of even temporary paying guests) before he reaches for Astarion's hand.]
It will be worth it, [he murmurs, and strokes his thumb against his palm.] No matter how irritating.
. . . call it motivation for killing Cazador, perhaps.
[Moving . . . happened. The less said about the sheer amount of chaos it was, the better. Five extra sets of arms were useful, especially once Wyll managed to pay a few local boys to help carry things. But there were pups to hide and a wolf to cajole; a near-catastrophe with the sheer amount obscene items they own (that Leto would rather die than let anyone else see); keeping Astarion covered and out of the direct sunlight while they moved from one inn to the other, and having to fend off his worry whenever Leto came in with a suitcase, favoring his left arm. It's full of cross-conversations and serious debates on how best to move something bulky (Lae'zel prefers the clever tactics, while Karlach is in favor of just shoving anything though a doorway until it fits); it's full of sweat and frustrations and camaraderie.
By nightfall their old home stood empty, all their things carefully arranged around the bed they're to share.
At least there's a vague sense of privacy. Leto had made sure of that. Not just sheets tacked up on a ceiling, but a proper four-poster curtain surrounding their mattress. Fasteners are tacked into the openings (to be sewn in properly tomorrow), cinching them shut all around. It's no coffin in terms of security (nor familiar, longed for comfort) but it's the best they can do on short notice. And really, considering they're shoved in a corner where the sun never reaches, it will work for one night as precautionary measure.
Around them, the others are in bed, if not fully asleep, and the room is blissfully quiet. Not the peaceful silence he and Astarion have grown used to over the past few years, perhaps, but still lacking in the endless chattering demands for attention. At their feet, Ataashi snores faintly, her weight a pleasant bulk atop Leto's legs and feet. It's a little warm, but pulling Astarion into his arms solves that.
And now they lie together, Astarion tucked beneath Leto's left arm, his fingers carding through his hair and his mouth pressed against his scalp.]
The sooner we do, the sooner we get our privacy back.
no subject
But tomorrow, we will move into your rented rooms.
[There's still strain in his voice, his fingers flexing and tightening with every slow pass, but this is something to focus on. Already his mind darts forward, sorting through what needs to be done. They don't have half as many things as they did in Thedas, and at worst, they can pack the bare minimum and come back for more later— but oh, there's so many hands to help now . . . yes, they can do it before next nightfall, Leto is certain. He nods, his eyes hard as he affirms that to himself— only to soften in the next instant as he looks up at his vampiric mate.
I know. I know, my love. Astarion, who gives so much of himself even now: dipping his hand in water and ignoring the pain that must be shooting up his arm in favor of trying to soothe his Leto, and all the while his mind must be miles away, lingering in a palace in the Upper City . . . it's beyond difficult. Impossible in a way that's almost too hard to comprehend, for dulled panic has a way of clouding the mind and smothering the senses.
So let Leto return the favor, and free Astarion from having to think at all. Let them go to a place where he can, if not relax, at least rest assured that he is not the sole person between himself and his mortal mate's demise.]
We'll need privacy, still. And a place where no sunlight can possibly reach . . . if not, we'll build it ourselves. Curtains to begin with, and something more sturdy after tomorrow.
[What else? The pups will go anywhere they're loved, so no worries there. Ataashi will be incredibly unhappy, but at least he now has the ability to tell her why they're moving, and negotiate with her from there. Possibly she can roam outside the city's boarders for stints, though he suspects she'll only ever do that if she's going absolutely stir-crazy.
'Privacy may be difficult to come by,' Shadowheart remarks. 'But sunlight we can do— or not, as the case may be. There's a corner in the tavern inn that has no windows—']
Good. We'll settle there.
[From there, he falls silent. It's another half-hour before Shadowheart finishes her work, and by that time, she looks as exhausted as Leto feels. Dropping the bloody bandages onto the bedside table, she stands with a yawn. 'Rest for another few hours,' she orders him. 'I'll check on it again in the morning, but it should be fine.'
He's left with blackened bruises a soreness that pervades, but nothing gaping. Nothing bloody, and thank the gods for that. He listens to Shadowheart's slow footsteps as she heads downstairs, and wait until she's called out to the landlord (who has since risen, delighted at the thought of even temporary paying guests) before he reaches for Astarion's hand.]
It will be worth it, [he murmurs, and strokes his thumb against his palm.] No matter how irritating.
. . . call it motivation for killing Cazador, perhaps.
[Moving . . . happened. The less said about the sheer amount of chaos it was, the better. Five extra sets of arms were useful, especially once Wyll managed to pay a few local boys to help carry things. But there were pups to hide and a wolf to cajole; a near-catastrophe with the sheer amount obscene items they own (that Leto would rather die than let anyone else see); keeping Astarion covered and out of the direct sunlight while they moved from one inn to the other, and having to fend off his worry whenever Leto came in with a suitcase, favoring his left arm. It's full of cross-conversations and serious debates on how best to move something bulky (Lae'zel prefers the clever tactics, while Karlach is in favor of just shoving anything though a doorway until it fits); it's full of sweat and frustrations and camaraderie.
By nightfall their old home stood empty, all their things carefully arranged around the bed they're to share.
At least there's a vague sense of privacy. Leto had made sure of that. Not just sheets tacked up on a ceiling, but a proper four-poster curtain surrounding their mattress. Fasteners are tacked into the openings (to be sewn in properly tomorrow), cinching them shut all around. It's no coffin in terms of security (nor familiar, longed for comfort) but it's the best they can do on short notice. And really, considering they're shoved in a corner where the sun never reaches, it will work for one night as precautionary measure.
Around them, the others are in bed, if not fully asleep, and the room is blissfully quiet. Not the peaceful silence he and Astarion have grown used to over the past few years, perhaps, but still lacking in the endless chattering demands for attention. At their feet, Ataashi snores faintly, her weight a pleasant bulk atop Leto's legs and feet. It's a little warm, but pulling Astarion into his arms solves that.
And now they lie together, Astarion tucked beneath Leto's left arm, his fingers carding through his hair and his mouth pressed against his scalp.]
The sooner we do, the sooner we get our privacy back.