[He huffs out a laugh against silver curls, his smile unseen in the dark. In truth (though he will not say this now, for there's a time and place), being packed among the others reminds him of nothing so much as his childhood. Not idyllic by any means, and of course, snuggling on a downy mattress within a four-poster bed is a lot cozier than lying on the stone floor, but still . . . there's something intimately comforting about being around others, even as he mourns their lost privacy.]

You jest now, but just think of the next time you want to have sex. You'll tear through him in a heartbeat just so you can spread my legs by dawn.

[Another comforting little nudge of his nose against the top of Astarion's head. Don't fuss. Don't fret, and of course Astarion will. Cazador has gone from a distant terror to something viciously, vividly real within the span of twenty-four hours, and there's no escaping that. Soon— in a day, maybe, or a little longer— they'll go to confront him. They'll go to kill him, and it will be worth it, but oh, what a daunting task it will be.

But little comforts help, for all that they won't soothe. Little reminders: I'm alive and so are you; I'm free and so are you. Nothing will come for you, not tonight.

In the distance, he can hear Wyll teasing the pups, spoiling them with belly rubs and cooing praise for nothing more than existing. Diligent man that he is, he resumes his patrol a few moments later, accompanied by the soft padding of paws. He listens to it for a time, his hand drifting up and down Astarion's back. Then, his voice quieter:]

. . . tell me what you're thinking.

[During the eve of battle, when all they've worked for and done for the past three years hangs in the balance . . .]

Or I will distract you, and we shall speak no more of it.