#asexual!reader

“Hey Troublemaker, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Comes Jack’s soothing rumble, made tinny through your phone’s speaker. For a moment, you’re distracted from your car’s impending death by how excited he sounds that you called.

You don’t phone him often, though he makes a point of calling you when it’s been more than a few days since you’ve seen each other in person. You’re trying to get better at phoning him, instead of just texting. You feel bad calling because you have a problem, and not just because you want to.

“So smoke coming out from your car hood is normally a bad thing, right?” You wince, as if downplaying it will somehow make your car fix itself.

You barely get the words out before he barks down the line, “DO NOT touch the hood, there might be a fire in the engine, you could burn yourself trying to open it.”

“Noted,” You say, grinning a bit at the sudden shift to protectiveness in his tone, “I turned my car off, I guess I’ll just keep watching and hope it doesn’t explode?” Not sure what else you’re supposed to do, you don’t know the first thing about cars.

You can hear shifting on his end, papers shuffling, his breath coming quicker like he’s rushing around his place.

“Where are you? I know a guy who I can call to get it towed to his garage, he’s good, trustworthy.” Of course, Jack knows a guy; he has some kind of connection for every conceivable problem one might run into.

“Um, I made it about halfway home before I had to pull over.” You say, looking around the dark street to get your bearings.

“Drop me your location and I’ll call him on my way to pick you up.” He says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like he wouldn’t be going well out of his way to do this for you.

“No, I mean, I can take the bus the rest of the way. You have work soon, just give me this guy’s number, and I’ll get it sorted.” You can’t help trying to brush off his offer; you’re still learning to accept help when someone offers it.

“I have a few hours, that’s plenty of time to wait with you and then drive you home. I'll pick us up something for while we wait. You up for a quick coffee?” He presses, knowing he needs to push you sometimes. He’s noticed you have a habit of avoiding depending on other people. Before he quickly follows up with, “Well, coffee for me, Chai for you.”

You melt a little at the reminder that he knows you well enough to know you prefer tea to coffee, and that Chai is your favourite.

You watch the smoke trailing from your car hood disappear into the cold night air, “That sounds perfect."

Jack Abbot is a problem solver, a fixer. It's something you noticed about him during your time volunteering in the ER, especially witnessing some of his more creative saves. But having him go out of his way to fix things for you, has been a little hard to get used to.

You've always solved your own problems, especially since moving to the city. Even when you lived at home with your family, they were there for support, but you did the heavy lifting.

It feels like you're losing control when Jack takes over and fixes your problems for you. Not to mention the gnawing feeling, that you owe him, that you need to pay him back.

So you feel out of your depth when, later that evening, you find out that on top of arranging the mechanic, Jack has already paid for the tow and told the mechanic to charge him for whatever needs fixing.

You try to play it cool when you text him, but he must be able to read between the lines, because he’s on the defensive right away. Texting that it was just easier that way, made more sense since they're his mechanic anyway, his card was already on file. He doesn’t send any emoji’s but you can practically see him shrugging his shoulders with a dumb little fake frown on his face, practically screaming sorry, not sorry.

Before you have time to dive into just how weird it makes you feel that he spent so much money on you without even asking, the mechanic follows up to tell you your car is basically a write-off; they can fix it, but it would cost more than the car is actually worth.

And sure, it's old, and you haven't been the best at looking after it, but you like your car, you’d spent years working summer jobs and part-time on weekends in high school so you could save to buy it. And it's been reliable, till now, and really good on gas.

So you tell him you want him to go ahead with the fix, and to switch payments over to your card. For now, your car is stuck in their garage, unsafe to drive, and because of the holidays, the parts will take a few weeks to ship. Which is fucking awful timing, you were planning on road tripping to visit your family for the holidays once your office closed.

Jack comes over in the morning, after his shift, with the promise of driving you to work before he goes home to sleep. You know he must be exhausted, he waited with you for the tow before driving you home and rushing off to work.

Now he's back at your place again, just over 12 hours later, though he doesn't show how tired he must be. Once he’s made it inside, he pulls you into a tight hug and places a lingering kiss on your forehead, practically nuzzling into your hair.

Sighing, you tuck yourself into his body, digging your nose into the junction of his neck, enjoying how he smells a little of hospital antiseptic and mostly of his own musk from working hard.

“My cars fucked.” You mumble into him, words muffled by his scrubs.

One of his hands rubs soothingly up and down your back, “They'll fix it, it's just gonna take a little while.”

“Yeah, I'm just mad at myself for not taking better care of my car. Plus, now I’m not sure how I'll see my family for Christmas.” You say, feeling a little antsy broaching the subject. Jack knows about your plans to go home for the holidays, you have other plans to celebrate with just him once you’re back. But you worry that he’s going to jump straight into problem-solving mode, you just want some time to think about it on your own for a bit.

Maybe you could fly, though the ticket prices are gonna be astronomical and there's a good chance they'll be sold out. Or you could rent a car… it's all gonna be pretty out of your budget.

“We'll figure it out.” He says, squeezing you tight and making your belly turn to goo.

“Mhm, future problem, for now, I need to finish packing my lunch.” You say with a sigh, running your hand through the soft curls at the nape of his neck before extracting yourself from his arms.

At this rate, you're really considering staying in Pittsburgh for Christmas. You've had no luck finding a decent plane ticket, and rental cars are just out of the question expensive.

You’re making dinner while you’re on the phone with Jack, as he’s getting ready for work, bemoaning the topic once more when he casually offers to drive you.

There’s silence on the line while you process what he just said. Because for him to offer to drive you, five and a half hours out of his way, to what? Stay with you and your family for the holidays? After only kind of being together for a few weeks, knowing each other a grand total of two months, that’s just crazy.

“I don’t know, Jack… that might be moving a little quick, don’t you think?” You ask, alarm bells ringing through your brain that sound shockingly similar to the sirens from Kill Bill.

“It doesn’t have to be, we can make it a fun little road trip, and then I’ll hole up in a hotel somewhere while you visit your family. It’s been a while since I’ve taken a vacation, I could use the break, there’s no pressure to make this a big meet-the-family, hullabaloo. Unless that's something you’d like…” And you nearly groan, because he kind of sounds like he wants that to be something you’d like. But you are not ready to explain to your family that not only are you in a relationship for the first time ever, but he’s also older than you, by a not insignificant, number of years.

Sometimes, you forget how much older he is than you, but then he’ll say some shit like hullabaloo without batting an eye, and you’re violently reminded of that fact.

“Don't you have holiday plans with your family?” And as soon as you ask, you realize he’s never told you anything about his family, not if his parents are still alive or if he has any siblings. It’s another stinging reminder of how little you still know about each other.

“No… actually, my parents live in the UK, moved over maybe ten years ago, to be closer to our extended family. So I don’t see them too often, maybe every few years. It’s been hard to pull myself away from the ER long enough to make an international trip.” He rumbles, sounding a little distracted, like he’s trying not to dwell on how little he sees them.

“Are you close with them? I don’t think I could handle my Mom being so far away. Sometimes, I struggle with her just being a semi-annoying drive away.” You ask, mind drifting as you wonder what his childhood was like, what his parents are like.

“Nah, distance is good for us, trust me, if my Father and I were still on the same continent, there’s a chance one of us would’ve killed the other by now.” And that is a sentiment you know all too fucking well. Your patience will be sorely tested by your Dad during your holiday visit.

“Damn, maybe we have more in common than I originally thought.” You can’t help but mutter, sparking a startled laugh out of Jack.

“Perfect, we can bond over our shared daddy issues on our road trip. What do you say, sweetheart?” Well, with an offer like that… yes, obviously.

Now that your road trip has turned into a two-person adventure, you drive headfirst into preparing for it, buying snacks, and putting together playlists. Packing and wrapping presents for your family, and finishing off a handmade Victorian puzzle purse letter for Jack. You’ve always struggled finding the right presents to buy for people, but making presents, on the other hand, well that you excel at. 

So you spend days writing a letter to Jack, about all the little things you notice and appreciate about him, how he makes you feel, how glad you are that your lives have crossed paths and intertwined. Then you intricately paint and draw on the card stock and fold it together into a complex little square. You also buy him an expensive bottle of whisky, just to cover your bases. 

Jack picks you up from your apartment, meeting you at your door and grabbing your suitcase before you can even protest. Once he has it all loaded into his car, you reach out and squeeze his hand, thanking him for offering to do this.

It's snowing a little as he opens the passenger door for you, helping you up as he always does. It feels more like Christmas than you've felt in a long time. 

Something about getting older has made the holiday lose some of its charm, slowly drained of the warmth it gave you when you were a kid. But here, now, you feel that spark again, the joy of being with someone important to you and enjoying good music and quality time together. You even curated your treat bag to be holiday themed, adding in mandarin oranges, soft homemade gingerbread, a Terry's chocolate orange, hell, even candy canes.

The interior of his car is big and comfortable, and you excitedly settle in for the long drive. More than ready to leave behind the dirty grey slush coating the city and hit the open highway. 

You make it three and a half hours into the drive when the snow that started as specks, barely sticking to the ground, turn into fat heavy flakes that batter the windshield and blanket the road. Going from the pretty swirling dots of poor visibility to the near whiteout of a blizzard in just a few minutes. 

You hear Jack swear quietly to himself as he tries to manoeuvre the worsening winter storm. There are no cars ahead of you to give any idea of where the lines of the road, or really the road itself, are.

“Shit, ok, don’t worry.” You’re not sure who he’s trying to calm more, you or himself. “I can’t pull over yet, in case someone can’t stop or see and plows into us. Do you have service? Can you look and see if there’s a rest stop close by?”

You grab your phone as quickly as you can, pulling up a map and frantically searching to see how close you are to any place you can use to pull off the highway. But your cell reception is out. You keep swiping, trying to reload the map, but it only shows that stupid no service try again button.

“No service, oh god, we’re so fucked.” You whine, craning your body around to see snow engulf the car through every window you try to look out. You’re surrounded by a sea of white.

“That’s the spirit. Nothing gets you through an emergency quite like panicking immediately.” He says, tone flat and, despite his maintained focus on the road, nearly dripping in sarcasm.

“I can panic and keep an eye out for a way out of this mess all at the same time, thank you very much.” Comes your haughty reply. 

“Me-ow” and if his hands weren't gripping the wheel so tight, you think he would have pretended to claw at you.

Hysterical laughter bubbles out of you at the absurdity of it, but you quickly cut yourself off as you see what looks like snow piled around a side road.

“Jack, there! 3 o'clock, that looks like a side road-” You point fast, nearly jamming your finger against the windshield in your haste.

“Good eye, sweetheart.” He praises, his knuckles still clenched hard on the wheel, joints looking like they’re trying to burst out of his skin with the force of his grip. 

When he slowly turns right onto the side street, the car drifts ominously, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ll end up in the ditch, snow blanketing the car so no one finds you until it’s too late. Your hand shoots out to grab his arm, but Jack has it handled, overangling the tires to correct the direction of the car. 

He continues for a few minutes on the snow-covered side road before slowly coming to a stop under the cover of trees. The snow is piled high, but his four-wheel drive makes it easy enough to pull over, especially now that he can take his time without worrying about getting rear-ended.

With the car idling and the snow muffling all the sound around you, it feels peaceful. You have a moment to think about how badly this could have gone wrong if you had been driving by yourself in your little car. 

You’re both silent for a moment, the windshield wipers off, snow quickly covering the glass, casting you in shadow. 

“If there wasn't a small chance of us freezing to death, I would say this is a pretty nice way to spend time with you.” You say, looking over to him. 

It’s not often that you get to just watch him, it’s nice, seeing his gaze shift through the car side windows. His face soft and open as he watches the snow pile up around you. The falling flakes create a constantly shifting pattern of light over him, highlighting the salt and pepper in his stubble and the strong line of his nose. 

“And here I thought the freezing to death part only added to the ambiance.” He deadpans, looking over to you, the corner of his mouth twitching up. 

You have the sudden, intense urge to climb over the middle console and right into his lap.

“Think we’ll be stuck overnight?” You ask instead, distracting yourself.

“Hard to say, it doesn’t look like it’ll stop too soon, and even if it does, I don’t know if the roads’ll be good enough to drive on.”

“Well, I’m thinking, we try to get comfortable then, do these seats recline?” You ask, hand searching for a button or something along the side of the seat. When you manage to find a lever and give it a yank, the whole seat flies back nearly flat, making you gasp. 

“Oh, that’s the good stuff,” You say, satisfied, kicking off your shoes to prop your socked feet up on his dash and winding your arms behind your head. “Now all we need is some entertainment.”

It’s easy for a while, he turns the engine off to conserve gas, and you retrieve your coats so you can use them like blankets. You chat and pilfer your snack bag, and you would honestly place tonight as one of your top dates so far. Not that it’s even technically a date.

The hours tick by, and you check outside, seeing the snow hasn’t stopped, just barely slowed. It’s nearly pitch black out now, and you have to make peace with the fact that you really will be stuck overnight. 

He turns the car on again every few hours to warm it up, going outside to make sure the exhaust hasn’t been covered. But the snow is starting to get in the way of opening the car door, even after Jack tamps down what he can with his shoes to make a path around the car. You’re a little worried that soon you’ll be trapped completely. 

With the looming thought of potential death, even if logically you know you probably won't die, you make a stupid last-minute decision. While he’s outside doing another car exhaust check, you crawl into the back and rifle through your suitcase, digging out the wrapped whisky and your letter. Because if you're going to die, you want to be a little drunk. 

You have a minute to try to nicely display your present to Jack, but it doesn’t work, the whisky keeps trying to roll off the dash, and it doesn’t fit in his cup holders. He’s opening the car door again before you figure out a nice way to present it all, so instead, you just hold them both awkwardly in your hands. Looking at Jack like you're a deer caught in his headlights, even though this was your idea. 

He freezes with the door still open, not quite moving to get in yet. “What’re you doing?” He asks, coming back to himself as a gust of wind sends a cold burst of snowflakes into the car, lumbering back into the driver's seat. 

“Ok, don’t make fun of me, but I just thought,” And you say the next part really quickly, hoping he’ll gloss over it if you do, “on the off chance that we do die, you might as well get your Christmas present now!”

There’s something tender in his eyes when he looks at you, seeing the embarrassed and tentative look on your face, your hands outstretched towards him, shaking a little as they hold a cutely wrapped bottle and a folded, painted square of paper.

“I’d never make fun of you,” He murmurs, adding on, “except for all the times you really, really deserve it.” 

You shove the gifts over to him, affectionately telling him, “Just take them dickhead.”

He places the wrapped bottle gently on his lap and starts turning over the folded letter in his hands, making you second-guess giving it to him, not having thought this through. Your original plan was to hide it somewhere in his bags so he would find the gift and letter after he dropped you off and went to his hotel. But this way means you have to watch his reaction in real time.

“You don’t have to read it now, I know it’s a little cheesy.” You fumble, trying to take it back somehow, make it like he didn’t see it in the first place.

“Uh-uh, no take backsies now, what happened to might as well since we’re going to die?” He’s still turning it over in his hands, examining all the small details you’ve painted and drawn. “How do you open it?”

“I said on the chance,” You mumble, hands reaching over to gently pry open the first tucked paper fold, leaving it in his hands as he unfurls the rest of the first layer. 

The silence in the car is agony as he reads the small script you’ve adorned the edges of that first layer with. You look at him from under your lashes, your head tilted down to mostly face your lap. There’s a small smile tugging at his lips, his eyes shining as they dance over the page. 

He pulls open the next layer, his mouth dropping open as his hands smooth the paper flat. “This is incredible.” He breathes, eyes tearing away from the letter to stare at you.

“You like it?” This is the most vulnerable you’ve ever been with someone romantically, your heart written and drawn on the page in his hands. 

“I fucking love it, this is the most thoughtful- fuck- Sweetheart this- you mean so damn much to me.” He nearly groans, “I really want to kiss you, would that- can I?”

His eyes search yours for any signs of discomfort, but you lean forward, really wanting to see what kissing Jack will be like. Your heart speeds up as you think of your previous dating attempts and how each new person and each new first kiss left you feeling nothing, or worse, feeling like a trapped animal.

One of your hands settles for leverage on his knee, shifting so you close some of the distance between the two of you. His hand comes up, caressing the side of your face before he cards his fingers through your hair. 

He tugs you forward, your stomach swooping as your lips meet. His lips are soft, pressing insistently against yours, chaste and sweet. His stubble rubs roughly against your skin as he presses deeper against you before pulling back a breath and diving back for one more smack of his lips. 

And then he's peppering your face with kisses, everywhere, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, anywhere he can reach. Pealing into laughter, you try to rear back, but he has your head in a vice grip, and the onslaught continues. 

Finally, he lets you go, looking self-satisfied as you flop back into your seat, breathless and flushed. 

While you regain your senses, he unwraps the whisky bottle, letting out a whistle as he recognizes the label as a favourite of his. He’s quick to open the bottle, smelling the warm spice of alcohol that wafts out. 

“One for luck.” He says, cheer-sing it your way before taking a sip straight from the bottle.

From there, you take turns sipping the sharp amber liquid, it burns your esophagus going down, but leaves a pleasant warmth. You don’t have the palate to know good whisky from bad whisky, but this one seems ok enough to you; it’ll get you tipsy anyhow.

You’re pleasantly buzzed and are comfortably settled back into your reclined seats when you look back over to Jack and feel another tug of desire to be close to him. Not intimate, kissing him was nice, but it still didn’t do anything for you, you just want to be close.

“Jack…” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to.

“Yeah, troublemaker?” He turns to meet your eyes, sounding relaxed. 

“Would you hold me?” You ask, and see his eyes flash playfully at your request.

“Fuck, I thought you’d never ask, get your butt over here!” His hands reach out to start pulling you his way, making you giggle and nearly collapse over the console as he tries to manhandle you. 

It’s awkward, with the layout of the car and the steering wheel, and since you're trying to conserve heat, you can’t just step out of the car. You decide the passenger seat is the better option, so you crawl into the back while he shifts over, his prosthetic catching on the console and making him swear. He fumbles into the seat, and you wonder why he doesn’t just take it off, your mouth moving before you even think, asking him as much. 

His eyes cut to yours, something dark and intense in his gaze. 

“What, you should take your prosthetic off, there’s no way you’ve been comfortable keeping it on as long as you have.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, his eyes searching yours, and you wonder, for the first time, if like you, who’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting to see what part of you he’ll learn about and decided is too much; if he’s been wondering what part of himself will be too much for you to handle.

“Don’t stay uncomfortable cause you think you might freak me out. Trust me, I can handle seeing your stump.” You goad. 

Then he shifts, breaking eye contact and leaning forward to get the leverage to take his prosthetic off. The musty smell of trapped sweat permeating the car. It’s quickly replaced by a lemony smell as he takes out lysol wipes from his glove box to clean off his limb and the liner of his prosthetic.

It takes him a few minutes, but by the time he’s done, the tension is gone from the air of the car.

“Alright kid, come on over.” He says, voice light. 

He’s pressed up against the center console as far as he can go, giving you a bit of wiggle room to crawl over him and settle along his right side. You manage to slide into place half on top and half beside him, leaning back, angled along the car door. You try not to put too much weight on Jack, a little worried you’ll squish him. 

Clearly, he can feel the muscles straining in your body, because one hand comes up to pull your right knee forward across his body, shifting you so you’re lying stomach down, flat overtop of him, and then his right arm snakes along your spine and presses you down. 

You relax into his hold, your breathing slowing down to match his, and his body heat seeping into you. You could easily fall asleep like this.

“Thanks for coming with me and saving me from freezing to death on my own.” You murmur drowsily.

“That’s what I’m here for. Besides, no one else I’d rather be trapped with.” His hand comes up to stroke your hair, before he continues, “Get some sleep troublemaker, I’ll make sure we don’t freeze.”

It’s easy to fall into dreaming after that, knowing Jack will keep you safe.

A/N: This is my first holiday drabble, and I had a LOT of fun writing it, I also got stuck in a lot of places cause my brain kept going realism route (What do they do if they have to pee!!) But I really like how it turned out.

I love comments (seriously, they make my day), so let me know if you liked this! I'm also always open to requests, my asks are open.

“Here we are,” Gale said, a little too cheerfully. “I know last night's excursion was rather strenuous, but if this doesn’t cure what ails you, nothing will. No offense, Shadowheart.” 

“I would take offense, but I’m frankly too tired to care,” she countered, dryly. 

Gale gave a good natured laugh before handing her a bowl of something hot. 

The pout on her face fell away as soon as she took her first bite. The rest weren’t far behind, the low murmur of pain turning to something more pleasant. 

Astarion observed, doing his best to push down the bite on envy in his chest. He could eat, technically, but it went right through him, not even granting him the temporary relief of a full stomach. If it didn’t smell appetizing, he wouldn’t mind so much, but it did. Yet another minor torture of his existence. 

Eventually Gale did turn his gaze to him, that annoyingly persistent enthusiasm faltering.

“Do you…ah, require a refreshment?”

Deciding to have some fun, Astarion gave him his best seductive smirk.

“Very much,” he purred. “However, if you’re the one offering, I’ll pass. I’ve got someone much more appetizing in mind.”

He turned his head towards your tent, and immediately frowned. You still hadn’t made an appearance. Granted you were always one to rest in, but this was getting ridiculous. 

Gale followed his eye line, grimacing as he came to a similar conclusion. 

“Might need to hold off on that. They got it pretty rough last night.”

“I’ll go check on them,” Wyll volunteered, pouring a fresh bowl of stew. “If anything will get them out of bed, this will.” He then turned to Astarion, giving him a hard look. “Try to keep your fangs to yourself until they’ve eaten something.”

He answered with a mocking pout. “Oh mother, must I?”

Wyll didn’t raise to the bait, rolling his one good eye before making his way towards your tent. 

Something odd twisted inside Astarion. He was struck with the sudden urge to trip the man. Childish perhaps, but he just couldn’t stand that tone of altruistic condescension. He would have spoken up if Wyll hadn’t beaten him to it. He was rather partial to the idea of you and him sharing breakfast in bed. It would only be breakfast, but he wasn’t in a position to try for more. At the very least, it would be a convenient excuse to check on you himself.

Gale hadn’t been exaggerating. You had gotten the brunt of the hag’s attention, running between everyone to provide whatever aid you could. By the time you made it back to camp, you could barely stand, skipping your nightly check-ins in favor of falling straight into your tent and a soundless sleep.

This troubled him in a way he couldn’t properly explain.  It wasn’t like he needed you to tuck him in, but he had grown accustomed to your face being the last he saw before closing his eyes. He knew the others appreciated it as well. It was how you had found yourself as the leader of this merry band. You weren’t the strongest or the most powerful, you simply took the time to care.

It should have bothered him more. Gods knew he clashed with Wyll and Karlach on more than one occasion concerning their bleeding heart heroics. Perhaps it was because your heart always put the party first. You’d extend it to others, but never to the point it needlessly put them and, more importantly, him in danger. 

You just…helped, with clear eyed understanding and so little fanfare it made it easy to forget just how much you did, until the moment you couldn’t. 

He blinked hard, mentally yanking himself from wherever his mind was leading him. 

He wouldn’t feed on you today, he decided. There had to be some boar or deer around. It’d be best if they stay put another day anyhow. No need to rush into the next life or death scenario.

“Shadowheart! Gale!”

Everyone turned, to see Wyll running from your tent. The two spellcasters were up the next second, all exhaustion rushing from their bodies, readying for a fight. 

“What’s going on?” Gale asked.

“I don’t know. Something’s wrong with Tav.”

“What? How?” Shadowheart interjected. “They were fine last night. I healed them myself.”

Wyll shook his head. “That may be, but they’re not waking up.”

“We better have a look then,” Gale said, with an authority that left no room for argument. He took the lead, the two others falling quickly behind. 

Astarion stayed where he was, frozen. There was a hard twisting in his gut. He could feel the hair rise on the back of his neck as the sudden need to run shot through his veins. He recognized the symptoms; fear was an emotion he was intimately familiar with.

Before he realized what was happening, he was on his feet, taking long strides towards your tent. 

It couldn’t be as bad as Wyll was making it sound. Admittedly, you had been run rather ragged, but nothing the rest of them hadn’t felt. Perhaps he had taken one bite too many. This was nothing. You were fine. You were supposed to be fine. 

He stopped at the threshold, pushing aside the flap. 

Whatever breath he had in his lungs rushed out in an instant. 

The first thing that hit him was the smell. It clung to the inside of his nose reeking of damp sickness. Your body was drenched in sweat, your hair plastered to your forehead in soaked clumps. He swore he could feel the heat of your skin burning. Your breath came ragged as if someone had wrapped an invisible hand around your throat and was slowly choking the life out of you. He could see how your body twitched and jerked. It was taking both Shadowheart and Wyll to keep your limbs in check as Gale mumbled some enchantment over your body. 

His hand gripped hard on the fabric. He needed to take a step back. He had little experience with disease, but it was plain enough that whatever this was didn’t play by any rules he was familiar with. The survivor in him screamed to use this perfect distraction to grab whatever he could carry and run. Still, he didn’t move. 

“What’s wrong with them?” he said, his voice rough even to his ears. 

“I don’t know,” Gale admitted, clearly disturbed. “I haven’t seen anything like this before.”

“They were fine,” Shadowheart insisted. “I healed them, and they went to bed. Nothing else happened.”

“There were a lot of spells being thrown around last night. Maybe they were hit with something the rest of us weren’t,” Wyll suggested. 

“Oh Gods,” Karlach said, just behind Astarion’s shoulder. “Do you think it’s the tadpoles?”

Something heavy sunk straight into his stomach at her words. It certainly was a possibility. They all knew the symptoms, but why now? Why you? 

There was a slight rustle of movement just behind him. Lae’zel by the smell. A quick look out of the corner of his eye saw her standing just behind Karlach. Her back was stiff and her expression hardened in a way he had come to recognize. 

He never moved faster in his life. 

Before anyone could react, he ducked under Karlach’s arm, knocking Lae’zel off her feet. Her sword scattered clear of her grip, skittering into the grass. She fell with a hard thump as he used the momentum to trap her under the weight of his body and dagger at her throat. 

“Now, what were you planning to do with that,” he said, as smooth as a knife. 

Her surprise was evident, but quickly overtaken by a low growl straight from her chest. 

“Unhand me, or I will unhand you.”

“Might need the sword for that.”

“Oi! What’s going on?” Karlach said, finally turning towards the scene. 

“If it is the tadpoles, we cannot risk them turning,” Lae’zel snapped. “I am prepared to do what is necessary.” 

Red blinded Astarion’s vision, a hiss escaping his lips as they pulled back to show bared fangs.

“Necessary?”

“We don’t know that yet,” Wyll said, stepping beside Karlach. “Just think a moment. If it was the tadpoles, wouldn’t all of us have felt something by now?”

Lae’zel ignored him, her eyes turning straight to Astarion’s. Her expression lost none of its fury, but there was a coldness to it that forced an air of calm. 

“You know I’m right,” she held. 

His jaw clenched. He did know. If even one of them turned into a mind flayer the rest were bound to follow. Killing you would be the logical thing to do to preserve his own survival. Still, it wasn’t your neck he was poised to cut. 

“Nobody is killing anyone!” Wyll interjected. “Gale and Shadowheart will figure out what’s wrong with Tav. In the meantime, we are not going to do anything we would sooner regret.”

“Astarion?” Karlach said, cautiously. 

There was a long pause. He could feel their eyes burning the back of his skull, but neither stepped closer. It was easy to imagine what he looked like; half crazed, teeth bared and blade ready. Not his best moment. 

With what grace he could muster, he pulled away, quickly putting some distance between himself and Lae’zel.

She got to her feet, decidedly not reaching for her weapon as her eyes moved between the three of them. 

“They live for now,” she allowed. “But if Tav does turn, you know what we’ll have to do.”

Astarion’s spine stiffened. The dagger twitched in his hand, just in time for Karlach to step between them.

“Walk away Lae’zel,” she said, sternly. “I’m not kidding.” 

Lae’zel’s brow furrowed, her face twisting in disgust. “Tsk'va,” she cursed. “Cowards. All of you.” 

She turned then, picking up her sword before making her way back to her tent. 

Once she was a good distance away, some of the tension left Karlach’s shoulders as she pulled her attention back to him. 

“You okay?” Karlach asked.

“Well, I certainly haven’t made any new friends,” Astarion said, his voice tighter than he intended. He glanced over at Wyll. “I take it still no answers?”

Wyll gave a long sigh. “Gale said he’ll need more time to detect the exact cause. He doesn’t think it’s the tadpoles, but there’s no telling just yet. Luckily, Shadowheart was able to calm them enough to sleep. At the very least they’re no longer at risk of hurting themselves.” 

“So what do we do?” Karlach asked. 

“Wait. This isn’t something we can fight. Gale and Shadowheart will do what they can, but ultimately, this is Tav’s battle.” 

Astarion bit back a growl as red once again danced across his vision. 

Wait? That was the fabled Blade of Frontier’s brilliant plan? Hells below was everyone in this camp completely useless?! He didn’t need to be a cleric to know what was happening. He knew what dying smelled like and none of them, not a single one, could think of an actual, tangible solution besides wait?

Forget tripping the man, it was taking every single ounce of restraint to keep from strangling him. 

Draining the last of his patience, he turned on his heel, and made his way towards the treeline. 

“Where are you going?” Wyll called. 

“To go kill something,” Astarion spat. “Unless you want me to stay here and do it.” 

Wyll looked like he was going to say something that would put his neck in Astarion’s teeth, but Karlach spoke up first. 

“We’ll make sure Lae’zel keeps her distance. Don’t wander too far.”

Astarion didn’t have an answer. He just managed a tight nod before continuing out of camp and out of sight. 

He didn’t know how long he walked. He just knew that by the time he stopped the sun was much lower in the sky. The sounds of his companions deafened in the overgrowth leaving him well and truly alone. 

A shuddering breath escaped his lungs. Whatever strength in his limbs left him. He only just managed to catch himself on a tree as his hands began to shake. 

What in the nine hells had he been thinking? 

Well, that was the trick, wasn’t it? He hadn’t been thinking. Fear had been driving him and he had done as he always did when fear took over; he found a way to survive, damn anyone who got in his way. The difference was, it wasn’t his life that was in danger. When had your survival become so vital to his? 

He knew he was reliant on you to keep him safe from Cazador. You were the only one who trusted him. Without your vote of confidence, chances are he would have been left to his own devices a long time ago. He needed you alive if he were to maintain the protection of the others. And he had put that protection in direct threat by holding a knife to one of the group’s best fighters. 

He let out a frustrated groan, rubbing his face in his hands. 

Fuck, this was a disaster. He had never been particularly gifted when it came to strategy. It was difficult to anticipate consequences when he never knew what fresh hell awaited him in the morning. Compound that feeling by two hundred years and it was no wonder all his plans fell apart. 

Even if you did survive, he still had no way of guaranteeing you would stay loyal to him. All his attempts at seduction had failed.  You certainly enjoyed his company, and he was sure you gave him more attention than the others, but he didn’t know what you wanted. Every single day he waited for you to name your price and every single day you failed to answer. It was driving him to insanity.  

No wonder he had been so quick to draw his blade. Any grasp he had on safety was already hanging by an invisible thread. 

He let out a deep breath, forcing himself to calm. There was little he could control at the moment, but he could control himself. It was a new sensation, one he was still getting used to. He’d have an easier time of it once he fed. 

Blood of thinking beings was out for the moment. He’d have to settle for something big and preferably angry. There would be nothing elegant about this hunt. 

He got his wish. While he might have preferred a bear, the raging boar did well enough for his purposes.

It was an ugly kill. He didn’t just bite the beast. He tore into its neck so deeply the bones of its neck became exposed to the open air alongside bloodied muscle. His hands did the rest, ripping it fully open so the innards spilled out onto the forest floor. In the end, he didn’t even get much blood out of it, allowing the earth to become wet with carnage. 

He breathed it in, hoping it would somehow erase the smell of your convulsing body from his mind. 

It didn’t work. 

Even with fresh blood in his mouth, he could only think of your labored breaths and racing heart. The relief of sated hunger became tainted by the taste of sickness on his tongue.

He forced himself back on his feet, not bothering to wipe away the blood as he stumbled further into the forest. 

There was nothing he could do. He’d sooner drain the life from you than save it. It was baked into his nature; a disease in his own right.  

If he just had a target, something he could trick or kill, it would be different. Instead he was left to wait; useless…powerless. 

His hands clenched, his nails digging into his palms to the point of pain. 

Surely he didn’t need you so badly. If you died, he would just have to refocus his efforts on somebody else; Shadowheart perhaps, or even Gale. He wasn’t about to get sentimental now. He would survive you as he had done countless others. This wasn’t his end.

He found a deer next, performing the same ritualistic slaughter. Blood filled him. He could feel his mind becoming clear, but it wasn’t enough. He moved onto a burrow of rabbits, then a badger, and even a weasel. It was only when he caught himself seriously contemplating gutting a squirrel did he realize how futile it was. All the blood in the world couldn’t make up for his inherent weakness. 

He had grown too dependent on you. It was making him sloppy, unbalanced. Maybe you were better off dead. He would be free then. 

That was the point of this whole venture wasn’t it? To be free. Free of Cazador. Free of fear. And here he was ready to chain himself to another just because they’d shown him a bit of kindness. What was that kindness worth when the loss of it inspired a terror he'd never known before.

A fury rose within him, one he clung to like a lifeline. 

This was all your fault. You brought him to this. How could he possibly forgive you?

He let the anger fester as he took the time to clean himself up. Blood caked his hands up to his elbows with tendons stuck under his fingernails. It took several washes in a nearby stream to get it all out. He counted himself lucky his shirt had managed to escape most of the viscera. The last thing he wanted was an interrogation. 

He needn’t have worried. It was well after dark by the time he crept back to camp. All was still, in the same way a body became when holding its breath. 

He spotted Gale easily enough as he poured over some tome, his lips moving along with the words. Lae’zel and Wyll sat together, polishing their weapons without exchanging a word. Shadowheart looked to be meditating while Karlach sat next to the fire, brow furrowed while throwing the occasional stick into the flames. 

Aside from the faint scrap of stone on metal, not a sound came from any of them. 

Against his own will, his gaze turned to your tent.

It struck him then, why the quiet filled him with such dread. 

By now a steady flow of strings should be teasing the edge of his ears. You seemed convinced a half inch of fabric was enough to muffle your rehearsals. None of them bothered to correct this assumption. On more than one occasion, he found himself forgetting the book in his hand as he listened to you work out some new melody. There was something about the way you played, as if each note lifted a burden on your soul. And if the night wasn’t filled with your music, it was touched by your voice. 

You had a way of sparking conversation, sharing countless stories while encouraging the others to do the same. You knew when to listen, when to comment and just when to laugh to make the telling all the sweeter. He spent more time than he cared to admit thinking about how to pull that sound to your lips. He found it had the same effect on him as your plucking.

Then there were the rare times, when banter dwindled and everyone became lost in their own thoughts, he could make out a song just under your breath, an unconscious hum to accompany your work. 

It brought a comfort he couldn’t describe, one he hadn’t realized he needed, until it was gone. 

With quick steps he made his way to you, slipping into your tent with not even the barest rustle of fabric.

He’d never been in your tent before. If it were any other day, he’d be taking the time to examine every inch of it, but all he could focus on was you. 

You were so still. An improvement from before, but not an especially encouraging one.  It was clear from the perfectly arranged pillows you hadn’t moved since Shadowheart put you back to sleep.  The only hint you were alive was that barest intake and outtake of breath.

His jaw tightened, his body tensing as a growing panic rose within him. 

No, this was good. You were stable, for now. He still had options, more time to plan. He didn’t have to make any decisions tonight. Best he left and waited to see what the morning would bring.

You took a sharp intake of breath, slightly deeper than before. Your eyes twitched behind your lids and then you settled.

He paused, glancing to the entrance, half expecting somebody to come rushing in.  He was surprised nobody was in here with you, or at the very least watching the door. He had slipped by without so much as a “hey you”. Any vagrant could just wander in. 

He could end it right now. All it would take was one quick slice. The picture became clear; a single surprised gasp, the smell of your blood and then…silence. Forever. 

Bile rose in his throat. He shut his eyes trying to will the image away as that new desperate terror threatened to drown him all over again.  

Damn you. Damn you to every circle of the hells! 

The gods were mocking him. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. He couldn’t just like you. No, he had to go and start caring.  

A small whimper broke through his thoughts. Your head jerked, your brows pinching in distress. 

Shadowheart. He needed to get Shadowheart, or Gale, or Wyll. Hells, she may not be able to touch you, but Karlach would undoubtedly have a better bedside manner. Besides Lae’zel he was the worst person suited for this. Gods, what was he even doing here? 

You took a sharp intake of breath, flinching away from something only you could see. 

He was on his knees the next second. 

Your body settled, but your breathing came hard and fast. At least it wasn’t rasping. 

His hands hovered over you, unsure of what to do. He had officially given up on the idea of leaving. He’d just have to improvise the rest. 

Hesitantly, he let his fingers brush across your forehead, pushing aside a few of the loose strands. You were hot to the touch, but he took comfort in the fact you weren’t sweating as you were before. Whatever had taken hold of you that morning, it seemed to have loosened its grip. 

You began to calm, a soft murmur of contentment stumbling from your lips. 

The irony was not lost on him, but it didn’t stop a part of him from melting at the sound. 

“Now that’s hardly playing fair, darling,” he whispered. “I’m trying to be angry with you.”

You didn’t answer except for a sigh as you turned your head, following his touch. 

He allowed himself to linger for a moment before placing the back of his hand against your skin to feel it properly. You really were much too warm. The relief you were expressing no doubt came more from his body temperature than his caresses. 

Slowly, he pulled away as he glanced around the small space. There had to be a water skin in here somewhere. Surely the idiots would know better than to leave you to burn yourself from the inside out. 

A soft groan caught his attention as he spun back to you. 

You shifted under the blankets, rolling back and forth as if to get loose of your cocoon. Your eyes darted quickly behind your lids. Another huff of breath and then, all at once, there you were.

“Tav?” he breathed. 

Your eyes were bleary. Your skin was sallow. Your hair was a mess. Everything around him smelled of sweat and sick. And for a moment, he swore he could feel his heart beat again. 

A hint of a smile touched the corner of your mouth, your brows rising slightly. 

“Tav? Must be pretty bad then.”

He had to laugh. It was a short, strangled thing, and just about the only thing he could do to keep the stinging in his eyes at bay.

“Worse,” he said, managing to gain some hold on himself. “Of course, it must be said, your worse is most best.” 

You huffed out a small laugh of your own, which quickly turned into a series of dry coughs. 

He straightened in alarm before quickly spotting the water skin hanging on the center pole of the tent. Thankfully it was full, allowing him to waste no time lifting your head as he guided the water into your mouth. 

As soon as the liquid met your tongue you scrambled for more, pushing yourself further up to guzzle the rest. 

“Easy,” he warned, pulling back the container. “Can’t have you choking to death after all of that.”

You gave a slight sputter, proving his point as you caught your breath.  “Sorry. Just thirsty.” 

“Clearly,” he quipped. “Do you need more?”

You averted your eyes, your expression turning suddenly sheepish. “Please?”

As tempting as it was, he decided to save his teasing for later.  It was always more fun when you could give it right back anyway. 

He lifted your head, resting it on his lap before guiding the lip of the lid back to yours. 

“Slowly this time,” he cautioned.  

Your muscles tensed with restraint, but you followed his lead, taking no more than he gave. 

He tried to ignore the tight feeling in his chest. His mind flickered to his own thirst and, for a moment, he could see his own desperation reflected in your eyes. 

Something stirred inside him; an ache he didn’t recognize. He’d do just about anything to keep that look from marring your face ever again. 

Once you’d gotten a few more mouthfuls he pulled the water skin away, setting it down on the floor beside you. 

“Thank you,” you said, your voice still a little rough, but an obvious improvement. 

“Don’t mention it,” he said. “To anyone.”

“Don’t worry, nobody would believe me anyway,” you teased. 

“Truer words.” 

Without really thinking, he let his palm rest on your forehead. He had already gotten a sense of your temperature, but the way your eyes closed as you relaxed into his touch was too good to pass up.   

“How are you feeling?” he asked. 

“Like a band of goblins decided to make a riot of my insides,” you admitted, before turning your gaze upward. “What about you?”

“Me?”

Your mouth turned in an apologetic half smile. “No offense, but you look a bit ragged. Did something happen?”

He blinked, surprised by the sudden flash of anger your question inspired. Of course he was a bit ragged. You had started this morning on the verge of death, the knowledge of which had been torturing him for near on…oh, who bloody cared how long. And yet you had the audacity to ask if something happened, as if that wasn’t enough; as if you weren’t enough.  

It must have shown on his face, as your brows furrowed in concern. 

“Astarion?”

He mentally shook himself, pushing down the emotion as best he could. 

“Don’t worry about me, darling. Let’s focus on getting you better.” 

You frowned, your lips parting as if to say something when the entrance of the tent burst open. 

“Hey, thought I heard your voice!” Karlach said, with a beaming smile. “Good to see you awake soldier. Told’em you’d bounce back, just a matter of time. Shadowheart! Gale! Tav’s awake! Astarion is with ‘em.”

Astarion prickled at the announcement. He didn’t need the entire camp knowing his business. He had decided to sneak back for a reason. Surely nobody had seen him. 

He got his answer, as Karlach turned back, lowering her voice. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “Noticed you slip in earlier. Thought I’d leave you to watch Tav, but then I heard talking and well…you know.” 

“Yes, thank you,” he clipped, hoping the note of embarrassment would be blamed on getting caught and not…other things. 

“Thanks Karlach,” you said, smoothing over any lingering tension. 

“Don’t even think about it. Few more rounds of healing and you’ll be right as rain.” She then turned her gaze to him. “You got’em?”

His brow furrowed slightly. He could say no. Gale and Shadowheart would need space to do their work. It would be the perfect excuse to walk away and try to forget any of this happened. 

He glanced down at you, your head still resting in his lap. 

You looked so fragile. It was a word he had never thought to use before when describing you. The sound of it rang with a dissonance that made his hair stand on end. Still you managed a half smile, your head tilting as silent permission to leave if he wanted. 

And what exactly would he do if he left; wait in the dark, just as helpless as before. He may not be able to do much, but he could do this. It was better than nothing. 

He turned back to Karlach, his purpose clear. “I’ve got them.”

She didn’t say anything back, simply nodding in acknowledgement before dipping out, and allowing Shadowheart and Gale to enter. 

Shadowheart immediately took a place beside you, her hands glowing with magic as she got to work. Gale, meanwhile, remained standing seemingly unsure of what to do. 

Astarion couldn’t help but notice the way the wizard’s eyes shifted awkwardly between you and him. Some petty part of him felt vindicated in staying. Apparently he had taken his designated spot. 

“Glad to see you awake,” Shadowheart said. 

“So am I, funny enough,” you said. “What happened?”

“Nasty bit of business,” Gale explained. “That hag didn’t hold anything back. Combination of cause fear, ray of sickness, a few other bits of spell work and bestowed curse to keep them all knotted together. The healing magic Shadowheart gave you last night was able to mend your physical wounds, but little else. 

“Luckily once we were able to identify the spells, I was able to untangle most of the effects and pluck that curse right out. All told, it looked much worse than it was. With the hag dead, it appears your body has been able to fight off most of the remaining effects on its own. Honestly, if you were at full capacity at the start of the fight, it likely wouldn’t have gotten as bad as it did. Much easier to recover when all your blood is inside your body.” 

Gale’s eyes flicked over to Astarion. 

His jaw clenched, knowing full well what the wizard was implying, but he wasn’t about to admit he was right. 

“I’ll keep that in mind next time I take an arrow to the shoulder,” you said, dryly. “Just don’t bleed.”

Shadowheart gave a short laugh. “Good to see your sense of humor is intact.”

Astarion and Gale broke eye contact allowing whatever argument was about to ensue to die on their lips. There were more important things to worry about. 

“What can I say, I’m a born entertainer,” you said, ruefully before turning your gaze evenly among the three of them. “I’m sorry to have caused so much trouble.” 

“No trouble at all,” Gale assured. “When compared to Karlach’s engine or my own condition, this is little more than a sniffle.” He glanced over to Shadowheart. “Anything I can do?”

“Honestly, there’s not much even I can do at this point,” she admitted. “We’ll just have to see how you feel in the morning. One of us should stay with you at least, in case something happens.”

“I’ll do it,” Astarion said, earning shocked looks from both spellcasters.  He did so particularly love the look on Gale’s face. 

“You’re sure?” Gale said, skeptically. 

He gave a nonchalant shrug. “I’m not planning to sleep much anyway. And don’t worry, I’m just as capable of yelling as anyone else in this camp. Besides, I doubt either of you are going to be much use to anyone in a few hours.”

Gale looked like he wanted to argue, but not before you spoke up.

“He has a point,” you said. “The pair of you have done enough as is. I’m feeling a lot better already. I’ll be fine.” 

“Alright,” Gale relented, with a grimace. “There’s some stew in that container there if you get hungry. See if you can keep some food down. And if they so much as twitch in their sleep–”

“I’ll handle it,” Astarion cut off with a sharpness that left no room for dispute. 

Gale appeared taken aback. So did Shadowheart for that matter, but Astarion couldn’t bring himself to care. You had in a very polite, roundabout way told them to leave. His job was to make it clear how much better that would be for everyone’s health. 

Both Gale and Shadowheart got the message, ducking out without another word. 

Astarion waited, counting down a solid minute to make sure nobody else would come barging in. Only when he was certain they were gone did he finally allow his body to relax. 

“You don’t have to stay.”

He pulled his attention back to you, his brows furrowing. 

 “I really am feeling a lot better,” you insisted. “I’ll be alright.”

His instinct was to argue. He wasn’t in the mood for any more quiet heroics from you, but something in your eyes gave him pause. 

“Do you want me to go?” he asked. 

“I…” You swallowed. The emotion in your voice was clear even from that one word. “You don’t–”

“Do you want me to go?” he repeated. 

For a long moment, you didn’t say a word. 

He waited for the predictable guilt to appear, an obvious sign of your irritating selflessness with maybe an apology thrown in on the side. There were hints of it, yes, but something else lingered, moving across your features despite your best efforts to bury it away. 

“No,” you confessed, with a yearning deeper than he felt he had any right to know. 

He thought back on what you told him, the bits and pieces you shared about your life. It was never obvious, just comments that slipped through, as if by accident. 

You didn’t know your mother. Your father was little more than a memory. You never mentioned any siblings. A flurry of names and faces filled your stories from across Faerun, but they never stayed the same between tellings. Now that he gave it proper thought, he couldn’t think of a single one of them you had named friend. 

He had to wonder how many nights you suffered through a fever alone, how many times you bandaged your own wounds and kept your own company on long nights in the middle of nowhere. 

You hadn’t given him permission to go out of the kindness of your heart. You had expected him to. You just wanted to give yourself the illusion of control over when. 

And yet, you asked him to stay. 

“Well, that settles it,” he soothed. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Your lips parted as if to say something more, but you closed it again swallowing the words back down. 

He counted himself grateful. He was liable to say any number of foolish things if you let him. 

Slowly, your eyes began to droop as sleep overcame you once more. 

As promised, he didn’t move, not daring to so much as shift your head. 

Maybe…maybe this was your price. He couldn’t be sure. He doubted he would ever be sure of anything with you, but maybe this was what you wanted; somebody to care. 

It was a dangerous notion. He had never provided anything real before. The concern he felt for you now was against his will. If he started caring for you on purpose, who knew where that might lead; the things he would be willing to do, all for you. 

He blinked the thought away. He was getting ahead of himself. A little went a long way, especially with you. Honestly, it would be almost too easy; a kind word here, a helpful hand there, and he would have you curled around his finger in no time. It wasn’t so different from what he had done before. All he needed to do was not care anymore than he already did. Nothing he couldn’t handle. He could stop any time he wanted. 

It was the thought that kept him through the night, the one he repeated to himself as he came as close to holding you as he dared. 

He had a plan now. What could possibly go wrong?