"I care about you," she said, her voice low and gentle and utterly sincere.
Astarion did not know D'ahtlana to be a liar.
Oh, she could tell a lie. She could decline to correct a falsehood. She could play along with assumptions that were tacitly untrue. But he had only ever seen her do so in the name of some "greater good" or prevention of "unnecessary bloodshed," and even then, that was only when all other avenues of sweet talk had failed or were deemed comparably undesirable. She could lie, but she wasn't a liar.
Astarion did not know D'ahtlana to be cruel either.
Oh, she could be utterly terrifying. Paladins often were, for a myriad of reasons, particularly to an undead like himself. She could be angry, tenacious, even grim. But cruel? For all her strength and power, the tiefling took little pleasure in causing or revelling in the misery of others.
(Unlike himself).
No, D'ahtlana was... good. "Naïve" he had called her just the night before.
But this naïve, this... good? What kind of a person looked at him - undead, wretched, simpering, impure him - and said something like that?
It would have been another thing entirely if she had said "I love you." Astarion at least knew what that meant. He had heard it often enough, spoken in between gasps and moans by many an unfortunate lover, and even by himself. To sweeten the pot, as it were.
("I love you," he told her, after all his other lines only made her scoff and smile in amusement.
This line decidedly did not seem to amuse her, though it didn't seem to have her swooning either. Instead, she merely crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes, and gave him a searching stare.
"Having fun, are you?"
He laughed - flighty, teasing, practiced - and it was with some amount of internal alarm that he realised he was somewhat disappointed. Disappointed that she hadn't reciprocated...?
"I am," he crooned. "It's hard not to with you."
No, he was merely disappointed that she wasn't yet falling head over heels for him, that he hadn't quite yet undeniably secured his place as something to be protected in her eyes. That was all.)
The naïve and gullible placed so much weight behind those simple words, but Astarion knew what "I love you" really meant. They were transactional words. From his marks, a confirmation of instincts dulled by lust, driven by a desire for more of him, and from Astarion, a honeyed opium meant to dull them all the more, driven by a clawing, mewling, frantic need to survive.
But she hadn't said "I love you."
What she had said, Astarion had never heard such words before. Not spoken to him. The words themselves were easy enough to understand. He knew what sentiment was meant to be expressed in those simple words. But he didn't know what secrets those words held, what bitter truths were meant to lay hidden behind such a lovely lie, what cruel reality disguised itself in this phrase that made something stir in his cold, unbeating heart.
"I care about you," she said, her voice low and gentle and utterly sincere.
D'ahtlana was not a fool, no matter how much he might have told her otherwise. D'ahtlana was not a liar. D'ahtlana was not cruel.
"Really?" he asked, his voice soft and uncertain and painfully vulnerable.
'Are you sure that's wise? Why would you say something like that? What does that even mean?'
D'ahtlana's eyes softened, the fiery blue glow dimming from attentive torchlight to a cozy hearth fire. She approached, and oh Hells what the fuck was she doing–?
D'ahtlana wouldn't hurt him, experience told him. Sure, she had slammed her forehead into his own when they had first met, but to be fair, he had held a blade to her throat first. Gods knows Astarion would have done far worse to anyone threatening his life (or, well, unlife). D'ahtlana had never once harmed him since then, though. Even when she caught him attempting to bite her in her sleep, forcing him to finally reveal his secret, to unveil himself as an undead to a fucking Paladin, there had been nary a wooden stake nor Divine Smite in sight. Only a wary glare, a few stern questions, and eventually a neck willingly bared in a stupid, stupid show of trust.
No matter how many times Astarion attempted to push the limits of her frankly stalwart moral boundaries, no matter how many times Astarion expressed the parts of himself that would have any self-respecting "hero" immediately expelling him from their party, no matter how annoyed or even angry she clearly was, D'ahtlana never once raised a hand or weapon against him.
All that being said, Astarion still had no idea what in the Hells D'ahtlana's intent was as she stepped toward him. Her expression was soft, but her body language was unfamiliar, betraying no intent that Astarion could recognise. There was no violence, no lust. Clearly she meant to do something, but what?
She approached, and Astarion flinched back. Only the knowledge of who D'ahtlana was, of what he knew about her, of who he wanted so earnestly for her to be to him, and he to her, kept Astarion rooted where he was, neither fleeing nor lashing out as she wrapped both arms around him.
This was…
'Oh.'
Astarion had been entwined in the arms of many, many, many people throughout the past two centuries. But that was not what this was. Her body did not… press against his own, at least not in the way he had come to expect. Her nails did not dig into his back, marking lines of poetry with lines of ecstasy. Her lips did not so much as caress his neck.
She simply… hugged him.
Astarion could not recall the last time someone had done such a thing.
It felt…
Slowly, hesitantly, Astarion lifted his own arms and wrapped them tentatively around her waist. She did not pull away. He rested his head against her shoulder and let himself lean into her embrace. She remained as stalwart and grounding as ever. Her palms were warm and gentle against his back, the contact bringing hardly any attention to the scars hidden beneath his shirt. Astarion closed his eyes.
Gods… Was this what "I care about you" meant? It felt wonderful. It felt safe.
D'ahtlana withdrew, her unexpectant touch retreating from his body, but that feeling remained. For the first time in centuries, Astarion found himself almost struck dumb by something other than his master's commands.
"You…" He managed to find his voice again though, and smiled. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"
D'ahtlana smiled in return. She did not smile often (unlike himself), but Astarion supposed that just made the moments she did smile all the more real (unlike himself). There was something sad in her gaze, in the way her eyes dimmed from a cozy hearth fire to a flickering candle, but that did not make her smile any less dear.
Astarion couldn't help but let out a small laugh, slightly giddy and slightly nervous. "Honestly, I have no idea what we're doing. Or what comes next."
What did come next? Relationships beyond the carnal and transactional, beyond the physical, beyond a single night of tainted pleasure were far outside Astarion's understanding. But if there was one thing Astarion had learned about D'ahtlana, it was that she had a godly amount of patience and a willingness for second chances that Astarion would have scoffed at if she hadn't given such chances to him.
So, Astarion extended a palm out to her. She looked down at it, surprise flickering across her features, but there was otherwise no hesitation as she accepted his hand with her own. Golden ochre contrasted starkly against snow pale. The calloused and hardened hands of a soldier juxtaposed the soft and slender hands of a charlatan. The warmth of life met the chill of undeath like a foil.
Astarion placed his other hand overtop D'ahtlana's, holding her between his palms like nothing he had ever treasured or held dear before. Astarion did not know what was supposed to come next.
"But I know that this…" He smiled at her, a smile he hoped she knew was just as real as he knew every single one of her own smiles were, just as real as he so desperately wanted this to become. "This is nice."
He gazed into her eyes, cold red meeting fiery blue. Gods, the contrasts just didn't end. Who was this woman, to accept this as it was…?
D'ahtlana was the first to break eye contact, looking down at where Astarion still had her hand clasped between his own two. She placed her other hand overtop his clasped ones, and he laughed.
"Are we playing a children's hand game now, my sweet?"
D'ahtlana lifted her gaze back up to him and tilted her head. "What do you wish to do, Astarion?"
Oh, what a question.
This time, it was he who broke eye contact.
"I think," he murmured, "for tonight… I should like for us to simply be together. Nothing else, if you don't mind." Another laugh escaped him, but it did little to ease the sudden spike of anxiety in his gut. "Just… Just be with me. That's all."
Astarion couldn't see D'ahtlana's face, but he heard her hum softly. "As you wish."
Anxiety left Astarion in a sigh. He brought her hand up to his lips, brushing them ever so softly over her knuckles, before stepping backwards towards his tent, still holding her hands. She followed without question.
There was something terribly ironic about him, the most prolific harlot in all of Baldur's Gate (as his master and Petras, the most idiotic of Astarion's brothers, oh so scornfully put it), requesting not to sleep with someone. Not just someone, but a person whom Astarion had already slept with just a few tendays prior, a person whom Astarion would gladly admit was the very vision of attractiveness. But gods damn him, this was the first time in so, so many years he could even think to make such a request. And apparently fate had seen fit to not only bless him with a taste of freedom, but a woman who would gladly heed such a request while still remaining by his side, despite this whole relationship having started as a farce.
What kind of a person would do such a thing?
The same kind of person who would look a conniving vampiric prostitute in the eye and say, without an ounce of derision, "I care about you," apparently.
As they lay side by side in his tent, Astarion took a deep, unneeded breath, and closed his eyes, preparing to enter a trance. Perhaps tonight his dreams would not be encroached by Cazador's all consuming presence…
Astarion wordlessly shifted closer to D'ahtlana. He felt her shift in turn, before a muscular arm slowly draped over his chest.
"Is this all right, love?" D'ahtlana asked, her low voice made lower by her gentle tone.
Oh, what a question.
"More than all right, dearest," Astarion murmured. "Just… you know…"
"I know."
He trusted her, Astarion realised as he let out another sigh. Not like how he had trusted her before, assured by the fact that so long as he carried his weight in this band of misfits, cajoled her into ensuring his survival, and made himself desirable to her, she would not betray him. No, he trusted her.
D'ahtlana could carry him as easily as she could carry a barrel of firewine, and Astarion knew that for a fact, but she would never harm him. Because she… she cared about him.
How novel. How intimidating. How wonderful.
Astarion slipped into his meditative trance far more easily than he had in decades. If Cazador and his commandments encroached at all into his dreamscapes, Astarion did not remember, because when he emerged from his trance the following morning, he knew immediately that he was safe.