Recovery (Astarion BG3 Fan Fiction)

16: My Air is Your Air

After her post-murder crying wraps up, Aysla, predictably, can't sleep.

But Astarion can work with that. He waits, respectfully, til the tears dry, and then he offers her a tentative joke. Then another.

It's so much like seduction, he finds - and equally satisfying, though in a different way. He tests and pokes and prods, and he thrills when he earns a laugh.

And Aysla is relieved at every little jest he makes; he still likes her. He's still here.

They giggle like children well past midnight.

In the wee hours of the morning, her consciousness starts to drift back and forth from wakefulness, to her persistent dream.

Pools of blood, black dust; Burning, billowing smoke; silvery white hair, children's laughter; her hands are covered in blood, so much blood, so much smoke - and then she wakes up.

Astarion breathes shallowly behind her. His arm is wrapped snugly around her waist.

"Stay asleep," he whispers.

"No," she whispers back.

A bird chirps outside their tent. It's too early to get up, but too late to fall back asleep. Aysla wonders how she ought to fill the time with him now, sans fucking. She's not in the mood, half exhausted and half wired, but that would have likely been her move, here, otherwise - she's acutely aware of a deeply insecure urge to keep him entertained.

She rolls around and faces him.

"What do you usually get up to, when I sleep?" she asks him.

"On the rare night when you sleep for more than an hour or two? Sometimes I trance; sometimes I get up, and hunt, and come back," he replies.

"Liar," she accuses. "You watch me sleep, like a little freak."

He chokes on a laugh, still trying to stay quieter since the rest of their camp is sleeping. "You barely slept a solid hour - do you not need breaks? From endlessly bullying me?"

"Bullying you!" Aysla gasps, hands going to his ribs. He jerks dramatically the moment she begins wiggling her fingers. This is a new trick, she learned over the course of their long night. Astarion is incredibly ticklish.

"Stop," he hisses. And she actually does, despite her own amusement. "You're so annoying," he pouts.

"I'm sorry," she coos to him, giving him a little kiss on his shoulder as she nuzzles into his chest.

"You're not," he says, still sulking. After a beat, he blurts. "Can I ask you something?"

"Mm," she says sarcastically, pretending to ponder it for a moment, "no."

But he doesn't laugh. "How do you feel about sex?" he asks, straight to the point.

It's clear from her impulsive and excessively violent murder of the dark-haired man the previous day, that she has had her own share of horrors. Though her life is a short blip of time compared to his experiences, he knows it must have been significantly awful.

"What?" she stalls, feeling nervous. She'd rather talk about anything else, than her own wants. It's so much easier, and less panic-inducing, to focus on his.

"Well you've hardly put up a fight at the loss of our nightly activities," he says lightly. "It was suspiciously easy for you to give it up, is all. Did you... have mixed feelings about it? I know we talked about how I felt, but... I guess I just don't really know how you do."

She mulls over her thoughts for a moment. "I mean... I'm okay with never fucking again. Or fucking 100 times a day. Or, even fucking upside down while trying to juggle. As long as it's with you."