Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: SAFE
Fandom: baldur's gate
Relationship: astarion/halsin/tav (staeve)
Tags: remix, past torture, hurt/comfort, scars
Wordcount: 748 / 719 on AO3
Notes: staeve belongs to velnna/MAF

Summary:
Remix of outlines, by chaiiii, from Staeve's point of view.

Excerpt:

There's a muffled sound coming from Astarion — pain and fear and pleading all rolled in one — and something in Staeve snaps. He wants to murder Cazador so bad.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

It's hard to keep emotions out of his expression, in the face of Astarion’s pain, his fear and his panic, but Staeve manages somehow. He hates watching the man he loves so closed off, uncertainty gauze-thin over thick desperation and naked yearning. He must be in terrible distress, for him to be so transparent in his need of comfort.

Staeve keeps his voice light, his tone casual and relaxed, but can't help scanning him over, looking for wounds and other signs. Astarion flinches under the scrutiny, stops him with trembling hands. Staeve’s insides clench in sympathy. The kiss he presses to Astarion’s hands before getting up is both affection and prayer. Let me help. Let us see you.

And the gods never answer, but Astarion does. He holds out his hand, a silent plea; Staeve takes it in his own like the most precious and fragile gift he ever received, and helps him back on his feet.

Their walk back is slow. Halsin is a shape darkening the entrance of their tent in the distance, a solemn guardian on their stumbling progress.

Staeve doesn't dare touching Astarion’s back, but his hand hovers close as he guides him inside. Halsin doesn't ask for an explanation: he just opens his arms, and lets Astarion crumple against his chest.

“You got a salve for his back?” Staeve asks Halsin, voice quiet and chest tight at the sight. Astarion flinches at his words; Staeve can't help it — he reaches a hand out to stroke his shoulder, pouring as much reassurance into the touch as he can. He sees Halsin’s arms tighten around Astarion, the druid reacting to their lover's distress even as he nods his answer.

“You don't need to face this alone, babe,” Staeve murmurs, pulling the jar of soothing oil out of the druid's kit and setting it over a candle to warm it up. “We're your partners. We got you.”

Astarion doesn't reply, his shaking still noticeable against Halsin’s hulking frame. They wait him out. Eventually the trembling subsides, and Astarion nods his permission, forehead buried against Halsin’s shoulder.

“Thank you, my heart,” Halsin says, pressing a kiss against Astarion’s hairline. His voice is warm, but his eyes are somber. “Your trust means more than you know.”

There's a muffled sound coming from Astarion — pain and fear and pleading all rolled in one — and something in Staeve snaps.

He wants to murder Cazador so bad.

He knows Astarion would never forgive him if Staeve took that from him — he would never deny him his revenge — but for a hot minute all he wants to do his to swear to Astarion that he's going to find the bastard and make him pay tenfold for every ounce of pain he had to endure from him, were it the last thing Staeve ever did in his life.

Halsin gives him a look, and that's how Staeve knows that murderous intent has darkened his expression. He lowers his head, letting his hair fall on his face, and busies himself pouring the warmed oil on his palm.

He needs to calm down. Astarion does not need his rage, right now; he needs relief, and kindness and love. Staeve is there to give him that, and more.

He lays his hands flat on Astarion’s back — gentle, gentle — and his heart breaks all over again when his love briefly tenses under his touch. The scars feel thick and raised under his palms, marks of terrible pain and unspeakable cruelty. How deep had the knife sunken in his flesh? How long had it taken for the marks to heal? The taste of bile at the back of his throat threatens to choke him; Staeve clenches his jaw, buries the fury and stills his hands. He slows his breath, and focuses on the gentle reassurances that Halsin has been murmuring against Astarion’s hair the whole time.

When he's done coating Astarion’s back in oil, he leans down to kiss his shoulder. Relief flows in the lines of Astarion’s muscles; another sound emerges from him—and this time it's brighter, and clear like a bell. Relief, relief, relief.

“We got you,” Staeve whispers against his skin, wrapping his arms around his waist to bookend Halsin’s pose—the two of them barriers around Astarion against the world's cruelties. “We got you.”