Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: NSFW
Fandom: baldur's gate
Relationship: astarion/staeve, minor lae'zel/shadowheart
Tags: Sexual Fantasy, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Working Through Astarion's Issues (Baldur's Gate), Drinking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Developing Relationship
Wordcount: 3350
Notes: staeve belongs to MAF

Summary:
staeve finds out about astarion’s odd feelings about personal belongings with the poorest timing possible.

i know the kindest thing is to (never) leave you alone part 2 of 4

Excerpt:

“Yes. I wore them,” Astarion enunciated, slowly. “I cleaned them. I’m giving them back.” From his tone, it was clear that he suspected that Staeve was either too stupid or too intoxicated to understand what he was saying.

Fuck, something did not add up. Maybe Staeve was too drunk to have this conversation, but something did not add up.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

Thievery could be a group project, but Staeve these days preferred working alone.

He never minded having someone to watch his back or to keep an eye where he couldn’t, but he was fine doing everything by himself. He knew his way around knives and fists and explosives well enough that he could hold his own in a fight, never had qualms about sticking a knife into someone if needed, whether it was a rival rogue or a guard less than pleased about catching him with sticky hands. Above everything, he had an easier time getting the fuck out of dodge, if he knew that it was only his skin on the line.

And yet here he was, not only a member of a party, but low-key doing his best to lead one. Another thing that the tadpole had changed about his life. It was a little alarming how naturally Staeve had found himself falling into the role — instinctively making sure that everyone had a fair share of equipment, worked at the best of their strength, managed to keep up with the pace they were setting — but he guessed it was a thing, now.

He couldn’t say he enjoyed it. Some days he really couldn’t say he enjoyed it.

It was supposed to be a quick, painless expedition. Get to the village, search the village, get out of the village. In and out, no-nonsense, like all his favourite heists.

Staeve had picked Shadowheart, Lae’zel and Astarion to accompany him because he could trust them to be fast and focused and could take care of any threat in a pinch without needing a lot of preparation. But he had forgotten how moody they all could be, when things didn’t go as planned: no intel, no progress, too much unexpected fighting.

And then the group of bandits fell on them. They were well armed, fresh and ready to throw down. They didn’t have a chance; stressed and frustrated and taken by surprise, the party fought back with the panicked energy of a cornered animal.

It had been a bloodbath. An exhausting one. Staeve wasn’t a fan.

“Are you alright?” Shadowheart’s lilting tone pulled him from his thoughts.

He smiled up at her from where he had crouched down in the middle of the dusty path to catch his breath. He was so frazzled he dreaded getting up, but he wasn’t hurt. Much. “All good, just tired. You?”

“All good, just tired,” she replied, a corner of her mouth curling up in a smirk. Her pretty doll face was spattered in speckles of blood, but she did seem in good health. She nodded her acknowledgement, and offered him her arm to help him up.

Staeve accepted it, getting himself back on his feet with a quiet groan. Nicks and cuts burned a little now that he was moving, but they still weren’t serious enough to require a cleric’s intervention.

“Did you check the others for injuries already?” he asked, but he didn’t actually wait for her answer to move out and check their surroundings.

Unsurprisingly, Lae’zel was already up and about, stripping dead bodies of weapons and other useful trinkets like it was her job. (Maybe it was. Staeve didn’t actually know how githyanki ranks worked). Her broadsword glinted on her back, already cleaned. She didn’t seem hurt, but he never knew with Lae’zel. They had too many horrifying conversations about what counted as a ‘serious wound’ for him not to always be a little worried on her behalf, when it came to damage self-assessment.

For now, he let her be.

It took him a while to find Astarion. When he finally spotted him, he felt his breath catch in his chest, because he looked dead, even more than usual, sitting up against an overturned carriage at the side of the road, blinking slowly with a dazed expression.

He was entirely covered in gore. Staeve vaguely remembered passing him as sank his fangs into a bandit’s neck to rip out his throat, so he was reasonably sure very little of the blood was his, but the sight was still pretty disturbing.

“I’ll go check on our pet vampire,” he told Shadowheart airily, in an attempt to conceal his concern. “Could you check that Lae’zel isn’t trying to walk off a gut wound again?”

“I can hear you, shka’keth!” Lae’zel shrieked in the distance.

Staeve winked at Shadowheart, and she rolled her eyes at him. He gave her an encouraging pat on the shoulders, and made his way towards the carriage.

His stomach twisted when he finally reached Astarion’s side. It was even more gruesome up close: the lower half of his face was coated in congealing blood, half smeared where he had probably tried to wipe his chin clean. The gore kept going down his neck and his chest, and it also spattered his cheekbones, his forehead and his hair. A pointed fang peeked over his bloodstained lips, and his cheek rippled and twitched like he was struggling not to laugh. His eyes took a moment to focus on Staeve.

“Darling!” he greeted him, a little too brightly. “Hello.”

“Hi,” Staeve murmured, smiling despite himself. “Is any of that blood yours?”

Astarion shook his head.“No, I don’t think so.”

Slowly, he turned to grip the side of the carriage, and pulled himself up, ignoring Staeve’s outstretched hand. He stumbled a little in place, but he managed to keep himself upright. He looked down at himself and clicked his tongue, hesitantly the damage to the leather armour, to the padded garment, to the shirt underneath. His hands were also stained with blood almost up to his elbows. “Look at this,” he drawled. “My bad, dear.”

“Don't worry about it.” Staeve was not sure what he was reassuring him about, but he had other pressing concerns. “What happened?”

“I lost my dagger. Sorry!” For some reason, that cracked Astarion up. It wasn't a good sound, dry and high, threaded with relief in all the wrong ways. “I had to improvise!” He gestured at his bloody face jerkily, fangs in full display.

“I see. You did well. Are you—” Staeve hesitated. Astarion seemed physically okay, if a little shaky, but he was so high strung Staeve was actually unsure if he should ask about it. “Are you okay?”

“Never felt better, sweetheart. All this blood, you know. I probably won’t even have to bother you tonight.” Astarion stiffly wiped the corner of his mouth with his fingers, tongue darting out to lick at the clots stuck to his thumb, not meeting Staeve’s gaze. His grin didn’t reach all the way up to his eyes.

The flirting was a little jarring, too, given the situation, but Staeve got it. Maybe.

“Pity,” he replied, slowly. He lifted his chin a little, and was rewarded by Astarion's eyes flicking down to his throat, over the ribbon he'd tied around his neck to try and cover up the bruises that most obviously screamed vampire feeding spot. “What if I wanted to be bothered?”

Astarion’s eyes went unexpectedly wide and soft, before he tilted his head to lower his lashes at Staeve. “I'm sure it can be arranged. Mine or yours?”

Staeve felt himself relax a little at his antics. “I’ll leave the details to you. Let’s make sure everyone gets to come back in one piece, first.”

#

The trip back to camp was mostly peaceful and uneventful.

Mostly. Lae’zel tried to take Staeve’s ear off ranting about their collective lack of tactical expertise—or something. But he had honestly tuned her out almost immediately, too tired and hungry to actually argue with her, limiting himself to just nodding and hmming in the right places.

He got saved when Shadowheart let out a particularly loud scoff at something she said—which caused the rant to get redirected in her direction, and made them rapidly devolve into the usual bickering.

Astarion caught his eye and shook his head at the display, exasperated. He seemed calmer now, which was a relief, but also more tired, disquieted about something. Staeve just winked and kept walking.

They finally reached the clearing where they had set camp around mid-afternoon.

Karlach was the first to spot them. “At last the heroes return,” she welcomed them, her fanged grin wide enough to lift Staeve’s spirit a little. She frowned a little as she took in their sorry state, and she actually did a double take when she caught sight of Astarion. “Shit, fangs, what happened to you?”

“Darling, this is nothing. You should see the other guy.”

She scrunched up her nose, eyes glittering. “Something tells me I really shouldn’t.”

“Something tells me there wasn’t much left to see,” Gale commented drily, approaching them. “How did it go?”

Staeve shrugged “Shittily. We’re missing something. I don’t know what, but there was nothing in the village.” He grimaced. “If you don’t count the goblins waiting for us.”

“Fuck. This their doing?” Karlach asked, gesturing at Staeve. “Man, it looks like your armour is kept together with spit and prayers.”

“Oh no,” Astarion interjected darkly, as sweet as decay, “This were the bandits. And before them, it was the gnolls. And before them it was the goblins.” He sighed, cranky. “It’ll take me all evening to take the smell out.”

“I thought you liked blood,” Karlach pointed out.

“Not goblin blood, and not on my clothes. Do you walk around with meat drippings on your shirt? Actually, don’t answer that.”

Just as Staeve was about to open his mouth to say something, Gale cleared his voice instead. “You know, there are a few spells that might help, if you’d like me to—”

“No,” Astarion cut him off. “Thank you,” he tacked on after a slightly too long pause, glancing at Staeve. “I’ll be down to the river, if you need me.”

He stomped off without another word, his balance still slightly off, the gore still shocking and upsetting smeared all over his body.

“Someone’s cranky,” Karlach commented. She didn’t sound offended, but her smile was a little tight, as she nodded her farewell to Staeve before walking off.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t his business, if Astarion decided to be a rude arsehole to everyone, but since everyone seemed to have appointed Staeve as the unnamed leader of the group, he sometimes felt like it was.

No matter. He made himself smile through the exhaustion, and turned to Gale. “You know, I might take advantage of that spell offer, instead.”

The wizard grinned. “Of course.”

#

Comradeship came easy when there was a common goal, and even more easily when there were common miseries. Despite the failure from that afternoon, or maybe because of it, the campsite easily fell into the usual routine: those who had been out during the day took a few hours to decompress and clean up before dinner, and then everyone gathered around the campfire to eat—and to drink.

The fuzzy comfort of alcohol settled over Staeve’s concerns. He decided that for one night he wasn’t going to worry about the godsdamned worms. For one night, he was going to enjoy the chatter, the food and the entertainment of companionship.

Sober Staeve would have tried to break up the bickering that once again had broken out between Shadowheart and Lae’zel; tipsy Staeve was being maybe a little too invested in trying to figure out how much of the tension between them was actually of a much more physical nature than either of the girls was willing to admit.

Feeling kind of naughty but already too inebriated to care, he uncorked another bottle of wine and started musing. It was almost too easy to picture Lae’zel pushing Shadowheart to the floor and straddling her face, the hiss and roll of her voice as she demanded obedience and compliance from her. Staeve had been there. Heat travelled along his body at the memory, simmering pleasantly under his skin. On the other hand, Shadowheart didn’t seem the type to easily concede ground, either. There was steel in her voice, confidence in her unshakeable, unimpressed gaze.

Maybe they would fight for the lead. Even less clothed than they currently were.

Fuck, alright. Staeve pressed the bottle against his neck, the cool glass relieving and sobering against his heated skin. The itch was almost unbearable.

He unwittingly found himself remembering the way Astarion’s eyes had flicked down to his throat, earlier on the battlefield, and his mouth went dry with want. A pity that it hadn’t been a real proposal—or at least, Staeve hadn’t thought it was.

Astarion. He wondered where he was. He hadn’t seen him since that afternoon, when he had limped away to clean his stuff. Maybe he had simply been too tired to hang out and decided to turn in early, but a glimmer of concern sparked in Staeve’s chest. He hoped Astarion hadn’t lied about being hurt.

“My goodness, beautiful. Are you drinking away the disappointment from the afternoon’s mishaps all by yourself?”

Staeve blinked. Lae’zel and Shadowheart were gone, their argument exhausted while he was lost in thought— but Astarion was suddenly standing between him and the campfire, a questioning tilt to his head.

“Astarion,” he blurted, brighter and louder than he meant. He blamed the liquor. He blamed the relief. It was so good to see him. “Hello,” he stammered. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Were you? How flattering.” Amused sounded stretched thin over exhaustion, in his tone. “I would love to hear all about it, but I’m afraid I came here just for a delivery.”

There was a folded pile of something under his arm, Staeve noticed now. He didn’t particularly care. “Sure. Sit down for a little while?”

He wouldn’t have tried anything, if Astarion really was as tired as he sounded, but he wasn’t above taking advantage of whatever little company he could get from him. He only wanted him close, really.

Astarion sighed, but he folded himself down gracefully on the blanket next to Staeve. He handed out his little bundle to Staeve with a half-hearted little flourish. “Here. I apologise for the wait but, as I expected, it did take me a while to take all the bloodstains out. I also fixed the sleeve, as you can see.”

“Thank you, no worries,” Staeve answered automatically, unrolling the bundle on his lap. He recognised the padded garment and the undershirt Astarion had worn earlier. He briefly marvelled at how colourful they were; he’d forgotten, after all that blood. And then something clicked. “Wait. Why—is something wrong with these?”

Astarion stiffened. “I’m pretty sure they’re cleaner than they were when you gave them to me, if that’s what you’re asking,” he said, tetchily. “Can I go now?”

“No, wait, that’s not it.” Staeve shook his head. “Why are you giving me these?”

“Because they’re yours?” Astarion replied, like it was obvious.

“No. I gave them to you so you can wear them under your armour.”

“Yes. I wore them,” Astarion enunciated, slowly. “I cleaned them. I’m giving them back.” From his tone, it was clear that he suspected that Staeve was either too stupid or too intoxicated to understand what he was saying.

Fuck, something did not add up. Maybe Staeve was too drunk to have this conversation, but something did not add up.

“You don’t have to give them back,” he tried to explain. “They’re yours, now.”

Astarion flinched. “Why?”

“They just are. Because I gave them to you.” He couldn’t explain it better than that. He’d given equipment to everyone—this wasn’t supposed to be something special. And yet. Staeve wasn’t quite sure why Astarion was getting so agitated about it, but the guarded way he was holding himself was making Staeve’s heart lurch.

He wasn’t sober enough for this. Every instinct he had told him to touch him, to reassure him. Every instinct he had told him that it would have been a terrible, horrible idea to do so.

“Consider them a gift, if it makes it easier,” he tried again.

Astarion’s grimace turned pained. “Darling,” he started, and then the flippancy drained from his voice, leaving only exhaustion behind. He looked terribly small, curled up next to the campfire. “I can’t keep getting indebted like this.”

Fucking. Hells.

“Isn’t that—” Staeve sounded like gravel. “Isn’t that the point of a gift? No expectation for— for a return.” He took a deep breath, tilted his chin up. The ribbon was still there. His mouth was as dry as the bottom of a dead river. “It wouldn’t be very romantic, to expect a lover to put out just because you gave them flowers.”

Astarion’s eyes went round like coins as he stared at him. The line of his shoulders unfurled cautiously from the tight loop of nerves it had tightened into. “I didn’t realise we were talking about romance,” he replied, a hint of flirting carefully seeping back into demeanour.

“We weren’t,” Staeve whispered.

Astarion winced, and looked away.

“But I was hoping…” he trailed off. Sex was the furthest thing away from his mind, at this point. The heat from before clung to his skin like the sticky-cold residue from a fever. He still itched to hold Astarion close. “Will you keep me company? As a gift.”

“Gorgeous, you don't need to hope,” Astarion purred, unfolding himself and gathering himself to his feet. Facing Staeve, he took a step over his thighs and, with unexpected fluidity, he lowered himself in his lap, his arms draping over Staeve’s shoulders. “You only have to ask.”

Staeve wrapped his hands around Astarion’s waist, for a moment letting himself enjoy the shape of his body under his fingers, the way he perfectly fit between his palms. He looked beautiful in the dim light, with the fire at his back and his eyes glinting in the relative shadow. His collarbones were just at the right height for Staeve to press his mouth to them, to pull at the fastening of his shirt with his teeth.

It would have been so easy for Staeve to indulge the rekindling mood. He could have run his hands up and down Astarion’s thighs, dug his thumbs in the hollow of his hipbones, felt up the soft-wiry shape of his frame. He could have stroked up the curve of his spine, gripped him by the hair at the nape of his neck to force his head back, to devour his throat with open-mouthed kisses. He could have dragged Astarion’s nose across his own pulse, could have teased him with the promise of blood, holding him just out of reach until he had him begging for a taste. Astarion would have let him.

The fantasy wasn’t as exciting as it used to be.

“Lucky me,” Staeve said, cradling the small of his back for a moment, selfishly squeezing their bodies together in the slightest hint of embrace, before encouraging him off his lap. “But that’s not what I had in mind.”

Astarion’s sultry expression went slack with surprise, his mouth slightly falling open. He recovered quickly, and pursed his lips in an exaggerated pout instead. “Aw, fine.” He settled on his side next to Staeve, tucking his legs under himself. “What did you have in mind, then?”

Staeve noticed him sneak a glance between him and the now crumpled garments, still suspicious, still weary. Ignoring the pain in his chest, Staeve slowly reached out for them, did his best to fold them, and held them out to Astarion.

“I only want your company,” Staeve repeated. “Nothing more.”

“Alright,” Astarion answered after the briefest hesitation. He grabbed the garments from Staeve’s hand, and took a moment to re-fold them, fussily pressing the corners with his fingertips. “I guess my beauty sleep can wait a little longer.” He sniffed, exaggeratedly. “Tell me I don’t actually need sleep to be beautiful.”

“You don’t need sleep to be beautiful,” Staeve repeated, obediently. The pain in his chest was for an entire other reason, now.

Astarion’s answering smile was a little wobbly, but sincere enough.