Recovery (Astarion BG3 Fan Fiction)

10: Disenchantment

In the morning, Astarion is a mess.

It bothers him now, the thoughts that he had the night before. He couldn't stop the intrusive questions as they shouted in his mind: Is this love? he thought, over and over. How he hoped beyond hope that it was - and how he feared to find out.

And her eyes told him yes; though, how could her eyes - sweet peridot jewels that they were - be trusted, when his cock was inside of her? How could he be sure that wasn't the fuck-drunk stare of lust, that he has inspired by so many before her? It's nearly identical on paper, the only difference being his chest feeling like it might implode when he stares back at her.

The doubt eats away at his insides as he lay in bed, her head in the crook of his arm. Would she have ever looked at him that way, were it not for his singular talent?

"Good morning," Aysla says, stifling a yawn.

"Good morning!" he says, as casually as he can.

"No nightmares," she says, smiling. "That's a first - though I did dream about you with wings, like those freaky little bat-people yesterday."

She dreamt of me, he thinks. Does that not count for a sign? Or does she only dream of him because he so dutifully and consistently delivers her pleasure?

Some fucking plan this was.

She was supposed to fall for him. And he would sleep with her as needed. And then, she would help him kill Cazador, and that would be the end of the story.

So why does it gnaw at him? Why does he care whether what she feels is lust, or infatuation, or anything else?

Love, he thinks. Over and over again, it sounds in his ears - a song that is as incessant and annoying, as it is painfully hopeful and pining.

If she loves him, that ought to be more reliable than faithless, unpredictable lust. That's all there is to it, surely - the only reason his heart screams at him, Does she love you? Does she? It's simply strategy.

"Want to come to Moonrise Towers today?" she says. "Are you in a reconnaissance mood?"

"Hmm," is all he says, lost in his own thoughts.

"Or not," she replies, assuming the negative in his lack of an answer. "I'll just take Wyll and Karlach."

Wyll and Karlach? Why was she so quick to replace him? He hadn't even been listening to register the question - of course he'd want to go. Reconnaissance is his godsdamned middle name.

"Well of course," he says jealously. "You ought to take them then, if that's what you'd prefer."

Aysla's brows knit together.

"Do you want to go?" she asks, again.

"I should think it doesn't matter," he says aloofly. "If you trust them more than myself on your mission, then take them, obviously."

"Astarion," she says, in a gently admonishing tone.

"What?" he snaps.

"You're the only one I trust, implicitly, for anything at all - my sweet, bratty babe," she says, giving him a little peck on the nose.

He raises his eyebrows, and the corners of his mouth raise ever so lightly as he suppresses his smug grin.

Oh, he thinks, noticing how his heart swells at the gesture. I'm in trouble, aren't I?

Aysla, too, fearfully feels her own heart thumping with syrupy affection. She'd leave him behind if she had to, but she'd have a terrible time, thinking of nothing but him all day. They could reconnaissance the shit out of the place, and the day would still feel wasted somehow, if she didn't spend it with him. She would count the minutes. She would be distracted to the point of being a liability. And everything would remind her of him; blood, pointy knives, people with light hair, the sun, air...