Recovery (Astarion BG3 Fan Fiction)

12: Sowing

When Aysla awakens, she stretches her long, knuckle-y fingers over Astarion's larger, smoother, colder ones. Her palms are hot and her fingertips are freezing, while Astarion's hands are so evenly cold, like a balm.

She had no dreams the previous night, for once - a reprieve, after the strange visions she had whilst floating, suspended in between life and death, before Withers revived her.

He's already awake, she knows, still as a stone behind her. She gives his hand one more squeeze, before turning over to face him, and putting a hand softly on his cheek.

Sitting in his cool arms in the morning, she recalls that they never really set any clear boundaries. Not eager to broach any hot-button topics with him for a while after the rollercoaster they'd just been on, Aysla decides against requesting clarification, and to simply err on the side of chaste, wholesome touches, only. Nothing that could be considered a breach of the limits he had just set on their sex life.

Their sex life.

Despite it being on a sabbatical of undetermined length, it feels, knowing it is theirs all the same. Our relationship, she thinks. Us.

Aysla is a little nervous at the thought that these moments, sweet and chaste, were all she would have to build on - to make him want to stay. How could that be enough, for him?

So she strokes her thumb delicately across his cheek and rakes her eyes over his face. If she can't earn her lover's affection with sex, she's motivated to find other ways to dote upon him.

She notices with a pang that his eyes look pained. Perhaps he's regretting this after all? Perhaps he regrets saying those three little words. She had been holding them back for ages, but maybe he had felt pressured. She had just woken up from being dead, was crying, and had said it to him first - perhaps it was the heat of the moment.

"How'd you sleep?" he says, his voice sounding strained.

"Alright," she says softly. "And you?"

"Oh, I didn't trance long," he says, eyes still far away.

Aysla wonders if it's better to say nothing to avoid poking the tender spot, or to risk asking him what's wrong. "Are you... mad at me?" she asks, feeling dumb as the words leave her mouth. "I just mean - sorry. That we had a fight and I misread it, and then died, or whatever."

"Has anyone ever told you that you have a way with words?" Astarion teases, a hint of amusement finally warming his expression. "It's alright, my love. Your sister did warn me, - something about mommy issues."

"Mommy issues? It'd be more accurate to say that she has me issues," she scoffs.

"Is that why you're...like this?" he says, waving a hand, still teasing. "My 'broken toy'? I had centuries to become this jaded, and you've had - what, two or three decades? Doesn't stop you from having all the optimism of a rock."

"Well, if we're going to start psycho-analyzing each other-" she begins to retort.

"You've already analyzed me," he recalls. "Don't be miffed because I have you pegged, now, too."

"So - mommy issues? Is that all you have? I think you could do far worse," she goads.

"And I've seen you when you think no one is watching, with your little 'chicken.' Cooing to him like he's your own wee, feathered babe," he continues, wearing a shit-eating grin, "playing mother hen."

Aysla didn't know anyone had been watching. In fact, she often looks around, double-checking for watching eyes, before picking up the owl bear, whom she had dubbed "Little Man," and rocking him like he's her oversized, beaked toddler.