Taran and Astarion tended to try to find seclusion for Astarion’s nightly feeds. The others knew they did it, and frankly he thought some of them preferred the distance from the act, prudes that they were.
And after they’d started what he was still sure was going to be a disastrous attempt at a relationship, he’d discovered that he enjoyed just…laying there, afterwards. Taran would drink a potion and stretch out on whatever blanket they’d stolen for their purposes, and he would rest his head on her stomach, and she’d run her fingers through her hair while she recovered. It was almost sickeningly domestic, and if any of the others ever caught him at it he’d kill them on principle.
It was less wise here in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, where they needed the lantern if they got too far from camp, but a little Light spell from the wizard (or more often Wyll, as he was far less smug about it) kept them safe enough.
He had almost slipped into proper meditation this time, when Taran’s fingers suddenly stopped their path across his scalp. He made a small noise of protest, expecting her to start back immediately, and when they didn’t he opened one eye.
“What?”
”Did you hear that?” She was staring off into the fog, trying to peer through it to the other side.
“No,” Astarion said without hesitating. “And you didn’t either. Come on, you need to let that potion do its job.”
Taran frowned, but their fingers carded through his hair once more, and he settled back down.
Then something barreled out of the fog and landed on top of him.
Taran shrieked and he felt the pop of static against his skin, felt her fighting to get out from under the combined weight of him and the thing on top of him.
“Zap it!” Astarion roared, trying to keep what looked upsettingly like mandibles away from his face.
“I can’t - I’m - “
Astarion swore mentally. She was still recovering from his feed. If they both died here it was his fault, which was incredibly irritating.
Getting his legs under the creature, he kicked it away, sending it flying into the fog. He scrambled to his feet and started after it, but Taran caught at his trouser leg. He whirled on her, snarl on his lips, but they shoving the glowing goblet they were using as a lamp at him. Right. The fog.
The goblet went flying back out of his hand as he was tackled again, rolling away from them both, and he felt the fog start to creep around him, cold and dark. It sapped his strength even as he fought against the creature's jaws, and black spots started popping across his vision.
Then light filled his peripheral vision, the fog parted, and he watched the goblet roll across the ground to rest against his side. His strength came roaring back and he shoved the creature away, not so far this time that it could skitter around for another flank, but far enough that he could get up and sink his nails into its side. It screamed, high-pitched and alien as he ripped a chunk of it away, nothing behind it but pure vampiric strength. He reached into the hole he’d made and ripped another mass of flesh away, and another, and another until it was just a twitching pile of meat and too many legs.
He stared down at it, more annoyed than anything - it had ruined his night and his shirt.
“Fucking fog,” he grumbled, bending down to snatch the goblet up from the ground. “Fucking…things. Fucking Halsin.” The litany continued under his breath as he walked over to where Taran was still stretched out on the ground. She’d been on the edge of the goblet’s range, but seemingly still enough to be protected as they were still awake enough to stare up at him.
“Thank you for the cup, darling, things were actually almost looking dire there for a moment.” He smiled down at them, but his expression dropped as he saw the look on her face. Wide-eyed and trembling, one hand still stretched out in front of her, albeit resting on the ground and not out in the air.
Astarion knelt down immediately, reaching for her. Was she hurt? Had she been in the fog after all? Between the blue of their skin and the mist around them it was hard to tell if they looked pale, but she certainly looked like she should look pale.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get back to camp, let Shadowheart look at you.” He reached for them - and she flinched back, away from him.
He let his hands hover in the air for a moment before they dropped. ”Darling?” He was very proud of the way his voice didn’t waver.
“Sorry.” She shook her head, dropping her eyes. “Sorry. All I saw was - and you came out of the fog, all…I’m sorry.”
Ah. They’d only ever seen him fight with knives and arrows, maybe the occasional bolt of fire. Never claws and teeth. Never as the beast that he was.
”I’m alright,” he said simply, not knowing what else to say, “It’s dead, I’m not. Well.” That got a flicker of a smile out of them, at least. “…this is what I am, darling.” His voice was low. “This is…part of the package.”
”I know that,” they said, perhaps too quickly. “I mean…I do. I do know that. I just...know it now.” She made a face, frustrated, and he couldn’t help but smile.
“I know what you mean,” he said. He found a clean spot on his trousers to wipe his hands, and he offered one out to help Taran stand with him. ”And I think you might need a second potion.”
“You’re a second potion,” they muttered, but they took his hand, stumbling a little as they made their way upright.
She let his hand drop away as they made their way back to the camp. Normally she would have held it, or even hooked her arm around his. He tried to understand. He probably reeked, for one thing. But it still felt like a rejection on some level, and once Taran was in Shadowheart’s care he slipped into his tent to strip out of his ruined clothes and find something to wear until they found somewhere to do laundry. Fucking forest.
He stayed in the tent afterwards, telling himself it was to avoid Shadowheart lecturing him about feeding on Taran. Taran was a grown tiefling, they could make their own decisions, why was he the one that always got yelled at?
He knew why, but it was still annoying.
And he knew why he was in his tent, too. When he closed his eyes he could still see Taran’s face, could still feel her fingers slip out of his own. It hurt, while feeling inevitable at the same time. He had known all along it wouldn’t last, but it would have been nice if it lasted a little longer.
The fabric of his tent rustled. Looking up he saw a silhouette from outside - it was Taran.
“…did you just knock on my tent?”
“Can I come in?”
Surprised, he leaned up on his elbows. “I - yes. Come in.”
Taran peered around the flap of the tent before she entered. Why was she acting nervous? Maybe she was here to actually formally break up with him. It seemed like the kind of thing they’d do.
But she just knelt next to him, looking down at him shyly. Then, with hesitation in every motion, they laid very carefully with their head on his stomach, careful of where their horns landed.
Astarion blinked down at her. This was not what he had been expecting. This wasn’t even in the same genre as what he’d been expecting. Taran was stiff as a board, almost hovering above him rather than touch him, her eyes shut in what he supposed was supposed to look like a peaceful, resting expression but looked more like they’d been fed castor oil.
Hesitantly, he laid back against his bedroll. Lifted one of his hands, and let his fingers rest against the crown of her head, between her horns.
It was like someone had cut their strings, the way they relaxed all at once. He smiled as her expression became actually peaceful, and let his nails scratch against her scalp a little. Not an hour ago she’d watched him rip apart some kind of awful fucking shadow-cursed thing with his bare hands, had almost gone catatonic about it, and now they were curled up against him like a cat getting scritches between their ears.
There was clearly something wrong with her.
That was alright, he reasoned, there was something wrong with him too. They could just be wrong at each other, for as long as she let him.