Astarion didn’t know when he’d stopped being annoyed with Taran. She was still very much annoying. They couldn’t walk ten feet without finding some cause to pick up when they still had their own cause that was probably slightly more pressing than whatever waif had made puppy eyes at her this time. He supposed he shouldn’t complain, as it was that very quality that convinced her to pick him up off the side of the road, but dealing with it from the other side was making his life much more annoying.
He was attracted to her, certainly. Being attractive and being annoying were not mutually exclusive. It made the annoying somewhat easier to tolerate, and had certainly made his survival plan at least slightly more palatable. But he didn’t smile at her jokes or lift something from a merchant just because he’d seen her eyeing it. He certainly hadn’t stabbed himself with a sewing needle because he’d been watching her laugh. That would be ridiculous.
What’s more, it would be dangerous. Astarion needed to focus on Astarion, or very soon there wouldn’t be an Astarion to worry about. Anything else was superfluous. So they were slightly less annoying than they had been originally. That was just…adaptation. They were stuck with each other for the foreseeable future, he had to learn to look past her faults if he was going to survive. That’s all it was.
But then they were in the tower and he was staring down that odious drow, bracing himself for the worst. To be made into a tool, again. A means to an end, again. He was already disconnecting from himself, the only means of protection he had.
He got shaken back into himself as Taran shoved her way between them. Got in the drow’s face and told her exactly where she could stick her potion. In the dim light he swore he could actually see static crackling off of them, raising the hairs on the back of his neck and making the others swear and duck back.
But he didn’t move. He couldn’t move. He was struck, staring down at the back of her head while she defended him - defended his personhood, his “right to tell someone to fuck off”, as they so charmingly phrased it.
A thousand different feelings came to a point somewhere in the middle of his chest a second before Taran whirled around, grabbing him by the wrist and muttering for him to come on, they were leaving.
They were practically back to camp before he thought to twist his wrist out of her grip. She looked over, surprised, then smiled a little.
“Sorry.”
“What for?”
“I think I got a little…intense, back there.” They wrinkled their nose at the memory.
“I don’t think you were intense enough, frankly; the bitch still has hair.” The response was more venomous than he’d intended, but Taran just smiled at him. A warm, quiet smile, all peace and understanding, and that little ball in the middle of his chest melted. Warmth spread through him, and he realized with no small amount of terror that he was, in fact, being ridiculous. That he had been ridiculous for quite some time, and was about to start being even more ridiculous, as soon as he figured out how.