Astarion Ancunín

Huh. "I guess. That alright?"

He continues to walk under the pretense of looking for his next target.

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"I'd never allow it. Not my boys," she promises.

"We'll need to drag Jacob on a shopping trip next port that allows for it, though. Do some taste sampling."

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"...No. That is - it's more than just 'alright'," he decides. "I like it. Calling it something."

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"Yeah, me too."

He slings an arm around Astarion's shoulders. "I just know you seem skittish about that kind of stuff."

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"We can manage that, I think."

But he can see in his reflection how his smile has turned brittle, and he knows she'll see it, too.

"I, ah...I know it's absurd, but - don't call me 'boy', please."

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She does, and she's deciding how to get at it without doing more damage when he says that. The playfulness vanishes from her smile and she nods.

"It's not absurd," she says simply. As simply: "I won't. I'm sorry."

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"Skittish?" Astarion scoffs, but he's leaning into him. "You make me sound like a stray cat, Jacob."

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Astarion nods. It feels at once good and horribly, squirmingly uncomfortable to assert a boundary. Rosita's response is as good as he might have hoped for.

"Thank you, darling. No harm done."

The way his posture and expression relax is subtle but noticeable.

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"Nah, you aren't a stray anymore. You're like Aylin...if she lived on the streets a while. Now she's got someone. Couple of someones," he explains, holding firm to him.

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She notices the way he relaxes, too, as she had the way he tensed up. She kisses his shoulder - it's okay, she is sorry, and she is proud of him all in one - and steps back a bit.

"Godric got me a small miracle," she offers instead, reaching to pull the small gold, heartshaped locket up from the collar of her shirt. The way she smoothly pops it open with one hand speaks to how often she's done exactly this, holding it out to show him the picture inside of it: a woman only a little older than she is now, with her steady eyes and thick black hair and stubborn jawline.

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"Rosita's compared me to a cat, too. In the sense that I'm particular about who I'm pleasant to," he adds, "not the biting."

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Astarion looks closely at the photograph, then at Rosita.

"Your mother," he says, quietly.

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She nods; she's looking at it too.

"Yeah. I lost everything when I left Dallas back home, and I only had a few pictures of her even before that." As did pretty much everyone who managed to survive, but.

"Her name was Reyna. In Spanish, it means queen."

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He nods solemnly.

"You look very much like her. It's a beautiful gift."

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"Thank you."

She still misses her so much. She spends a few moments longer looking at it, then gently closes it and drops it back out of sight, safe.

"She also tried to teach me to sew when I was younger," she continues, clearing her throat. "I didn't listen then, so you have your work cut out for you now."

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Astarion exhales a laugh and kisses her cheek.

"Fortunately, I don't believe for a moment that the woman standing in front of me now will allow herself to be anything but proficient at any skill she sets her mind to."

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"And don't you forget it," she agrees, smiling again too. She bumps his shoulder again and then goes for her pack.

"I brought pants. If the tear is pretty straightforward I can mostly manage, but this one's not been going well."

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"Alright. Why don't you set the patient down over there?" he says, gesturing at the worktable where his sewing machine sits. His image in the mirror flickers and fades away.

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She glances back at the mirror at the movement, thoughtful, but she keeps moving to do as he says and find a seat.

"Clothes have been less pressing than food. It doesn't go bad, at least, but we'll run out of things to scavenge eventually."

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"Yeah, well, I don't actually mind the biting," he says with a laugh. "So - together, huh?"

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"Yes. I don't know if there's another word I'd want to use," Astarion says. "But I like this. Being - together, with you."

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"Good, now did you see that great shot? It went right through that bird's wing, just like I wanted," he snickers.

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"Oh, just like you wanted?" Astarion says slyly. "How would you score yourself, then?"

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"Perfect score."

He spreads his hands out, gesturing in front of them. "Ten out of ten."

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