"Finding any reason to go on at all, really," Astarion sighs. "He resents
the Admiral for keeping him here and offering him a second chance he
doesn't want."
"He already has one. A tressym, rather - a highly intelligent magical
creature, shaped like a cat with wings. I asked the Admiral to return her
to him for Christmas."
"...I think he might be," Astarion admits. "It's...difficult. I've seen
the man he can be at his best, but I can't harp on that. Comparing him to
some other version of himself won't do him any good."
Something in her that became stronger at the end of the world, that learned that only the purely practical matters when the chips are down and her back is against the wall, thinks he's going to die soon anyway then. She ignores it, working her thumbs in small circles hand over hand down his spine.
"I'm glad you know that. Nothing quite like not even living up to your own deeds in another life." She speaks from experience. "He's lucky to have you."
"We'll see," Astarion says, since it's still damned near impossible to
imagine that he might be good for anyone. The pressure of Rosita's hands
against his spine makes him sigh in relief. She isn't avoiding his scars,
and he's grateful for that.
She has known him long enough, at least, to be able to spot that particularly self criticism from her vantage point. She smiles at the sound though, and smooths her thumbs a bit more slowly along their path.
"I said," she echoes, smile audible in her voice, "He's lucky to have you," and she kisses between his shoulderblades like punctuation.
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"Finding any reason to go on at all, really," Astarion sighs. "He resents the Admiral for keeping him here and offering him a second chance he doesn't want."
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Rosita is just going to go ahead and assign herself co-warden.
"Have you tried getting him a cat?"
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Astarion chuckles softly.
"He already has one. A tressym, rather - a highly intelligent magical creature, shaped like a cat with wings. I asked the Admiral to return her to him for Christmas."
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Very little about Faerun makes sense to her.
"Did she help?"
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"I think she's bullying him into getting out of bed in the morning," Astarion suggests. "That may very well count."
He could easily be lying in his own filth for days on end otherwise.
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"He's that bad off?"
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"...I think he might be," Astarion admits. "It's...difficult. I've seen the man he can be at his best, but I can't harp on that. Comparing him to some other version of himself won't do him any good."
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"I'm glad you know that. Nothing quite like not even living up to your own deeds in another life." She speaks from experience. "He's lucky to have you."
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"We'll see," Astarion says, since it's still damned near impossible to imagine that he might be good for anyone. The pressure of Rosita's hands against his spine makes him sigh in relief. She isn't avoiding his scars, and he's grateful for that.
"Mm."
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"I said," she echoes, smile audible in her voice, "He's lucky to have you," and she kisses between his shoulderblades like punctuation.
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"...Well. If you insist."
His own smile is likewise clear in his voice.
"I certainly can't be a worse influence than the one he had dealings with back home."