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tripleyeeet · 7 months

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CRISIS MODE

SUMMARY: Zayis has a crisis... Astarion definitely doesn't help.

PAIRING: Astarion & Zayis (OFC)

WORD COUNT: 6,681

WARNINGS: Mentions of a toxic relationship, canon typical violence, slight descriptions of gore, stupid sexual tension that you could probably cut with a knife or something.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Takes place four years after they initially meet on the night of the kidnapping. :)

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST

“Where do you think you’re going?”

As she turns away from the door in front of her, smiling as sheepishly as she can muster, Zayis notices the predictably pissed-off look in Vesryn’s eyes. The way his brows draw towards the centre of his face, revealing a deep trench of disappointment, looking her up and down.

It makes her skin crawl seeing the immediate lack of sympathy that she’s offered. The shift of normalcy coming to an abrupt end, only to be replaced with an air of skepticism that coats his features. It’s a look she’s grown familiar with over the last few years. Every time she pops out for a solo job, whether she tells him beforehand or not, she’s always met with this same look, paired with that groggily low and tired voice that needs to scold her for her actions.

She hates it, deeply. Dreads it every time he manages to find her tiptoeing through the house, wearing her darkest cloak. The moment his voice rings out through the silence of the night and she’s forced to look at him, she always feels an impending sense of dread, knowing there’s bound to be an argument.

As he moves towards her now, palming the sockets of his eyes with a groan, she can feel it in her chest that this one’s going to be big. The kind with yelling and words that neither of them will apologize for in the morning because truthfully, they’re grown too stubborn for that. Too petty to admit that anything the opposing person says could be considered a correct assumption of character.

“You know I hate it when you do these jobs.”

Her hand is already on the handle of the door, threatening to push it open without so much as another word, knowing it’s easier this way. Faster. “And you know they pay well, so what’s the issue?”

She already knows it’s them —the people she works for. Amongst the underbelly of Baldur’s Gate, it’s always been common knowledge that such individuals are not to be trusted. Or even really approached if you can help it. Both of which she’s obviously failed to do.

“You know the issue, Zay.” Somehow he manages to groan and sigh at the same time, dropping his hands once he’s merely a foot away, craning his neck forward to meet her gaze. “It’s incredibly dangerous.”

“So’s what you do,” she counters, moving her hand to the table that resides in the kitchen. On it, a messy display of papers sits across it. Stacked haphazardly, she can see a multitude of maps peeking out from one another, showcasing various trade routes and floor plans —all of which he uses to rob Baldurian nobles blind almost daily. “I’m not the only one who’s guilty of a dangerous workplace.”

“I’m not saying you’re guilty. I’m saying that the way you’re earning your coin is foolish!”

Angrily, she lets out a laugh, releasing her hand off the door’s handle to poke his chest. “Ves, you hire criminals who could turn on you at any minute. Cazador’s spawn are loyal to him no matter what!”

“Yes, but is he loyal to you?”

He isn’t. Not even for a second, but Zayis refuses to admit that, knowing he’s right. If her boss ever decided she was no longer needed she’d be dead before she could even think to take her final breath.

Unfortunately, it’s something she thinks of often. Deep within the confines of her mind, she wonders when that moment will come. How it will play out when the vampire lord inevitably decides to discard her from the roster. Most of the time she likes to assume he’ll do it quickly. That despite his violent reputation, he’ll find it in his cold, undead heart to give her the grace of a timely death. Perhaps he’ll chop off her head or strike her deep within the heart. Something painful but fast to act as some sort of fucked up gift after five long years of dedication.

“He sees me as an asset.”

“But for how long?”

She grits her teeth, moving to turn away —to walk right out that door without another word, knowing it’s no use. He’ll never understand the things she does for him. Why she endures these jobs so that they can live as comfortably as they do. Even after all the work she’s put in, he’s never been thankful for her sacrifices and secretly, it hurts. More than the words he throws at her each time they find themselves at this repeating impasse. More than the disappointed looks she’s offered each time she slips away.

Every time they end up here, staring at one another, waiting for the conversation to turn too sour to continue, she often wonders if it’s even worth it to come back home after she’s left. As she’s clutching that heavy bag of gold, letting the weight of it sink into her palm as she departs the manor each night she’s called, she often thinks of what it’d be like to be alone again. To feel the solitude of her own company. To be free of judgement each time she completes a job.

There’s a part of her that craves it sometimes. When she’s wandering home under the moonlight, trying not to think of all the blood that stains her clothes, there’s an inkling of desire to get a room at the Flophouse instead of returning home to him. To start fresh from the ground up without warning. To invent a whole new identity —to pretend that the old her perished in some sort of attack.

It’d be easy, especially with the vampire’s help but as she stands in front of her partner she knows the whole idea is nothing more than a fantasy.

“You and I both know it’s only a matter of time before one of those bloodsucking bastards turns on you.”

His hand has somehow moved to her shoulder. Gripping it tightly, she feels his claws digging through the fabric of her cloak, pushing to find her flesh beneath the many layers she coats herself in.

Almost immediately she brushes him off, opening her mouth in offence as she shakes her head. “Do you know how tired I am of you saying that? I swear to gods I hear it at least once a week!”

“Because it’s true! Because these things can’t be trusted!”

Things?

Before she can even think she’s throwing the door open, swearing under her breath as it hits the stone wall outside, creating a loud bang that makes Vesryn jump.

“You know those things are people right?” She turns on her heel, facing him with a newfound rage that scratches against her bones. “People with thoughts and feelings just like us!”

For a moment he’s speechless. As his jaw hangs low and his hands slowly move to grace his hips, Zayis knows he’s desperately trying to find some way of continuing. Searching the back of his mind for something disrespectful that’ll get enough of a rise out of her to deem himself the winner.

Which makes her even more angry as she takes a step back, shaking her head in disappointment, watching the way his features curl into that familiar grouping of smug success, knowing he’s done it. He’s managed to outperform her. Rendering her speechless amongst the night sky and the passing of curious, late-night eyes, he’s somehow pushed hard enough to make her feel that deep impression of guilt. The one that sits restlessly against her chest as he continues to speak.

“That fact that you consider them human makes it worse,” he says. “Especially with how much you talk about that Astar—“

Her fingers catch the hilt of her knife so quick that, once it’s flying through the air, narrowly missing Vesryn’s horn as he darts out of the way, she’s already frightened herself.

Feeling her digits begin to shake from the impact, every thought of anger is replaced with panic. With fear and regret and an uncontrollable sadness that takes over her face as she glances between him and the knife that sticks out of the wall behind him.

“Ves, I…”

Her voice is just as wavering as her hands. Barely above a whisper, it easily pales in comparison to the slamming of their front door, echoing back in her throat in the form of a disgusting whimper.

It rattles through her chest —the sound of her own fear, followed by the stomping she hears inside along with the flipping of furniture. All of it hits her ears harder than she cares to admit, forcing her body to distance itself from the aftermath of the storm, pushing her toward her intended destination.

And deep down, she knows it’s wrong to leave Vesryn with his own thoughts after blatantly attempting injury. In fact, it’s the complete opposite of what she should be doing. But given the anger that’s been pent up over the last few months —all the back and forth— she can’t bring herself to do anything else. So, instead, she continues. Pushing back the tremors that begin to shake through her throat. Ignoring the threat of tears that sting the corner of her eyes.

Moving forward, Zayis grips the fabric of her hood as she rounds the corner of the street, throwing it over her head in an attempt to hide the emotions that begin to bubble up over her face. To hide the guilt of her actions, remembering that she’s always had a bit of a mean streak. This underlying layer of fire that threatens to lick the flesh of those around her.

Most of the time she can keep it at bay. Often taking a moment to breathe and compose herself before the rage settles in. Up until now, she’s been able to take control and suppress —to avoid the consequences of her reckless actions.

Even as a kid, she could compose herself under the most stressful of circumstances. When her father would refuse her attention, sending the nanny to scold her with snide remarks, she could stare through the fury of her thoughts. Pretend like they were entirely missing from her mind as she endured the abuse.

Nowadays, she can feel it becoming increasingly difficult to do that. With the lack of support from Vesryn along with the overwhelming amount of reliance Cazador’s entrusted in her, she can tell she’s burning out. Often coming home exhausted each night, covered in the blood of someone else’s veins and a splitting headache, it’s become a test of patience each time her partner decides to pick a fight. As if they’ve become this candle burning at both ends, awaiting the moment they’ve been reduced to nothing but wax.

Zayis can feel that moment closing in. As the distance between her and the house grows with each passing step, she can feel it all coming to an end, burning her from the inside out. Reminding her that she’s to blame.

Cursing under her breath, she tries her best not to think too hard about it, quickly realizing it’s all but inevitable. No matter how hard she tries to distract herself with this one, there’s still the memory of the blade. The way it felt in her hand before it whipped through the air. It felt good. Like a release of tension, ripping through her. As if every moment shared between the two of them was meant to lead to this.

It makes her sick to her stomach just thinking about it, knowing how fucked up it all is —how fucked up she is and how, as her footsteps continue to take her towards the Flophouse, she knows the boundary she’s regrettably crossed will always be held over her head. Something she knows should fill her with regret or remorse.

And it does, to some degree. Brushing past a group of drunken elves, leaning against one another for support, can feel her heart break with the realization of what she’s done. In one foul swipe of her knife, she’s shattered the image of her almost perfect life, ruining whatever chance she had to uphold the illusion that she could be a good person.

All it took was one thoughtless moment paired with twitching temptation to truly bring her worst fear to life. The one where she’s deemed anything but perfect thanks to the expectations that were ingrained in her head at an early age. So much so that all she can think about is how Vesryn probably looks at her as if she’s some sort of monster now.

She can’t help but see the irony in it all. As she eventually finds herself at the front step of the Flophouse, there’s this thought that passes by, accepting that his potential feelings might be valid. That perhaps she is a monster after all —just like Cazador and Astarion and any other spawn, she’s encountered over the years.

Honestly, if it weren’t for the fact it was Vesryn, she wouldn’t even bat an eye at such an assumption. Considering she’s become so detached from the concept of morality thanks to the violence she regularly partakes in, the throwing of a mere dagger shouldn’t bother her.

And yet, it does. The annoyance of it all continuing, even when she’s pushing open the door and glancing at Ish, the overnight keeper who motions to the staircase.

Offering him a subtle nod in response, she slowly takes the steps upward, allowing the exhaustion of the evening to overtake her. Feeling as though she’s earned a few more moments of dread before she’s forced to adjust.

Beneath her boots, the wood creaks from the weight, causing her to cringe as a particularly loud step cries out. The sound is high-pitched and awful, grinding against her ears long after she’s stepped onto the second floor and begun glancing around, realizing her partner is nowhere to be seen.

Narrowing her eyes, she looks around the room in confusion, taking a couple of steps towards the beds that line the far wall, seeing that everything looks as it should. Glancing at each mattress, she notices there’s not a cover out of place, meaning Astarion most definitely hasn’t arrived yet. If he had, one of the beds would’ve already been in disarray. The sheets tossed aside and covered in sweat… among other things.

Rolling her eyes at the thought, she takes another step into the room only to suddenly be yanked sideways and twirled around, prompting her chest to tighten with anger.

“Astarion, I swear to—”

Struggling beneath his grasp, she feels the presence of a blade glide across her cheek, threatening to part her skin in one quick swipe as his forearm tightens across his chest.

“Zayis, darling,” he coos, allowing his chin to roughly rest against her shoulder. “What a pleasure.”

Digging her claws into the base of his arm, she grits her teeth and tries to crane her neck away from the blade, feeling the resistance of his shoulder pushing into hers. How it refuses to give despite the pain of her fingers slowly penetrating his flesh.

“I’m not in the mood, Fangs.”

“Course you’re not.” His voice sounds as arrogant as ever —high and mighty against her sensitive ears. “You never are when I’ve got you like this.”

Suggestively, he then pushes his pelvis against her backside, chuckling under his breath when she emits a sound of disgust before inevitably slipping from his grasp, reaching for her knife in the process, only to realize it’s still stuck in the wall at home.

Immediately after, she swears under her breath in frustration, moving her hand from the holster that sits on her belt to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“Missing something?”

“No,” she sighs, long and low before dropping her hand to see him cocking his head with a grin.

“Then what’s that look for?”

She doesn’t know what look he means. Because she’s so focused on the misplaced knife, she can’t imagine the position of her face as she goes to untie her cloak, suddenly feeling her throat begin to tighten. “I’m just tired.”

Unconvinced, Astarion moves toward the edge of the nearest bed and plops down, patting the spot next to him. “You know for someone who’s so undeniably malicious, you’re truly one of the worst liars I’ve encountered.”

Gritting her teeth, she balls up the cloak and tosses it at his head, watching as it opens up around his face at the last minute like some sort of dark fishing net that sends him backwards in surprise. All at once, he grumbles underneath the fabric after it happens, allowing both hands to move backward against the bed to steady himself as he reaches to rip it away, laughing in response. “Wow, you’re really in a mood tonight.”

Instead of arguing she just hums in response, crossing her arms over her chest. Hoping that he’ll understand the presentation of her body language and drop it. Knowing that he won’t when she hears that subtle sound of interest slip through his lips.

“Normally you’d be threatening me where I stand,” he says. “Poking me with that hideous little blade of yours.”

“Yes, well…”

While the statement is in fact true, Zayis can’t help but feel a bit annoyed regardless, watching the way his brows rise with anticipation, waiting for her inevitable explanation as he stares her down, knowing she’ll break. Knowing she’ll spill over, ranting about whatever problems she faces outside these moments they find themselves together.

Because she always does, well aware that whatever’s said is free of judgement. She could speak of killing a man in cold blood for the sake of absolutely nothing and all she’d be met with is nothing more than a smile and a nod. (Perhaps even a bit of praise depending on the situation.)

It’s why she hardly hesitates anymore. When Astarion asks, looking at her with genuine interest, it’s almost as if she’s already dying to tell him. Like a teenage girl gossiping to her best friend, the words often fall out before she can even think, filling the room with whatever experiences she’s endured since they last spoke.

“I left my knife in the wall at home.”

It’s a bold opening. One that has Astarion practically at the edge of his seat, grinning like a madman as he tucks one leg over the other and props his elbow on his knee to steady his chin. “My, my, rough day, dear?”

All she does is nod and release a heavy breath, watching as Astarion opens his mouth to respond only to be interrupted by the creaking of the staircase.

At which point both of them remember that they’re supposed to be working. Not gossiping —much to Astarion’s dismay, he grumbles under his breath, mentioning to Zayis she better tell him everything when this is over.

Instead of resisting, she just smirks and rolls her eyes, allowing the echo of heavy boots to sound throughout the room until the man they’re supposed to be meeting is standing there in front of them, narrowing his eyes in confusion.

“You’re not Szarr,” he says.

Immediately, Astarion stands from the bed with a chuckle. “Yes, well, the lord’s awfully busy tonight. Tending to the manor and all that, so he sent us instead,” he practically purrs, taking a step towards the man who looks oddly sophisticated for someone desperate enough to be doing business with a vampire lord.

“He never mentioned a replacement.”

Dripping in some of the finest leathers Zayis has ever seen, his light armour seems to be clear of filth. Practically glistening beneath the torchlight, the tan skin of his face scrunches up in confusion and darts back and forth, taking in Astarion’s welcoming expression before moving to Zayis’s never-faltering frown.

“Must’ve slipped his mind.” Astarion shrugs.

The man grunts in response as he slips the pack off his back, tossing it onto the floor in front of them. “Here’s the contacts he ordered. All twenty of them.”

Both Astarion and Zayis share a glance. One that screams are you thinking what I’m thinking before they’re already back to staring at the man, watching his fingers begin to fidget at their sides.

“Pretty sure the number was fifty, wasn’t it?” Zayis asks. Then she steps forward to pick up the bag with her tail, raising it so she can open up the top flap with her hand to see several scrolls tucked neatly inside, all lined up for future claim.

Immediately the man stutters out a response, telling them they’re wrong. That perhaps there’s been some sort of miscommunication —that he swears there were only meant to be twenty.

Before he can argue further though, Astarion’s already stepping forward, forcing the man to glance at the steps behind him, wondering if he should just make a break for it or continue whatever sick game they’ve decided to concoct against him.

“No, I’m pretty sure she’s right,” Astarion says then. The polite grin across his face shifting more into a smirk the closer he gets. “Fifty contracts for fifty of Baldur’s finest slaves, right, darling?”

Zayis nods, her eyes still focused on the scrolls as she allows her hand to individually count each one just in case there’s even less than he originally claimed.

In response, the man tries to explain himself, failing to convey whatever words quickly die on his tongue, realizing that he’s already done. That anything he says will mean next to nothing to the two of them, despite him telling the truth.

Realizing this, he immediately tries to make a break for it, scrambling around only to fail against Astarion’s blade. Before he can think the weapon is shoved upward through the back of his shoulder, causing a garbled groan to pull Zayis’s attention from the scrolls to see him stumble forward, forcing Astarion to grab him by the hair.

“You know, it’s not polite to leave meetings early.”

Through gritted teeth, Astarion scolds the man with a grin, pushing the blade further into his back as he maneuvers them away from the steps.

As he does, the man lets out another sound of distress, unable to do much else while the spawn behind him merely laughs. “I mean, honestly, you expect me to believe Cazador only asked for twenty slaves?”

This time the man whimpers through a series of haggard breaths as he reaches for his wound, pressing the blood-soaked skin that surrounds the knife embedded inside of him, trying to figure out a way to get it out.

Watching this, Zayis merely listens to the one-sided conversation as it continues, hearing Astarion chastise the man for being so stupid —for thinking he could pull the wool over Cazador’s eyes before eventually ripping the blade back out himself. When that happens, the man cries out louder than before, crumpling onto the floor in a heap that has Zayis sighing in response, holding out her hand for the knife.

“I didn’t realize your night was this bad,” he says, handing it off, watching with interest as she then saunters over and drives the blade in his back, pushing it deep through the cage of his ribs towards the floor where it inevitably sticks, creating a satisfying thunk.

It’s the kind of sound that makes her want to scream. To cry out just like the dead man that lays beneath her, realizing that whatever impression Vesryn might have of her when she returns home, covered in the blood of a man just trying to survive in a world far crueller than he expected, is probably right. No normal person would ever willingly pretend their deal was wrong for fun —to kill someone so they could let off a little steam from the frustrations of the day. Nor do they throw knives at their partner’s heads when they’re angry.

“So, anyway, going back to the whole knife in the wall situation.”

It feels a bit like whiplash, hearing him speak. But regardless, all she does is laugh, bringing her hands up to rub her temples in slight frustration. “Oh, my gods…”

“What? Clearly something about it is bothering you, otherwise you would’ve let me kill the damned fool like I always do.”

He knows he’s right. He’s always fucking right, so instead of arguing she merely relents, groaning before she begins.

“Ves and I had another fight.”

Almost immediately he scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Oh goodness! What a total surprise!”

“Shut up.”

Laughing, in response, he casually moves towards the edge of the bed again, watching as she fiddles with the fabric of her shirt, searching for more blood to distract herself. “What? It’s not like these little lover’s quarrels between the two of you are anything new.”

“Yes, but—“

“But nothing.” Cutting her off, he plops down on the edge of the bed, waving his hand around for dramatics. “I swear, the two of you are constantly bickering. Over and over and over again. Ugh, it’s exhausting.” He throws his head back with a groan, causing Zayis to frown.

“Is there a point to your complaining or are you just doing it because you’re bored?”

“Of course there’s a point.”

“Go on then.” She wiggles her hand around, motioning him to continue.

“Alright, obviously I understand the appeal. I’ve seen them man —I know he’s worth at least a bit of trouble.” Leaning forward, he offers Zayis a wink that has her closing her eyes in embarrassment, silently begging for him to make his point. “However, regardless of that, when do you draw the line? How much more can you take before the whole attraction’s overshadowed by the constant beratement?”

Opening her eyes again, Zayis looks at Astarion with actual shock, realizing he’s right. How much more can she take? Is it enough to justify their relationship? And if so, can she learn to navigate it all without allowing another blowout?

“I’m sorry, did you just say something completely rational?”

He rolls his eyes and leans back on his elbows. “You know I’m not completely hopeless in the realm of relationships, right? I may be a slave to a vampiric bastard but I know people.”

“Fair.”

“Plus, I’m growing tired of hearing about him. All this Ves said this and Ves did that.”

Despite the obvious insult, Zayis can’t help but snort in response. “You sound like him when I complain about you.”

“See what I mean, even now you’re talking about him, it’s pathetic, really.”

“Ah yes, says the slave.”

He shoots his head up to give her an unimpressed look. One that she reciprocates with a smirk as she then uses her tail to grip the hilt of the blade in front of her, pulling it up. As expected, it sticks a bit but eventually glides through the flesh, causing the man beneath it to topple over onto this side.

“Anyways, we should probably stop talking about my problems and clean this up.”

Still annoyed, Astarion inevitably agrees, holding his hand out for the knife. “Allow me. Wouldn’t want to get those pretty little claws of yours filthy with blood.”

“Course not,” she agrees, smirking as she hands over the knife, watching him drop to his knees and begin to maneuver the body so that it’s lying down face first.

After that, the two of them finish the job like they usually do. As Astarion separates every joint he can physically muster, bagging it all up in the process, Zayis strips and searches the body, splitting up all the valuables on the bed as Astarion explains in very lewd detail about his previous last few nights, failing to skimp out on even the juiciest of details.

“Gods, you’re disgusting.”

Upon finishing up the final joint (as well as the rest of his story about the absolutely depraved elf he managed to bed a good hour before their meeting), Astarion snickers under his breath. “Sorry that I’m not a puritan such as yourself.”

She narrows her eyes in his direction, watching him use the fabric of the man’s tunic to wipe off his blade before placing it back into the holster that sits against his thigh. “We just killed a man for the hell of it and you’re calling me a puritan?”

He stands up, laughing. “Yes, obviously.”

“Seems like a bit of an incorrect statement but—“

“Is it though?”

She opens her mouth to respond but quickly shuts it, knowing where this is going. Remembering that despite displaying a few moments of normal, unsolicited conversation Astarion’s bound to double back to his usual ways of shameless flirting and unwanted advances.

“Is it truly incorrect when the only sex you’re capable of enjoying is that of an old married couple well past the point of love?”

He offers her a falsely sympathetic pout as he bats his eyes, watching her jaw tense up, signalling that he’s overstepped. That his previously appropriate statements no longer apply and have quickly been replaced by the usual offence.

“You know, if I had my knife on me I’d definitely stab you right about now.”

Almost instantly his pout dissipates into nothing. Replacing it, that usual smirk filled with lustful interest emerges, taking over the lower half of his face as he steps toward her. “And you know I’d easily overtake you regardless.”

“Would you though?”

He nods his head, continuing his stride, watching the way she tries to match his steps only backward, subtly smirking until the back of her thighs hit the edge of the bed.

Despite the abruptness of it, she doesn’t fall back though. Instead, she remains perfectly balanced, standing toe to toe as he pulls out his blade again, pressing the edge of it above her hip.

It’s not deep enough to break any sort of skin. Wedging it partially into her leathers, Astarion can feel the lack of fear that she offers in response to his violence. How she barely reacts to the threat of his weapon, slowly dragging up her armour, squealing as he draws a shallow slit along the way.

“Tell me, because I’ve always wondered this, how come you won’t lay with me?”

To anyone else, it would feel like an insane question. Coming completely out of the blue with little context, any sane person would’ve probably gasped or slapped him in the face, but all Zayis does is stare. Watching the way he slightly leans forward, showcasing this newfound curiosity.

Narrowing her eyes, she tries her best to focus on it rather than the knife as it hits the edge of her chest, sinking deeper as he pulls it to the front of her, all while continuing to grin. “You mean, aside from the obvious?”

“The obvious being Vesryn?”

She nods.

“Then, yes, aside from the obvious.”

Swallowing hard, she tries to think for a moment. To gather her thoughts in a way that he’ll accept her answer and get rid of the blade. “It’s not that I won’t lay with you.”

Before she can even continue to explain, she’s lost her train of thought, cursing whatever brainstem decided to crap out in such an awful moment, suddenly realizing the significance of words. How it’s the closest thing to a confession either of them has ever gotten. Something that surprises even Zayis long after she says it out loud, turning away to release a heavy breath while Astarion merely stares with widened eyes.

It surprises both of them in the moment. So much so that Astarion barely notices Zayis’s tail begin to rise and grab his wrist, forcing the blade away with her appendage just as Astarion blinks, finally registering her words.

“Wait, a minute you—“

She clears her throat and pushes him back, moving towards the bag of scrolls and trinkets to pick it up and toss it to him. Somehow through the distracted haze they both find themselves in, Astarion manages to catch it against his chest, quietly grunting at the weight of the armour that’s been meticulously packed inside, trying to figure out what the hells just happened.

“We should go.”

“Go?” He looks at her in annoyance, scowling as he tosses the bag onto the floor. “You can’t just say something like that and go, oh, we have to go now, are you mad?”

Ignoring him to the best of her abilities she moves towards the handful of body bags that sit leaking on the floor —a pooling of blood growing the longer they waste precious time. “I’m going to go see if Ish has a spare pack we can stick these in.”

“I’m sorry, you’re going to—“ He cuts himself off with a disgruntled scoff, reaching out to grip her arm when she inevitably starts walking away. “No, no, no! No —stop that!”

Immediately, she glares at his hand. Then again at him, trying her best not to crumble in on herself from the embarrassment, knowing she shouldn’t have said anything. Instead, she should’ve just lied —made some terrible joke that he could chastise her for before saying something absolutely vile, resulting in a subject change.

It would’ve been easier that way. Less painful. If she had been smart enough to just do what she normally does, they could’ve already been halfway down the boardwalk by now, talking about whatever it was they usually talked about.

But somehow she got in her head. As he stood there, practically pressed up against her, asking the one question she always tries so hard not to think about, she had a lapse in judgement. A moment of weakness where she thought that maybe for a second, revealing the truth was the right thing to do.

Because as much as she hates it, it is the truth. Astarion may be an insufferable bastard. The kind of man she often avoids entirely but at least he accepts her. At least he doesn’t look at her with disdain every time she makes a mistake or does something completely irredeemable.

He may be the bane of her existence a lot of the time, with his constant need to threaten and harm her just for the fun of it, but at least he’s real. Tangible in a way that Vesryn often fails to be. Present in the sense that, despite the lack of trust and respect they have for one another, neither of them can deny they understand one another. That there’s chemistry there when Zayis fully knows that there shouldn’t be. That despite the commitment to her partner, there’s always been this inkling of interest. Perhaps it’s the closeness one feels after slaying a few people or the constant stream-line of advances that he offers. Either way, it’s a weight she’s carried for a while, knowing her relationship’s never been perfect.

Even before Astarion —before Cazador and the job she now finds herself almost living vicariously through, she and Vesryn have never fully understood each other. Even knowing each other for as long as they have, there’s never been a clear comprehension of emotions or needs or anything resembling that of a healthy relationship.

Which is why there’s a part of her that’s begun to accept how he views her. Why suddenly, out of nowhere, her mind has decided to reveal the one truth she’s always hidden deep inside, knowing it could be the end.

It’s because she’s tired of pretending like she’s a good person. That every thought or feeling or action that graces her person is pure and intentional. That living the life she lives late at night when she’s doing unspeakable things is because she has to —not because she wants to. Not because she enjoys the freedom of taking things away from others just like her father did to her. Or because Astarion’s presence stirs something deep within her, tempting her with the little seeds he drops in her hand, hoping one day she’ll catch on.

She’s so tired that when Astarion tells her to stop, she doesn’t argue. Doesn’t move to strike him down or rip his hand away in spite. All she does is stand there and stare, watching his mouth twitch open and closed —watching the thoughts that flow through his head as he tries to think of what to do next.

He never figures out what to do. As they stand there still, with his hand locked firmly against her grey-blue skin, moving to look at her eyes and horns and inevitably her ever-frowning lips, in the end, all he does is pull away.

Accepting their shared fate, he merely narrows his eyes and picks up the bag of scrolls, throwing it over his shoulder while Zayis goes downstairs to talk to Ish. All while swallowing back the regret of both saying the truth and then after, not acting on it.

Because honestly, despite knowing that sleeping with Astarion is the last thing she should be doing, she most definitely would’ve. If he had pulled her in and kissed her like she knows he not-so-secretly wants to do, she would’ve forgotten all about Vesryn for however long it lasted.

A fact she knows is so royally fucked up that as she walks up the steps to see him staring distantly towards the ground while tossing around the knife he so casually threatens her with, she has to force herself to act like nothing ever happened. To move towards the leaking body bags and stow them away, glancing up to catch his gaze.

“We should’ve probably laid a sheet down to catch the blood,” she says, attempting to change the subject. To get them back on track somehow.

All he does is snort and catch the hilt of his knife, stowing it away as he moves to help. “Ah yes, a white sheet would’ve done wonders to the already dingy floor.”

“Shut up.”

Kneeling down, he begins to help her pack everything away, instantly understanding that the awkward moment they just shared has to become nothing more than a memory. A lapse in judgement that will inevitably pass as the two of them finish up and leave the tavern, turning down the alleyway that leads to the docs.

Unsurprisingly, it’s silent as the walk. Aside from the shifting of bags and the stepping of boots, not a sound is spoken between them, making Zayis swallow hard and look down at the ground, wondering if she should say something.

There’s a part of her that wants to. To clear the air perhaps, but what would she even say?

Sorry, I said I wouldn’t hate sleeping with you. That was weird, right?

No.

Hey, I think we should forget about that thing I said.

No.

Wait, you never said you wouldn’t sleep with me back.

Oh, gods no.

“I can hear you thinking from here you know.”

Suddenly panicking, she blinks and looks towards him, noticing that familiar smirk. The one that makes her think that maybe she doesn’t have to say anything. That maybe instead, she can just pretend like it never happened.

“Okay, and?”

“It’s annoying.”

She raises her brow. “Me thinking is annoying?”

“Yes.”

“Me, walking in silence, staring at the ground is annoying?”

This time he rolls his eyes. “You know, I liked you better when you were rendered speechless earlier. It was a nice change —almost tranquil.”

“Yeah, well, same here,” she responds, readjusting the bag on her back with a soft groan. “You didn’t talk for a whole five minutes. I’m pretty sure that's a record.”

“Not in my books. I’ve most definitely gone longer.”

“Silence while giving oral doesn’t count.”

It’s a statement that would’ve been fine every other night. In response, Astarion would’ve laughed and retorted with something equally, if not more lewd, resulting in Zayis cringing at the thought and pushing him aside.

Now though, it’s just another pull at the invisible chord that tethers them together —tightening the tension that much more as they stop and stare, moving half a step closer before they’re both abruptly pulled back, struggling to breathe as they’re knocked unconscious.

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