[ Nothing happens atop the roof, despite how Astarion’s fangs had peaked out from his parted lips — how he professed curiosity with hooded eyes. An image that recurs as he tucks into his bedroll for the night (and several knights after that). Foolish, human instincts, the fondness of prey towards predator that allows the cycle of life to roll onward. Memories softened by the red wine blurring their edges. Nevermind that Astarion was closer to him than anyone has been since, well — their bout in the river — and before that —
As such, there’s nothing to speak of. That’s what Gale tells himself when Astarion doesn’t so much as glance his way the following morning, or the evening after that, only deigning to pay attention to him when he’s done something suitably irritating in battle or blown their cover with a creak of his knees. The latter issue persists now, as Gale jumps from the ledge he’d lingered on to the ground below, steadying himself with outstretched arms. Best not to waste a misty step needlessly, but oof.
He hadn’t intended to follow Astarion, not really. He hadn’t even intended to watch him tidy his camp earlier, rearranging his magpie’s hoard. In his studiousness, Gale had seen him pocket a piece of parchment without knowing what, exactly, his slender hands pilfered, and if he wanted to embarrass their wretched little thief in front of Tav, he need only exclaim as much. Instead, he finds himself trotting along after their intractable rogue, following the very path he’d charted earlier, so that even when Astarion dips out of sight, Gale catches up with him. His clever mind has already begun working up a theory to explain this excursion, when Astarion interrupts his thoughts by calling out.
Shit, he thinks, having the decency to look chagrined even as he counters, ]
Should I be? [ Keeping notes, reporting to Tav. Hadn’t Astarion done the same? Once, when they watched the monastery sun dip low. ]
Why, you seem rather eager for me to accuse you, Astarion. [ wagging a finger, ] A guilty conscience, perhaps.
no subject
As such, there’s nothing to speak of. That’s what Gale tells himself when Astarion doesn’t so much as glance his way the following morning, or the evening after that, only deigning to pay attention to him when he’s done something suitably irritating in battle or blown their cover with a creak of his knees. The latter issue persists now, as Gale jumps from the ledge he’d lingered on to the ground below, steadying himself with outstretched arms. Best not to waste a misty step needlessly, but oof.
He hadn’t intended to follow Astarion, not really. He hadn’t even intended to watch him tidy his camp earlier, rearranging his magpie’s hoard. In his studiousness, Gale had seen him pocket a piece of parchment without knowing what, exactly, his slender hands pilfered, and if he wanted to embarrass their wretched little thief in front of Tav, he need only exclaim as much. Instead, he finds himself trotting along after their intractable rogue, following the very path he’d charted earlier, so that even when Astarion dips out of sight, Gale catches up with him. His clever mind has already begun working up a theory to explain this excursion, when Astarion interrupts his thoughts by calling
out.
Shit, he thinks, having the decency to look chagrined even as he counters, ]
Should I be? [ Keeping notes, reporting to Tav. Hadn’t Astarion done the same? Once, when they watched the monastery sun dip low. ]
Why, you seem rather eager for me to accuse you, Astarion. [ wagging a finger, ] A guilty conscience, perhaps.