Chapter Text
Fur bristled. Paws beat on the forest floor. Pacing. Panting. Alert and hot. The full moon. It all made sense.
Astarion watched what was once a very big man now trample about as an even bigger and very big bear. Years and he could never afford an ounce of plans, yet there he was, crouched in a tree and gleaning down at this opportunity that lay right out in front of him. Years and it would be stupid to think anything could miraculously get better, but he had broken free—half free—from the Palace. The impossible, or improbable, already happened and was already happening.
Halsin was now a beast. Beasts would have a much easier time a much bloodier time a much more glorious time shredding Cazador into pieces.
"Hey baby, you working?"
Astarion was just done with a 'shift' from the Szarr Palace, though when someone's a vampire bound to the very master of the walls, he's never really done with any shift. He stood just outside the emergency exit the other workers used, rolling a cigarette between his fingers more so than smoking it.
"Hey!" came again. "How much!" Cackling. A pair of funny fellows in tacky polyester jackets and tracksuit pants had been loitering on the sidewalk for the past five minutes shooting looks in his direction. It was only a matter of time before they'd either work up the courage to step into the club or work up the nerve to get on his nerves. Unfortunately for all parties, the men chose the latter.
The Szarr Palace was more than a nightclub. It was a front. For vampires. For blood. Every night some lowlife thought they were getting lucky when Astarion or one of his 'siblings' took them to the back rooms. Sure, they were lucky...for a short while. Then they were grabbed and taken down a floor to be eaten alive. A body a night was good enough, but the boss had most of the other spawn setting up for a party so Astarion had to pick up the slack. Granted, three clients in one night wasn't the worst he had to put on, but it was more than usual. The sole consolation he could get was knowing whatever sorry souls the city regurgitated were now on their way to decaying on the basement floor.
Astarion pulled a saccharine smile and told the current pair, "I'm on break, but they'll be able to take care of you inside."
"Nah, nah. Don't be like that." The more leader of them stuck an elbow to the brick just alongside Astarion's head. "I'm looking at you, baby."
Astarion stayed silent, not needing, not bothering to sigh. They couldn't ignore or decline clients, couldn't bite them. Never to bite, not even when a smidge of spit landed on his cheek. There was rot on the man's breath. He'd make Astarion stink the whole night, but there wasn't anything in his stomach to churn about this fact. "We could have a bit of fun out here. Keep it between us. Nobody in there has to know."
The backup guffawed. "Don't have to split your tips, either!"
Not that he was entertaining the idea, but there was not a single penny syphoned out from their earnings. Every drop went to Cazador, both blood and coin.
"Well, you're going to wait until I'm done with my cigarette."
Just before Astarion put it up to his mouth again, it was slapped out of his hand.
"You're done."
There was the snap of cartilage. Shoes scuffed on the sidewalk. A wheeze. The other man gasped, "Oh, shit!"
Astarion gawked at his fist, the same one he just used to punch the guy's lights out.
They weren't supposed to beat up clients. No, it actually almost always was the other way around. He didn't know why he did that. He was going to be whipped for the rest of the night if the master found out and the master always, always knew everything.
Though dealing with this would-be client could have been its own form of torture, so it didn't matter.
The metallic tang of blood touched the air. The man's mouth hung open as he swivelled to Astarion, breathing raggedly.
"You. Little. Shit!"
"Hey! Get over here!" The other man was down the sidewalk, calling out to who knows what. The former grabbed Astarion by the jacket sleeves and jacked him into the wall. Blood dripped down his mouth to the front of his shirt.
"Who do you think you are? I'm going to kill you!"
All was ruined by the moment he opened his mouth. Astarion hiked up his legs, back pressed to the wall, and kicked him away. His grip went slack, though he didn't go as far as Astarion hoped. Astarion swung again. The man made a very satisfying sound, like a kicked little puppy. He stumbled back. His arms flailed about. Another wheeze, another whine. Red had splattered across Astarion's knuckles.
He jumped as the other man charged right at him, fists up. Too slow. Astarion shot to the side. There was a yelp and snapping of bone, the idiot's wrist as he met the wall. He grabbed the man and threw him into the other one, making them both stumble and yell and flail and fall over each other. Their pulses beat red hot pinpoints from their necks. Everything in Astarion screamed just for a little bite. Even the scum of humanity would do. Everything else was a wall he couldn't get through.
"Grab him!" Astarion jumped just as another said, "Got him!" Two, three, too many closed in, fists flying from both sides. Theirs was a rain that pummelled down onto him. Astarion yelled out, unable to do anything about it. Heat, spittle, bodies tripped over other bodies to get to him.
No use fighting five men when most of them were larger than him anyway. Maybe whatever they chose to do would be less of a pain than the kennel. Then again, just for getting his ass kicked and being late to return to work meant he would probably just get his ass kicked all over again.
Some little friends came to the rescue of the polyester track team wannabe duo. There had gotten to be too many all at once and Astarion's blows landed on walls of flesh each with a thump, much less than the sound his own skull made bouncing off the wall to the stripclub.
Astarion couldn't even be proud that he took down a few of them. He just ached.
He cracked his eyes open, brow furrowing as he stared up the back window of a car. Someone was taking him somewhere. If his heart still beat, surely it'd lurch. Was it Cazador? No, he wouldn't get his hands clammy on a steering wheel. Godey, perhaps, waiting until he heard Astarion stir to taunt him in that raspy voice, shaming and telling him everything he already knew. But why in a car, why take him somewhere when everything was always carried out in the club?
No, there was not somebody. There were many bodies. Astarion drew a deep breath and swallowed a wince against battered ribs. He breathed nothing but them in, their stink, their sweat. Booze. Clammy bodies. Gods, the hunger was always there, even when he hardly wanted to move.
It was the same group from the club. Instead of leaving him heaped on the sidewalk, they took him. Vampires don't exactly die—they're already dead—and whilst he didn't know much of the details aside from 'sun hot' and 'you're going to feel hungry all the fucking time especially because your master doesn't feed you anything but maggoty rats,' getting clobbered in the head still hurt. Such things may transcend death.
Someone grunted. Irritated.
Sweaty hands squeaked against leather, the steering wheel.
So, his head bounced off the wall. They kicked him in the stomach, the crotch, and the legs. A few of his bones broke, but he hardly had enough blood in him to bruise. They stuffed him into a car. He now looked up at the ceiling of said car. Dark flashes of treetops passed by the windows.
One of the men cleared his throat.
"Shut up," came from the driver's side.
"I didn't say anything."
"You said something now."
If Astarion's skull had cracked open, would anything come out? His lips stuck together when he tried to quietly exhale all the mouth-watering scents in the air. Nothing smelled more of a dinner plate than stinky, sweaty, pent-up men. He blinked in realisation at the night sky. No streetlights. Maybe they weren't even in the city anymore. No club. No LEDs in his eyes. No dancing, no booze, no sheets torn off his body just as easily discarded as every last one of those warm, greedy bodies that walked through those front doors. Everything in the world sat on Astarion's chest, crushing to the point of nothing but the churn of tires on gravel.
One of the men warbled, "But what are we-"
"I said. Shut it."
"We have some random guy in our trunk!"
Multiple things happened at once. The brakes squealed. The car swerved. A couple of the men exclaimed in shock. Hands grabbed onto anything they could. Astarion slid and wedged his eyes shut, taking everything not to wince out as the top of his head bumped into the side of the trunk. The driver hit the steering wheel several times. It went quiet.
Then a sharp breath, a low voice told all of them, "You're going to be next if you don't. Shut. It. Right. Now."
Someone shifted in their seat. Astarion almost smiled to himself as they continued down the road, and he continued to play limp.
They probably thought he was dead. They would throw his body into the woods to be picked off by scavengers, or maybe a dumpster off somewhere in the country, or less conveniently, they would throw him into a lake. Then what, he crawls his way out sopping and pathetic to make his way back to Cazador's?
The rear seat quietly squeaked as its occupant shifted again. Strangely enough, a single thought came through Astarion's mind that perhaps he did not need to go back at all.
"Uh." Someone was leaning over the seat, staring and breathing down at him. Fingers pressed into Astarion's neck. "Uh oh."
"What," came quietly from the other passenger in the rear seat.
"Shit. Um. Boss?"
"Shut up."
"Boss. Our guy ain't breathing."
The car swerved again. Whoever was driving needed to go back to school. Or drive them all down a ravine. That would do Astarion a favour. "What'd'you mean he ain't breathing?"
"What else d'ya think I mean!"
A meaty hand tapped Astarion's cheek a couple of times.
"Huh. Oh, yeah." The other man in the back seat noted, "Cold already."
"He's gone, boss."
"And whose fault is that? Yours, you fucking idiot."
"Well, we were gon' do away with him anyway, right?"
The front passenger said, "That bloke's a fighter. We could have used him."
"Yeah, too bad he's dead."
"Don't matter," whoever was the 'boss' said. "You better hope that shovel is still back there 'neath him, otherwise you're gonna be using your hands."
"Shit," was the only whimper in reply.
Shovel? They must have meant the compartment underneath the trunk. They were going to bury him.
Not again.
The car jerked to a stop.
The driver gave a curt, "Get out." Doors. Men grunted. Astarion kept still.
Buried.
The doors shut over one another and the sound went right through him. He couldn't move. Maybe they broke him enough.
The trunk door opened. They grabbed him the way someone would pulling plywood out, slung over someone's shoulders with a heave and it was still more gentle than some of his bedmates put him through.
"Come on, come on," the body carrying him rumbled. "Hurry it up." Then, "Stop standing around! Use your hands!"
The stench of upturned dirt hit Astarion's nostrils. His eyes snapped open. He saw jeans, boots, the ground. A shovel kept hitting the dirt. His fingertips shook. Dirt had poured into his casket. Astarion twitched and choked on it all over again.
Whoever was holding him let out a soft, "What the..." He grabbed Astarion's hips, shucking him up and off his shoulder.
Astarion opened his mouth and out came this horrible yell, just like the screams of the dead. The man dropped him just at the same time Astarion's fangs caught and tore into his throat. It was just an innocent graze. The man screamed and stumbled and pummelled Astarion but those fists were now useless thump-thump-thump as red, red, red was so strong, it practically sprayed into his mouth. His jaw had latched. The man gurgled and fell to the ground. Astarion still didn't let go.
He saw the others' footsteps charge after him instead of hearing thump-thump-thump on the grass, hands outstretched to grab. There was a mound and a fresh hole of dirt. It yawned a great carnivorous maw. Thump-thump-thump, his mouth to their necks. He never touched the ground.
Blood shot through him. He soared from one to the other, limbs moving on their own. His nails clawed at their throats. Their screams splattered onto his teeth. He shall not have tasted the blood of thinking creatures. He did.
The one with the dirt-caked shovel dropped it and ran. Astarion sprung, eyes on nothing but the pulse beating out of the side of the man's neck. He bit them. And it felt good.
Bugs buzzed. Night birds did their calls. The wind blew through the tops of the trees, but Astarion listened to none of it. He lay on the ground, hands tucked over his stomach and legs stretched on the dirt that would have been another grave. He gazed up at the stars, a smile permanently on his face. The world was beautiful. It was bloody. It was glorious and dizzy and warm and to the point of being sick. An undead man's heart could almost beat again.
He drank blood, human blood. He drank three or four of them until he squeezed them and their bones cracked and no more came out.
And he did that how—by getting whacked on the head and yanked from his master's palace? That implied physical distance was enough to break the leash, but Cazador had gone on business trips without them. No, Astarion could still feel it lapping at the edges of the puddles he had made of someone else's blood. Cazador was still there. He will know what Astarion did just how he knew everything some way, somehow.
It made worse thinking of it. Astarion brushed from the dirt. Heat coursed through his shrivelled veins, rushing to fill in every kick and punch lay on his skin. He tensed, staring off as his body shook. All of that blood sat in his belly. When he pushed himself up to stand, he stumbled and almost fell over again, giddy, heavy, awful.
No, the most important thing was finding out where he was, how far away was the Palace. What would he do, what could he really do? This was a moment of bliss finally, finally—of course he'd take it and steal it away and gulp it down so greedily like he sucked out those men's throats. He stole it all like he stole the money in their wallets.
The car faced one way. Astarion walked off, further into the trees, into the opposite direction.
There may have been one teeny, little detail that slipped his mind for a few moments: the full concentrated power of the sun. Astarion was still in the woods when the sky started to get lighter. He had passed a few houses, mostly farms, and farms tend to have large busy families. Lots of animals. Food. Higher chances at being swarmed again.
Blood wouldn't matter if the sun got to him. It would undoubtedly be a better end than anything he'd face back in the Palace for 'getting out,' but if truly made it out, then like hells would he throw in the towel now. Surely there were plenty of raunchy basements or sheds or dark corners to stash himself like the creature he was until dusk again, then he could figure everything out later. The next plot of land he'd see was where he was going.
The first stars of the night were rapidly vanishing with the rising light. Astarion skirted around a weird looking vine hanging from the trees, but tough if he knew anything about nature. He stumbled out of the thicket, eyes jumping around the field of more plants (like there wasn't enough in the woods), a few sheds, and a quaint wood cottage just a ways ahead. Trees surrounded the whole property. A single pebbled driveway cut toward what was probably the direction of a main road. Thorny vines tried to bite at Astarion's boots with little avail.
Astarion plastered his hands onto the chipped paint of the nearest shed. A slight scent of animal grazed the air, but it could have been from the house, could have been anything passing through the trees. He casted a glance toward the sunrise. He couldn't afford the time to sniff around. Going around the shed, the doors were padlocked. "Shit." He stuffed a hand into his jacket pocket, finding his switchblade. Of course it was the one that didn't have the lockpicking pokies on it. One wouldn't think to take something like that when they were going to be kidnapped, and surprise, that gang didn't take it off of him. They may have not even looked. Idiots. Astarion couldn't be arsed to wonder about all of that now. He darted to the next shed several yards away. Same thing there. His skin already prickled. He yanked at the padlock, not in hopes of it breaking (though that would be nice), but to scold it. He could die any minute. Burned, combusting, melted, crumbling, whatever. He caught sight of a small window. He wouldn't die (a second time) though. Not now. Not yet.
Astarion smashed his elbow to the glass, but instead of shattering, the window popped open. He tossed his hand in the air, shaking his head, and gave a few hops before scrambling through the opening. He shortly fell and rolled, leaping up with a warning hiss, but the shed was empty of any living thing. Sticking his nose up, Astarion took a few sniffs to confirm this, only getting the tangy stench of hay and some animal—dog? It wasn't fresh, but it wasn't old, either. It didn't matter. He didn't have a choice. If anything were to come into that shed, it was dead. He slapped the window shut, but it cricked open again. He just shook his head and left it alone.
The shed must have been storage: crates, hay bales, hopefully not too frequented but had plenty of nooks to hide. He sighed to himself, having to stash away like some little barn rodent. Toward the back beneath a supportive platform for the roof (like he'd know the names of these things), there was a large stack of crates, half covered with a tarp. Astarion yanked up the tarp, glimpsing over the crates, and folded it two times before tossing it to the floor. As if he would lay on a hay-riddled, splintery wood floor. That stuff was itchy.
So, he stationed himself behind the creates, settling on his back to wait until sunset again. He stared up at the beams making up the ceiling, all the little imperfections and bites bugs must have tried to take into the place. There was no sound—he didn't bother to breathe. The silence pounded on his head, though it could have been from getting smacked into a concrete wall. Dried blood caked under his fingernails. If he could stay away, if distance and the act of physically breaking away was what did it, then he was free. The corners of Astarion's lips curled upward. No more being mauled. No more having to fake a laugh and, 'Yes, Master,' and nails and teeth and blunt instruments to his flesh. Astarion rolled his shoulders and flipped to one side.
If he was free, he could and had tasted the blood of thinking creatures, breaking yet another of his master's foul 'rules.' He could taste so much more. There was a whole world out there to explore, to bite, to live.
Cazador wouldn't let him go. Astarion would be a fool to think something as easy as distance could snap the bond of master and slave. The bastard was too proud (though Astarion was very pleased he could think Cazador a bastard and not be struck for once...), he would and could search for him for years. He'd send out the others to do his dirty work. They would. Bastards. They don't have a choice. None of them did. There was no refusing the master's orders. None.
Astarion could run and run as far as he wanted, but he would never truly be free unless...unless...the master was dead. For good.
He lay there, waiting for some hand to come down and grip him to pieces for thinking such a thing. None came.
Cazador should die.
Astarion smiled even more. There was blood caked under his chin. He thoughtlessly swiped at it. Cazador should die, die, die, and die, and Astarion himself would wipe that stupid, smarmy, smug smirk the bastard always had on, he'd wipe it all over the floor until his old master was nothing but a bloody nub.
Too bad there wasn't some sort of implant Astarion could get to block out the sunlight. Hoods and gloves only went so far, and of course he was wearing the jacket without a hood. Damn sunlight. What he would do to feel such a thing and not go, "Ouch, damn it!" but it was all so typical for a vampire to lie there and pout, wasn't it?
Something scraped on the other side of the doors. Astarion twitched.
Rattling. Metal to wood. The lock—someone was coming in. Of course someone just had to come in right when Astarion was in there. Never could get a moment's rest, now could he?
The doors cricked open. Astarion squeezed his eyes shut, just for a second, as sunlight washed over the wall he was facing. He slowly flipped to his other side, toward the intrusion on the other side of the crates. Whoever was there took one, two, a few steps but stopped. Sniffing? Astarion pulled himself up to sit, but the tarp quietly crinkled underneath him. He glanced up at the uppermost crate. It was only one person. He peeled his hand from the tarp and slipped into his jacket pocket. His knife was still there.
The presence, large, hulking, breathing—Astarion could just feel it tinge the air—took a step closer. He leapt up and shoved the crate into the other person, a man. A very large one, but he was taken by surprise. Astarion shot for the doors.
"Wait! Don't, it's-"
But Astarion didn't stop because the man shouted. His boots stunted on the floor just before the square of sunlight beaming into the shed. He whipped around, blade flicking out at his side. The handle was an extension of his fingertips, a glint of metal closer to an envelope opener but it was something (it wasn't good for the clients to 'kill' any of the workers, after all, so Cazador had allowed them to have that human something to protect themselves under the most emergency of situations, and he would be able to know if it was such or not).
The stranger raised a hand. "Wait, you..." He glanced down to anything but the knife, eyes wide and brow furrowed. "Great old-"
"You come over here, and I'll flay you."
"That won't be necessary." The other man took a step back, almost turning his head when his heel kicked the crate now on the floor. Astarion twitched at the sound. "I'd just like to know what you were doing in here is all-"
"I didn't take anything, if that's what you're getting at." Not that there was much of anything useful or worth taking in the first place.
"No." The guy seemed almost concerned rather than anything else. "You're covered in either your own or someone—something else's—viscera. You're hiding out in a shed in the middle of the country." Blood spattered across Astarion's neck, a mess down the front of his shirt. Splotches of purple had begun to bruise his body, and it was probably the same situation on his face. Astarion squeezed the handle of his penknife, ignoring the urge to glance down. "I can help."
Astarion let out a bark of laughter. "No, you can't."
"I-"
"I don't need your pity, either."
The furrow in the man's brow deepened with an annoyed grunt. He may have been used to this sort of thing, finding strange creatures in his yard. It was the countryside, after all. He sported claw marks from almost the top of his auburn hairline down across his nose, a little caught on his lip. "I'm not giving you my pity," his deep voice was blunt. "I'm offering you help. I can call an ambulance and-"
"No!" Astarion raised his blade in front of himself. "No hospitals. No cruisers. No ambulances."
"If you're hurt-"
"I'm not."
The look the man gave Astarion didn't exactly believe him. "All right. But a clean shower, at the very least."
Flannel, of course. A blue jeans sort of man. He was almost three Astarion's stuck together, but Astarion already thought of five different ways of turning the man's mass against him.
Astarion shook his head. "What?"
"Look, I'm in no place of judgement, but I'm sure you've seen better days. You don't have to stay out here. Or," the stranger gestured out his hand, "if you need to leave, then you can, and we can both go on with our lives."
Well, that sounded a whole lot like Astarion's kind of word. "What, no screaming? No calling the police?" Did the man just roll his eyes? Astarion lowered his knife, just a touch less threateningly.
"Must I? I find doing either or both of those things usually worsens the situation, but if you really want me to..."
"Funny."
They both stared at each other.
Astarion inwardly sighed and flicked his knife away. Nothing this man could do would be worse than what already happened this night or any night in the Palace. Besides, those 'kidnappers' didn't think the knife, and lack thereof, was a threat, either. "Well, if you're being so kind and offering..." He did a fruity little bow, grunting at a pinch of pain running up his backside. "You have my apologies. I've had...an unfortunate evening."
"I can see that."
"Right, yes-"
"You're from the city, I take it? There are more wild animals there than anywhere else."
"Yes, well," ignoring that, "I'm Astarion."
"Halsin." A nod. "We can see about getting cleaned up and something to eat then...go from there."
Astarion pulled a smile. They did that thing people do opening doors for each other, hanging back and waiting for something from the other. "You first. I don't know where I'm going."
Halsin dipped his head and passed him. Idiot. Astarion could leap onto his back and bite a chunk out of his neck. He could. He didn't. Halsin cracked open the other door, and Astarion took a step back from the intruding light.
"Everything all right?"
"I'm afraid...my eyes are a little sensitive to light. Do you have anything to cover up?" Some of the folks coming through the club gawked at Astarion and asked if he had albinism, if they simply weren't prattling about how beautiful he was. He played into it, "The sun is awfully bright."
Whether Halsin bought it or not, he said, "Of course." With a glance around—Astarion could plead, 'No, not that damn tarp!'—Halsin shucked off his jacket, and Astarion tried to keep the grinning down. He tossed the grey flannel over his head, warm, smelled warm, too, he didn't know exactly what it was but it was warmth, yes, it made sense. Halsin seemed like the type. He seemed like the type of sucker too, too kind for his own good, or simply used to whatever the countryside tossed at him. Astarion loathed the thought of ticks and horses, poison ivy and muddy water, all of which bite.
Tucking his hands into the fabric under the guise of keeping it there, Astarion nodded and took a deep breath before stepping out into the sunlight.
So, he didn't crumble to ash or spontaneously combust, but the grass burst into an array of yellow. All he could do was put one foot before the other as the sun beamed its morning fury onto the mere pitiful of cloth. They crossed the yard, but not quickly enough. Astarion started to bake in his own leathers. He sent the sun a lasting thought, 'Not yet, I still have to kill Cazador.' He suppressed a jump from bumping into Halsin's arm, which was all so quick in reaching out and guiding him forward.
"How far are we from the city?" Astarion blurted to distract the possible smell of burning corpses.
"About an hour, not including all the traffic getting into it." Halsin opened the front door but not quickly enough. "Do you need a ride?"
"No! No, no." Astarion nearly tripped into the house. He was still walking on toothpicks; it'd probably take just a bad fall for some of his healing bones to snap.
The front room was split between a kitchen with a breakfast nook and a living room with carved furniture and plants everywhere, like there wasn't enough of it outside.
An hour. That wasn't that far after all, yet it was the farthest he had been in...probably ever. He didn't remember.
Halsin stepped inside and closed the door. Astarion pulled down the flannel from over his head and huffed, much too much hot but not yet toasted.
"Do you have anybody looking for you?"
Astarion must have bristled too much because Halsin leaned away, quickly rectifying, "I mean if we should give anybody a call-"
"No, I'm..." Astarion sighed. He had to tell the man something, otherwise he would probably keep asking questions, either all for the sake of kindness or being a busybody—it wasn't like there appeared to be a TV anywhere in the nearby area, so a man had to keep himself entertained somehow. "I'm out here alone."
"You've gotten lost."
"No, I was taken."
"Taken? From the city?"
"Yes, I was taken from the city. Kidnapped."
"But you said you don't need help going back."
"No, I don't. The group of men who had taken me...worked for my old boss." Astarion had to chuckle at the splinter of worry forming on Halsin's face, perhaps a dash of regret. "Don't worry, darling, we weren't in the mafia or anything." That much was true.
Halsin peeked down at Astarion bundled in his jacket, but quickly turned away to the kitchen with a low rumble, pensive. Astarion almost smiled. He took the opportunity to snoop around. Really, there was nothing to it besides a living room with lots of plants and sculptures and pictures of landscapes and animals.
"You know how the city is," he hammed up the obvious distaste a country boy would have for it. "Anyone thinks they can say anything and do whatever they want."
Halsin came back with two bottles of water. He held out one for Astarion. "You said they worked with an old boss. That's odd they took you out here, instead of conducting their business in the city."
"I don't know. Maybe there was something they wanted to show me. I don't care. They're not going to be a problem anymore." Astarion looked down at the water bottle and snagged it, pressing it to his face with a sigh as the coolness returned to his skin. He shucked off Halsin's jacket and held it out. "I mean it. Don't bother phoning the police," he said, turning to pace the living room after Halsin took back his jacket. "I'll be far from here by the time you open your lips to this 'emergency.'"
"I have no plans on it."
Astarion spun around. Halsin had disappeared. His voice had come from some other room, probably down that hall alongside the kitchen. Astarion stalked after him. They bumped into each other right at the turn. Well, Astarion bumped into a wall of meat and bounced right off it. Halsin hooked a hand behind his back. "Easy." Astarion flinched. Halsin snatched his hand away. He was now holding a bundle of clothing. "Sorry."
"It's fine."
"Those men won't be going back to the city either?"
"Does it matter?" Astarion sniped. "I ran them all over and saved the day."
"Hm. The state you are in says otherwise."
"Well, I saved my day."
"Then you fought for your survival. Nobody can fault you for that."
"...what? I mean, no. No, they can't."
Halsin passed over the wad of clothes, then stepped back to gesture down the hall. "Down on the right, you can take a shower, and if I could have your clothes when you're done, they can be washed."
Astarion stared up incredulously at the man's face. "It sounds like you've been through this before."
That earned him a little laugh. "I've had a few strays stop by over the years."
"Hm." Then Astarion piped out, "Strays?!"
Halsin turned to go into what had to be a bedroom. Astarion warned after him, "And these strays of yours, they left on their own accord, correct?"
"Whenever they were ready to leave."
"Not in a cruiser or anything."
"Astarion. You said you were defending yourself." Halsin wandered the bedroom, adjusting the pillows on a tidy bed, moving some boxes into the closet. "I'm not going to stand here and demand all the answers out of you. I've asked what I needed to ask. Anything more is not my business unless you want to tell me." Astarion stood in the doorway, mouth popped open by the time Halsin came around the bed, almost smiling as he said, "As long as those weren't innocent children or the like you ran over, I don't care."
"Gods! You strange man."
"Hm. It's been said."
Astarion turned away, bunching the clothes in hand. He stopped and said, "If they were rabid children, I would have defended myself anyway."
Halsin glanced down and his belly shook as he laughed. "Good thing I said 'innocent' and not 'rabid,' then."
The bathroom door hit the latch a little too enthusiastically. Astarion stood in the middle of the small bathroom, ears pricked for fading footsteps. He faced the bathroom mirror, but of course saw nothing. He could look like he ran himself over instead.
When he shucked off his clothes, there was a smattering of blood down the front of his shirt where that ringleader's jugular sprayed all over the place. The jacket could be wetted and wiped. His trousers had scuffs on the behind, but he took most of the damage. A certain spot on his skull was tender to touch, and blood clotted a patch of his light curls. Astarion huffed a sigh, because that was all he could do, sigh and continue on with unlife, one step at a time.
Steam billowed out of the bathroom when he quietly opened the door and peeked up and down the hallway. He had almost passed out in the shower, heated up and full of blood. His so-kind host was in the kitchen, clattering about. The smell of human food wafted in the air. Halsin no doubt was going to try to offer him something to eat, the type Astarion had no interest in having. Ugh. Nice people. Such a pain in the fangs.
Astarion stopped by the corner that opened into the living area and kitchen, watching Halsin's broad backside as he tossed something in a pan on the stove. In the time Astarion took his shower and got dressed in an admittedly comfortable tee and joggers (which will not be used for jogging), no vehicles came up the driveway, no cars, no cruisers, no ambulances, no Cazador. All because of foolish kind people, he could rest just for a moment...
Yet where were those types when he prayed and prayed as he was whipped in the dungeons?
No matter. That time was over, and Astarion would do anything to keep it over. All it took was a whimper and a limp to a caring soul to be taken in and coddled. There was an entire world out there to delight him further.
Halsin turned from the hob with a plate, starting as he caught Astarion standing there. "Astarion. You almost have some colour in your face now."
Astarion gave the driest 'Ha-ha' known to man. Halsin's eye lingered on his arms, the aftermath of being kicked and holding up his hands to protect his face. Astarion tugged down the bundle of his old clothes to cover up. "What do you want me to do with this?"
"You can leave them on the floor by the bathroom. I'll take care of it."
"Mmph. All right, but don't think about keeping them for yourself."
"Don't worry. Black's not really my colour."
"Oh, thank goodness," Astarion muttered under his breath, and he actually meant it. Halsin wasn't the type with a giant stick up his ass. He nodded when Astarion came out again. "I hope you don't mind your eggs scrambled."
Astarion's face scrunched, and he flicked a hand through his hair, getting droplets on the kitchen table. "Is that spare bedroom mine for the night, or will the couch have to suffice?"
"The room's yours." Halsin turned to gesture to the plate. "Please. Eat. It's all yours."
"Yes, how generous of you. I'll have to pass though."
"You should eat," as Astarion turned away. "You've been through a lot. It—it'll keep your strength up."
Astarion tossed over a blank look. Whether or not there was something wrong with the food (or Halsin was a bad cook, though it didn't appear to be likely), it wouldn't have mattered. He huffed and puffed like this was the greatest inconvenience, coming over to the table as Halsin turned away to do the dishes, so he didn't hang around to watch, which was good. Astarion grabbed the fork and scarfed a few mouthfuls. The egg and ham scramble just came off the stove top; his eyes watered and mouth burned. He stalked into the guest room and closed and locked the door. He glanced around and rushed to a trash bin alongside the double bed, spitting out the food. At least he still had his water bottle to rinse the taste from his mouth.
The side of his face started to get really hot, and Astarion clapped a hand over his cheek, only to realise the lone curtain was open and the sun was a vampire-seeking missile. He had to skirt to one side and yank it shut, pulling his arm away with a hiss as the light hit. Other than that, the room was quaint. It smelled like it hadn't been used for a while, even by Halsin himself. Unclaimed. Safe spot? Astarion couldn't ever really be safe, but perhaps he was safe enough for this moment to sniff around, crawl into the bed, glancing down for any bugs or stains or...
His body collapsed, face first into the pillow and groaned in bliss.