[He agrees, because this isn't the time to play at heroics. The truth is he has no idea what Astarion has suffered. Indeed, he has little idea of where he even came from, save that it's somewhere that isn't Thedas. Who knows what slavery has entailed? I did better on my back than on my heels, Astarion had hinted, but though Fenris knows exactly what he means . . . no, he does not know enough, not yet.
So he will not make the fool's mistake of offering false assurance. That's the right way to a panic attack. Untangling Astarion's ankles, Fenris' hands drop, his fingers gone slack in the sheets and resettling on his thighs. Easy to see, easy to keep track of.]
But for now, the door is bolted. No one has entered. And I am here, with my sword and my lyrium, if that should change.
[His eyes flick down for a moment, dipping away, and if he notices any tears, he does not mention them. Astarion looks like a beaten dog right now: shivering in terror, muscles locked up, knowing deep down in his bones that any move he makes will be the wrong one. Sometimes there is nothing that will stop your dominus from punishing you, he knows, he remembers, but it's one thing to recall his own terror and another to see it painted so starkly before him.
Gently, he offers Astarion a hand, his palm upturned. Not a pointed gesture, but a quiet one, easily ignored if Astarion should wish.]
He has not come to drag you back, Astarion. Not tonight.
[Not while I breathe, he thinks, and startles himself with how true it is.]
no subject
[He agrees, because this isn't the time to play at heroics. The truth is he has no idea what Astarion has suffered. Indeed, he has little idea of where he even came from, save that it's somewhere that isn't Thedas. Who knows what slavery has entailed? I did better on my back than on my heels, Astarion had hinted, but though Fenris knows exactly what he means . . . no, he does not know enough, not yet.
So he will not make the fool's mistake of offering false assurance. That's the right way to a panic attack. Untangling Astarion's ankles, Fenris' hands drop, his fingers gone slack in the sheets and resettling on his thighs. Easy to see, easy to keep track of.]
But for now, the door is bolted. No one has entered. And I am here, with my sword and my lyrium, if that should change.
[His eyes flick down for a moment, dipping away, and if he notices any tears, he does not mention them. Astarion looks like a beaten dog right now: shivering in terror, muscles locked up, knowing deep down in his bones that any move he makes will be the wrong one. Sometimes there is nothing that will stop your dominus from punishing you, he knows, he remembers, but it's one thing to recall his own terror and another to see it painted so starkly before him.
Gently, he offers Astarion a hand, his palm upturned. Not a pointed gesture, but a quiet one, easily ignored if Astarion should wish.]
He has not come to drag you back, Astarion. Not tonight.
[Not while I breathe, he thinks, and startles himself with how true it is.]