Chapter Text
It starts with a phone call from Gale.
Not to me, of course. He calls Jamie, because it is eight o'clock in the godsdamned morning and Gale possesses some amount of self-preservation. He knows by now that I do not speak to people at eight o'clock in the morning, least of all nervous wizards.
But I will eavesdrop shamelessly. Vampiric hearing, you understand.
I turn onto my side to face Jamie, their eyes still shut and their hair forming an inky halo on the pillow. They slap the phone to their ear and groan, "Sup?" like it's 1995.
"I am terribly sorry, my friend," he starts, breathless, "for calling at this hour. I know you were likely asleep, and—"
"Magic man," Jamie says, running a hand over their face, "I love you, but please get to the point."
"Right—ah—yes, I—" Gale pauses, and there are some scuffling sounds on the line. I imagine he's herding his children or unnecessarily fumbling with a stack of books. "Okay. Evan's got his soccer tournament in Tacoma today, for the entire day, and Ella was going to stay with Wyll and Karlach, but Karlach called and said Jules has the flu, and now I find myself in a predicament."
"So you need her favorite vampire uncle and her favorite ex-con punk to take her on a lil adventure today instead."
"Um. If you would be so kind, yes! I don't mean to inconvenience you, especially on such short notice, but—"
"We've got her. Tell him we've got her," I say, rising.
Jamie grins at me and waits for Gale to take a breath. He does not. They try to interrupt a few times, but he continues, promising us his eternal love and gratitude (which I could do without) and/or a fine vintage (which I shall accept graciously).
I tune him out when he begins explaining why his daughter shouldn’t attend the event. I already know, of course. Ella Dekarios is a small creature who becomes overwhelmed when faced with loud noise, bright light, and unfamiliarity. I relate to her more strongly than she will likely ever know.
It is very taxing to hear every heartbeat, every footfall, every breath in every room I enter. Very bothersome, at times, to wrap myself in layers when I go out during the day or carry a parasol like a Victorian maiden too delicate for sunlight. And after two hundred years in the same spot, new places feel... well. New. And sometimes "new" is alarming.
A full day outdoors in another city watching children attempt sports and scream about it sounds about as appealing as gouging out my own eyes. I imagine Ella feels rather the same. Wise little thing.
I cross the room towards the wardrobe and begin assembling today's outfit. It's Friday, so we're meant to go to the farmer's market (for Jamie), the vegan café that sometimes hosts drag brunches and gives away condoms, and the blood co-op (for me). Though we’ll, ah, probably skip that last one today. Not exactly Ella-friendly. I did finish my last blood bag the other night, and I haven't drunk from Jamie since the anemia incident, no matter how many times they insist they're "fine now." I can wait until tomorrow. I've gone longer.
Gods, have I gone longer.
I shake my head—literally shake it, as if to clear the thought—and focus instead on dressing for the occasion.
A cashmere shirt, naturally, unbuttoned enough to tantalize but not enough to scandalize. Long jacket. High-waisted trousers, grey and creased sharp enough to slice whatever vegetables Jamie's about to purchase. Imported belt (faux leather, Jamie'd have a fit otherwise). Criminally expensive boots with blood-red soles. Sunglasses so large I could commit several crimes behind them and no one would be the wiser. Hypothetically, of course. Ahem.
One ear swivels back towards Jamie, who's still on the phone and giving me an exaggerated eye-roll like Can you believe this guy is still talking? Yes, dear, I can. It's Gale.
He's now reminding Jamie of Ella's schedule, when she must eat and when she should nap and all that, which is silly because:
-
We already have her routine memorized, and
-
if he wanted to remind either of us, it should have been me. I am blessed/cursed with advanced recall, while Jamie cannot remember where their car keys are. (In the ashtray, inexplicably.)
Jamie is liberated from the phone as I slide my rings onto my fingers.
“Good gods, that man needs a vacation,” they sigh, tossing their phone to the end of our bed.
“From?”
“His own mind? Or, like…” They gesture at nothing and everything all at once and make a sound like mmh!?. A fair assessment. “He could’ve just asked us to keep her. He knows we love that kid. She basically thinks you’re her parent.”
“She does not.”
“She totally does! Gale said it himself.”
“He’s an anxious man.”
“Facts. More than usual lately, too.”
“He’s just been through a divorce, darling.”
“Oh. Yeah. That’ll do it.” Jamie pauses for a moment and yawns. Their nose wrinkles when they do, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t find it adorable. A smile finds its way onto my face. I do nothing to hide it from them.
They push themself off the bed at last and stretch. They’re wearing nothing but boxers and a ridiculous t-shirt three sizes too large with Bigfoot’s silhouette on it (Goodwill, I’m certain). They run a hand down their front, bunch up a fistful of shirt, and turn to me like they’re modeling.
“You think if I tie this up higher I can wear it out?”
I don’t dignify that with a response.
Exactly thirty-nine minutes later, we’re on Gale’s street. His warm little house comes into view over the hill, his garden flourishing and his curtains open. A peaceful place. I can smell the laundry soap and fresh ink from here. (Really. I can.)
Jamie’s still wearing that shirt, but they hacked it to pieces with scissors on the walk over so it’s now a sleeveless crop top that does not remotely befit the weather but somehow works beautifully on them. They stuffed the fallen fabric scraps into the countless pockets of their high-waisted jeans and considered at length what they might do with the excess. Ideas so far have ranged from “knit a sweater for a squirrel” to “choke somebody” to “make a quilt, commune with Chauntea, and call her a homophobe,” by which point I fear one of us has lost the plot.
“Is she?”
“Is she what?”
“I— Homophobic. You’ve just said that.”
Jamie shrugs. “Oh, probably. She’s all harvest and fertility. Sus.”
“Right.”
They’re drinking a Red Bull through a paper straw and stomping down Gale’s lovely sidewalk in enormous platform Doc Martens that make them almost as tall as I am.
I love this half-elf so much it frightens me.
I also love Ella Dekarios, which frightens me even more. She is small and sticky and everything I should loathe, but the truth is I’d kill and/or die for her if necessary. She’s four years old. Four! I cannot adequately describe just how short a time that is when you’ve lived two centuries and have eternity stretching before you. I own hair gel older than Ella. I’d bet Jamie has Taco Bell leftovers in their car at least her age.
This tiny, fragile creature has lived such a short time. She doesn’t know about fascism or enslavement or loss or monsters. All she knows, as far as I can tell, is letters (some of them) and love. She loves her father and her brother and her strange snacks. She loves Jamie and, apparently, me. She calls Jamie “Shay” because the J sound doesn’t come easily, given her speech delay. And she calls me… well. She calls me Star. “Astarion” is even trickier than “Jamie.” So she nicknamed me.
I have stabbed men for less. I’ll do so again. But with Ella, it’s… different. With Ella, I am different.
I was hers the day I arrived at Gale’s for our monthly party dinner—holding wine in my hand that I did not plan to share and fending off a hug from Karlach—and Ella, three at the time, looked up at me wide-eyed and small and beaming and said “Star” with utter confidence.
I had never been so enchanted.
“We’re learning names lately,” Gale said, almost defensively, as though I’d be offended. “She finds ‘Astarion’ rather difficult, I’m afraid. It’s multiple syllables, and the st sound is especially challenging for her, though she—”
But I was already crouched down to Ella’s level, telling her how utterly perfect she was and that she could call me anything she liked, and I meant it. Gale went quiet. Jamie called me a sap with great affection. Karlach was misty-eyed.
So. Here we are.
I mean that literally: We are now at Gale’s house. I can hear cleats being thrown into a bag and tiny feet padding across the hardwood in soft socks and Gale writing something down at breakneck speed.
Jamie raises a hand to knock on the door, then thinks better of it and just opens it.
“Hey, wizard fam,” they holler into the foyer.
Gale emerges from the kitchen. “Good morning, Jamie. Astarion. Thank you so very much.”
Evan darts out behind him, nine years old and draped in a uniform that is absolutely too large for him. There’s a cartoon frog on it, which he immediately informs us is a Western Chorus Frog.
“Its science name is Pseudacris triseriata,” he announces with the deliberate slowness that means he’s practiced this pronunciation several times. “It’s like, really small, but it’s actually one of the loudest frogs.”
“You relate to him, huh?” Jamie grins.
“YES! HOW’D YOU KNOW?”
Gods.
For a moment I forget why we’re here. I could be home right now, lounging in bed with Jamie in my arms. I could be drinking wine. I could be drinking blood, which would be even better. I could be stabbing a vampire lord in front of his own spawn and watching him bleed. I could be—
“Star?”
Ella.
I could be nowhere but here.
She steps carefully out of the hallway and into the front room. Today Gale’s got her in a navy jumper covered in bright yellow bees, a doll-sized jacket, her light-up shoes, and soft pants made of a material that is apparently sensory-safe. Her pink headphones rest around her neck in case she needs them—they block out excessive noise—and she’s carrying the tablet that helps her speak when words fail her.
“Hello, little one,” I say in the quiet voice I reserve especially for her. I bend to her level. “Would you like to be picked up?”
She thinks about it, rocks back and forth on her feet for a moment. I wait. We’ve been practicing this, you see. Asking before we touch. Answering truthfully. It’s an effort I am… rather personally invested in.
“Yes,” she says at last, and I gather her in my arms immediately and lift her. It’s impossibly easy to do. Four years old.
“Hey, El,” Jamie says, turning to face her now that she’s eye level. “How’s it goin, lil thing?”
“Hi, Shay.” Ella reaches out a small hand, the other firmly holding her tablet, and Jamie takes it for the briefest moment.
“You ready to go to the farmer’s market? They got fruit.”
Ella brightens and bounces once in my grip. “Strawberries there!?”
“Hells yeah! And blueberries too. And blackberries. And lots of other berries n’ fruits. Also there’s a guy who sells mushrooms he finds randomly, and a lady who makes badass bread.”
Evan snorts when Jamie says “ass,” delighted. Gale shoots them both a look and Jamie’s ears tilt downward, just a touch.
“She does enjoy the market,” the wizard says despite himself, eyes soft and warm as he watches us with his daughter. “We’ve been practicing our colors. See how many you can get her to name while you’re there.” He winks.
I turn back to Ella. “Colors, hm? Do you have a favorite?”
She twists a bit in my arms, thinks, taps a hand against her own leg a few times as she considers, then presses one of the custom icons Gale’s added to her tablet. The device proclaims her answer in a robotic, childlike voice: Red.
“Darling!” I pretend to gasp. “That’s mine, too.”
Ella makes one of her happy sounds and kicks a foot at nothing.
“Let’s see how many red things we can find, shall we?”
She nods, and she’s smiling. And so we go.