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Chapter Text

This was all Wyll’s fault, actually. 

No matter how one looks at the situation, the blame belongs to him. Astarion wouldn’t have suffered, labored, or metaphorically sweat bullets, otherwise. 

It all started after Wyll and Astarion trolled through the sewers on a case for the local butcher. He swore 300 gold bounty for whomever caught and killed the zombies that killed his cat when it made its way near a sewer grate. Astarion swore that was bullshit-- no feline, no matter how accustomed to rot and decay, would dare traipse near a clearly disgusting area. 

After hours of being on patrol, Wyll was about to concede to Astarion’s conclusion when a rotted hand rose under Astarion’s feet and pulled . The undead’s nails dug into his leather heel, and he could smell the rancid rot of its flesh above the putrid sewer as it pulled him down to the ground with an unnatural strength.
Needless to say he was not thrilled . 

The pair easily dispatched of the one zombie shortly after Astarion hit the wet floor, with a series of strikes to rend it into pieces-- Astarion let out a low groan when he saw three, no, five shadows at the end of the tunnel barrel towards them.

“Gods, this could take forever !” He groaned, before imploring his horned companion, “Surely, we can’t leave the damn butcher to deal with these himself?”
“ You know what they say, my friend,  there’s no rest for the wicked,” Wyll said, his voice low and determined, as he readied his rapier and found his stance. “And deals a deal. We kill the undead and the good butcher’ll reward us for a job well done.” 

Astarion saw no point in complaining any further. With his luck, another wave of the blasted things would spawn as soon as he breathed whatever venomous remark bubbled up in his chest-- as if he asked for it. He rose from the ground with an unnatural stillness, the droplets that fell from his coat nearly betrayed his presence, but he took to the shadows still-- Wyll was left seemingly vulnerable to the monster’s attack.
The undead snarled, their snarls guttural and feral as rushed forward with an even hungrier enthusiasm than earlier. They didn’t even notice how Astarion’s footsteps softly disturbed the water, before he sent a clap of thunder to shove them forward, and Wyll Ravengard, leader of the Blades of The Frontiers, took the opportunity to plunge his literally fiery blade into the chest of the one that fell onto it. 

Wyll was no longer a warlock, but over the past year Astarion had learned to never discount the strength and tenacity of a man who finally owns his own soul. After all, he had only just been given ownership of his own self the year prior. He owed  his friends everything , his life, loyalty, the use of his blades whenever they required them (and if he was being paid to do so) …

It seemed to him he would spend all of their lifetimes paying them back for helping him win his freedom. 

He pushed these happy thoughts from his mind and onto the ugly work of being these creature’s undoing. Between the strikes from a flaming and possibly poisonous sword, and Astarion’s own happy daggers (one rightfully taken from Cazador’s ashes)-- the five beasts are down within the hour. Vampire strength and Wyll’s battle smarts were enough to undo them. 

Astarion had just beheaded the last zombie and stuffed it into a bag of holding labelled “Proof of Completion” when Wyll unknowingly started the trend of suggestions that would be his undoing and would gradually make him pissed the fuck off over the next week. 

“I’m starved!” Wyll exclaimed as he finished his series of stretches, “Shall we make our way to the finest eatery in town after we rid ourselves of our goods?” 

Astarion let out a snort as he closed the drawstring of the bag of holding shut. 

“The Elfsong Tavern? I’m hardly welcomed there.” He walked toward his friend, and added, “And in the state I’m in, I’d agree with that decision wholeheartedly. No one, even those as captivating as I am, should force others to endure such an odor .” 

The two started to make their way towards the entrance, steps hurried as they became conscious of the hour. As they crawled through the manhole cover, they saw that the moon had started to shift into a descent in the sky. Daylight would break soon, and Astarion did not want to pull his soiled hood over his befouled hair. 

“I was thinking of getting something quicker and sweeter,” Wyll said as his legs pump to match Astarion’s speed, “Doughnuts, for after we claim our reward, of course. We could stop by your place to get you a fresh cloak, the grime magicked off, and our friends and their wallets. The owner of the shop is a friend of mine I’ve made in the past year--I’m sure she’d more than appreciate your patronage, and she’s one of the sweetest souls I know. I think you’d like her!” 

Wyll had his eyes on the prize, after all, the butcher’s home was not far from the sewer cover in the lower gate, but Astarion kept his own gaze on his companion’s face-- reading him like a book. 

It’s not unusual for Wyll to dispense praise of others so readily. If you asked Astarion, he’d say that Wyll praised others too often and too readily. 

He is also too easy to read. 

The subtle flush on his face, combined with the enthusiasm he displayed for, ugh , donuts? Clearly this was more than just a need for food after a battle won. That said, who was he to stand in Wyll’s way? If Astarion showed up to this stranger’s shop, it’d be more likely that he’d create a misunderstanding, and besides, he can’t eat solid food anyway. 

Once, on a dare while the others were drunk, he ate a bite of prime rib-- cooked practically rare. He hacked it up almost immediately after it made its way down his belly. It had come up with more blood that it possessed initially and everyone in attendance was more awed and disgusted than entertained. 

Needless to say he was mortified . 

He didn’t want to imagine what horrors await him the moment he swallowed  a doughnut . In front of a stranger . 

“Astarion?” Wyll’s voice broke him out of the memory, and Astarion cleared his throat. 

“No, my sweet, I’d rather not.” Astarion said, “Long night and all that.”
Wyll’s expression had disappointment written all over it. 

“Next time,” Astarion promised, before he took on a devilish grin, “Now, let’s give a man some heads, shall we?” 

It turned out that the butcher had taken on the habit of dumping spoiled meat into a sewer, and that is what attracted the zombies in the first place. Wyll gave the nice man a stern talking to about proper waste disposal and scribbled down the name and hours of the garbage man, before they split the payment, scribbled down a reminder to find the source of the undead, and parted ways. 

Astarion didn’t even think twice about the donut shop or its supposedly nice shopkeep. He thought that was all there was to it, a “maybe later” and then a gradual ignoring of the request should it ever be made again. One day he’d get around to explaining his reasons. 

One day. 

He entered the house just before the sun had started to rise, and found that the thick curtains throughout the house had been tightly closed. Astarion smiled, as he stripped off his boots and socks before examining the now thoroughly clawed and muddied combat boots, gods what a chore the repairs will be! 

He stripped immediately, unafraid of his nudity being discovered so early in the morning (and if they saw, they were more the lucky for it), and placed his fouled clothing and coat into the bag of holding labeled “Clothing: Soiled”, so that Gale’s unseen servant would handle it in the wash later in the day. Silently, he made his way up the stairs into his room and drew a steaming hot bath. Gale had arranged for “plumbing” (whatever that was) to be installed in his mother’s house before the group moved in. 

It was life changing . 

No cold rinses with water from a river, no need to waste spells on heating baths. The tub was enchanted to heat the water to a specific temperature, and to destroy the water all at the push of a button. Wizards work so hard to make magic work for them-- and Astarion reaped the benefit, a perfectly warmed and perfumed bath that soothed his sore muscles and bruised ego. Forty five minutes into the bath, Astarion’s worries had all but evaporated away with his bath water. 

He was fine . He slept in his room for hours, before he took up some light reading until his friends returned. He was great , actually!

That is, until he heard Karlach and Gale enter the house excitedly chatting when he was reading on the armchair in the living room hours later-- Karlach held a pink box (cursed, evil, horrible!) in her hands while Gale hoisted two hefty grocery bags. Gale, ever the gentleman, always insisted that he carries the bags every time--regardless of how many men, women, and children Karlach could carry on one arm alone. 

“Astarion! You’ve got to try these!” Karlach said gleefully, as Gale gently put down the groceries on the counter. She flopped down onto the couch next to him before she added, “They’re the single greatest thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“Truly, the finest treat  in Baldur’s Gate.” Added Gale from the kitchen as he placed the potatoes from his bag in a bin specifically labeled, “Potatoes and other such roots”. He began again when the clattering stopped, “Imira had such an interesting spread of flavors: spiced hot chocolate, lime and chili, stuffed sour cream, garlic, and onion-- those are only just the beginning!” 

Karlach nodded enthusiastically and grinned, “See? Even Gale likes them! It’s that good, I promise!” She held the box toward him, the lid of the pink paper box was stamped with a blood red label that read “Glaze of Glory”. 

“None for me, thanks.” Astarion said lamely, gently shoving it aside, “You know what solids do to me.” 

“Aw, that was the one time!” Karlach pouts, “These things are as light as air. You know what though, the lady Imira was awfully nice. I’m sure she’d make you some sort of bloody donut!” 

He laughed awkwardly, “I doubt it, dearest. Not many understand my condition the way you do.” 

Karlach ‘tsked, “Don’t be like that, fangs! You’re a great fucking guy.” 

“If Ms. Imira did not think you were worth serving, then she is not company worth having,” Gale said, finally taking a seat in the arm chair across Astarion’s, and taking a donut from the box Karlach had offered him, “But I doubt that she’d legitimately respond like that. She seemed incredibly understanding.” 

Astarion’s lips tightened into a line before he answered, “Sure. Maybe one day.”

As Karlach and Gale began to tell him more about their day, who they saw, and what they encountered-- Astarion hoped that would be the last of that.

Except it wasn’t. 

He didn’t remember why he went to see Shadowheart later that week. Perhaps, she said she had a lead on the ogre case, or better yet, she wanted to see him to gossip about their friends or the people in her neighborhood. Either way his pleasure at her company turned to distaste when she busted out a familiar pink box. 

“No.”
“Oh, get over yourself and just try one , Astarion,” Shadowheart said, her heavily lined eyes rolled but her smile stayed as she shoved the donut in his face, “No one is around, and I’m trying to see something.”
Astarion narrowed his eyes at the donut, scowled with fang, and then brought it right up to Shadowheart.
“No.” He said, enunciated with a jut of his chin, as if to shoo the damn thing away with it. 

Shadowheart shrugged, before biting into it, “Fine, then. Deprive yourself of happiness-- all the more for me.”

The last straw was Lae’Zel. 

She didn’t so much as offer him the sweet, she just told him to eat the damn thing at knifepoint. 

“Open your maw, vampire. This doughed- nut confection must be tasted.”

It was then that all sense of reason within Astarion broke. It was still all Wyll’s fault, even if it is indirectly. That’s the only way to explain why he did what he did-- truly, that is the defense that Astarion will go with for the rest of his unholy lifespan. 

His mind broke, your honor. His mind broke, and he is not responsible for what happened next.
Soon after Lae’zel’s betrayal, he threw on his cloak when the sun was halfway set, and he stomped down to the damned street Lae’Zel said the shop would be on. By the time he was there, he had seen four different groups of people with the same little peony colored boxes, and in his sweet head he invented thirteen different reasons why he shouldn’t like it. 

1. All of his friends are obsessed with it. It’s all they talked about! They don’t ask about him and how he’s doing with the whole newfound bodily autonomy thing. It’s just donut this and donut that. 
2. The boxes get oily after four hours. It stained his (Morena Dekarios’) counter. Disgusting.
3. Doughnut and donut are both acceptable spellings of the same blasted thing and its notation should be a little more consistent, damn it! 
4. This shopkeep, Imogen or Maleena or whatever!  Is clearly trying to manipulate his friends-- or something! She’s trying to buy their loyalty with food, and it’s working. Gods, how pathetic she must be that she makes her friends by trying to feed them carbs. Everyone loves carbs. She should try making them all love her by using a dressingless salad or a savory gelatin-- then he’d be impressed. 

He finally arrived at his destination, and he had to take a brief moment to take it in. 

Astarion hates how it looks. 

The two story building was constructed with dark cherry wood, stairs line the right side of the building and a white canvas canopy shield the big windows from most of the sun’s setting rays. Two trellises hang on both sides of the store, one lined with bountiful bunches of jasmine and the other with fragrant honeysuckle, two rows of small tables with chairs and a large sign with the store hours decorated the outside. 

“Glaze of Glory” was written in a gold script across the window, seemingly tinged with a fiery iridescence. 

It’s not bad. Astarion decided. 

It’s not what Astarion would have picked. None of it is. 

So, without much information to go on, he hates it. 

Astarion could easily see inside-- the minute he peered in,  a dragonborn and a dwarf turned to each other, presumably after purchasing the famed goods,  and they smiled lovingly into the other's eyes. Burgundy shelves filled with pink boxes, stickers, and boxes of tissue paper lined the right side of the wall behind the register. A young tanned elven woman in a red smock and matching handkerchief covering the top of her short braid smiled warmly at the couple. 

Astarion thought he was going to be sick.

Hidden in the shadows, Astarion watched the pair leave the shop. They called out to the elf, bidding her farewell enthusiastically and she returned the sentiment. She waved until she thought they couldn’t see her anymore, then began to furiously wipe the counters and the glass around the register with a purple solution she grabbed from under the counter.

He tried to enter as the couple left, but he wound up triggering the bell anyway and the elf’s head perked up from her work. 

“Hello!” She said in a cheerful voice, “My name is Imira, I’m happy to help you today. Please, take a look at what goods I have left! It’s past sundown, so I’ll ring you in at half off if you buy all that I have left.”  

There are exactly three doughnuts left in the case in front of him. He glances at them for a moment, before turning his attention to the interior of the store. 

The walls are lined and more of that cherry wood is present throughout the building’s exterior, save for the glass in the display. Two plaques are hung up to the right of the register that reads “Best Eats in Baldur’s Gate” and the two years before. A small portrait of a cart, bearing the same name as the storefront, hung underneath. 

The store was basically bare. 

How pathetic, Astarion thought to himself, Clearly, they’re all taking pity on this woman. She’s no real friend of theirs. 

“Sir?” She interrupted gently, and he turned to look at her in response-- half hoping she would shrink under his gaze. She smiled back at him, “Would you like to take another moment before you order?” 

Astarion felt his lip curl. He looked at her, and really looked at her. 

This Imira didn’t look special , he reasons, she isn’t ugly, but she isn’t drop dead gorgeous . 

His new nemesis was a full head shorter than he was. Ordinary height, in fact, she’s below fucking average. Round brown eyes framed by thin blonde lashes that shot straight down. As big and as sweet as a cow’s-- perfect for slaughter .

Her only distinguishing features? A mole (a beauty mark ) hung over her right eye and another to the right of her mouth. Her blemished nose hooked slightly at the end. 

Upon closer inspection, her blonde and meticulously braided hair was so frizzy from a day’s worth of work that it threatened to burst out from under the spotted handkerchief that she wrapped over her head and tied behind her ears. 

Astarion didn’t want to admit it, but his new enemy was pretty. Eliminating her (socially! His friends would never forgive him if she was murdered) friendliness is the only way out. 

“What I would like ,” He began as he leaned over the counter, “Is some gods damned peace .” 

The young lady’s smile dropped immediately, she frowned,  and her shoulders tensed. That was more like it.

“Sir, is something the matter?” 

“Yes! Something is the matter!” He hissed, pulling himself back and standing at his full height, “You and this tacky shop are haunting me. I don’t know what it is about this place that makes people go crazy -- or what it is is in you that they find charming , but I’ve had enough of it!” 

“Sir--” The customer service mask dropped and her dark thick brows furrowed, she scowled, finally, he thinks, the real her shows, “You--”

“ You’ve consumed my friends’ every thought, with your barren and tacky shop,” He interrupted himself to laugh at her and the meager display, “Gods, I wouldn’t eat these.”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you--” 

“ Sir !” He said in a pitched facsimile of her voice, “ Is that all you can say?” 

The young woman’s eyes were as dark as a lake, her lips tight and jaw tense. Astarion took a moment to admire his work, reveling in how easy it was to make her sweetness dissolve with his cruelty. 

“Please, leave,” Imira said, finally able to get a word in, “I will not serve you today.” 

Astarion bared his fangs at her in a cruel grin, “I can’t even eat these.”

Her fury transformed into pure confusion and she dropped the bottle of cleaner onto the ground. Lavender and lye filled the air. He took that as his cue to leave. 

Night fell suddenly as he walked out of the store. A satisfied smirk sat on his face as he watched the shopkeep slide down to the floor from several meters away. 

Astarion didn’t know what he won, but he was savagely happy to have won regardless. He grinned as he fell into his trance at home, his slumber unbothered as he dreamed of the night he killed Cazador. 

The next night, Wyll gets hurt during a contract. 

Karlach, Astarion, Shadowheart and Wyll had fought a trio of ogres outside of Rivington’s gates-- a fight that The Blades of Frontiers had been anticipating for the past two weeks based on reports on the ogre’s activity. Wyll had inferred the ogres would move in on the city, as their behavior had been uncharacteristically bold for creatures that lived in the more remote parts of Faerun. 

If this fight had happened a year ago, the Blades would not have needed to enlist the help of the cleric. Between Wyll’s magical abilities, Karlach’s ferociousness in battle, and Astarion’s general vibe the fight would have taken a solid half an hour with the right preparations. 

It took them two, and victory had come at the cost of their leader. 

Not to say that Wyll had died . Gods, this would be a very different story if that were true! 

In the final hour, the group fought the last and the most intelligent ogre four to one. They had targeted the weakest ogres first-- but didn’t expect the ogre’s leader to know fucking magic much less Melf’s Acid fucking Arrow! 

The blasted thing had let loose that spell so many times that each step they took had to be taken both meticulously and quickly-- one wrong step and they’d have a foot dipped in acid, a pain that promised to get worse over time. Too slow, and they would have been walloped by the ogre’s bloodied club into an adventurer shaped pancake. 

“You may have taken down my subordinates,” The beast jeered in a voice like razor wire, when it had finally pinned Astarion and Shadowheart down with a single giant hand, “But you won’t have me as easily, and I will feast well tonight.” 

Then Wyll, seeing his opportunity, shouted and Shadowheart loosed a guiding bolt onto the ogre’s eager and wicked face. Astarion looked up and saw Wyll and Karlach jumping onto the beast’s back in synchrony, bringing down the sharp end of their weapons into its flesh to break their fall. 

He couldn’t move. He tried to bat an eyelash. Twitch a finger or toe, but nothing moved. His chest rose, and fell, and rose and fell, but he could not move. 

The ogre recoiled from the two attacks and roared into their faces as it released the pale elves. Then, while Karlach had maintained her grip and continued to attack the creature, Wyll jumped off of its back and landed onto the ground with a cry, sickening crunch and splash. 

“Fuck!” Wyll shouted, Shadowheart rose quickly and glanced at the equally shocked and paralyzed Astarion. 

A significantly fiercer “ Fuck!” erupted from an upset Karlach as she dodged a puddle and retrieved her axe from the ogre with a sickening pop. This was less surprising, even with the axe retrieval. 

“Astarion, come on! Get a bloody move on!” Shadowheart pulled him up and shoved him towards Karlach and he felt Freedom of Movement wash over him, “I’ve got Wyll!” 

Then, as if startled into action, Astarion rushed the ogre with Karlach as Shadowheart ran to Wyll’s side. The tiefling and the vampire were a deadly combination with Astarion moving deftly between the creature’s legs-- Karlach unleashed hell onto whatever part of the creature she and her axe could carve up. 

Astarion didn’t  remember who struck the killing blow, just that by the time he had finished-- Shadowheart had healed an unconscious Wyll as best she could. They cut off the heads of the ogres, placed them into “Proof of Completion”, looted them for their stuff, and loaded Wyll onto Karlach’s back. 

“He’s so cute when he’s sleeping,” Karlach gushed softly, “Gods, I hope he’s not uncomfortable.” 

“Believe me,” Shadowheart said tiredly from her left, “Wyll is living the dream right now.” 

At the duke’s estate Shadowheart closed the door to Wyll’s room behind her, when she was practically ambushed by the Duke himself, who wore a plush looking robe and a severe expression. 

“Wyll’s knee is severely dislocated and a layer of skin on his feet had burnt off--but nothing is broken,” Shadowheart explained gently, “All Wyll needs is about a month’s worth of rest and another month’s worth of rehabilitative exercise if he’s to go back to the field. I think Karlach called dibs on being his coach.”

“That boy,” Ulder shook his head, “He is too brave and too giving . His freedom from Mizora has cost him, he needs to accept that he cannot continue to adventure as aggressively as he has the past two years. He has done so much-- doesn’t he know that--” Ulder interrupted himself as Astarion stepped into his eye line. The duke had offered them all a place to rest for the evening, before they took off. Karlach was taking a turn in the bath. 

Astarion bowed his head at him politely. The duke returned the gesture before turning his attention back to the cleric, apologetically. “I digress. Thank you, all of you, for being there for my son now and all of the times when I could not be.”

If Shadowheart  felt as uncomfortable with Ulder’s sudden bout of vulnerability and gratitude as Astarion did, she sure didn’t look like it. The cleric maintained a calm and stoic expression as Ulder spoke and she thanked him for his hospitality. 

“I will be going now, sir,” she said, and turned her attention to Astarion, “He’s awake by the way, and said that he’d like to speak with you.”

Astarion shifted uncomfortably, “Do you know what about?”

“Relax,” she rolled her eyes, “It’s Wyll . You’ll be fine. I’ll see you all soon.” 

Astarion sighed. 

“ I can’t go to the small business commission meeting.” Wyll said, surrounded by pillows and a lush satin bedspread. His knee and bandaged feet were propped up by blocks topped with a ridiculously fluffy looking pillow each.

“That’s what you’re so concerned about?” Astarion said, incredulous. 

“Astarion, this is important,” Wyll flinched as he rose from his resting position to an upright one, “I lo-adore, Karlach, but you and I know that she cannot go.” 

Astarion snorted, that sentence was most certainly true. 

Once, Cayden Reyes, an older human member of the commission said that the, “‘G-word’ was good for business in his brief and tyrannical rule as Duke”. This prompted Karlach to break her chair, grab a piece of the chair’s leg, and to tell him to, “Shut his filthy mouth, before [she] shuts it for him” his chin was propped up by the severed chair leg. 

Wyll and Astarion had to clear the man’s estate of rats for months before the bastard decided the slight was forgiven, and argued that the blades of frontiers were allowed back into the fold. 

So, being the good friend that he clearly is, Astarion decided to go to the meeting in Wyll’s stead. 

“Fine,” Astarion sighed as he cocked a hip, “Where do I show up to go do this thing?” 

Turns out it was a more complicated matter than just “showing up” to an address. Dressed in moderate finery, he donned his daylight proof coat, and heeded the instructions a drugged and sleepy Wyll penned onto a piece of paper: 

My friend, 

Thank you for taking on the task of representing our band of heroes. I am certain you are up to the task. Please, read these instructions carefully, and be your usual charismatic self. 

• Descend into the basement of the Elfsong Tavern, hold your invitation up to any who ask and they’ll grant you access no questions asked (watch out for any rats).

• Walk straight ahead, mention your appointment to the attendant. Press the button in the room to the left, and then walk through the wine barrel door. 

• Enter the door in the middle. Ignore the effects in the room and walk to the end of the hall. 

• Open the door, present your invitation to the final attendant, and take a seat. The SBC leader will be the last to arrive 
  
  
• Please, Astarion, be nice-- especially to Lady Lumen Lunae. Not only is she an incredible woman (at this, Astarion rolled his eyes-- not only did she have such a stereotypical Elven name but she was getting the Wyll special), but her favor could mean we would have a far easier means of obtaining city grants. I have high hopes for our little group.

Your friend, 

Wyll 

So, Astarion showed up in his midweek best: a tight fitting dark blue and black ensemble, embroidered vines in a silver thread lined his cuffs, and his dark leather shoes with his favorite gift: the daywalker’s cloak.  Enchanted by Shadowheart and Gale, woven by a crotchety old woman, and purchased through the help of all of his friends-- the daywalker’s cloak is the best protection against the sun that Astarion has. 

He greets every attendant, and strides into the surprisingly spacious and grand room. A large round wooden table, surrounded with chairs, sits proudly in the middle of the room. Astarion could see a gaggle of people to the right side at a small table with refreshments and donuts. He resists the urge to do a double take. He can smell the faintest hint of honeysuckle and jasmine, and he saw the familiar pink boxes, they are most certainly Imira’s handiwork. 

She probably donated them to curry favor with this group , he reasoned smugly, as he slowly glanced around the room, If anyone could use the city’s charity it's her. 

Astarion spotted Ser Reyes and warmly shook his hand and wolfishly grinned at him. 

“My friend! I was just thinking about how I almost miss our little clean ups,” Astarion said in a teasing tone, “Do let me know if you have more intense work for our group.” 

“Certainly, Ser Astarion,” the merchant says with a bright smile that falters at his next sentence, “Ah, provided that our tiefling friend can be kept under control?” 

“For you, my friend, always.” 

Then, everyone started to take their seats as if prompted by an invisible bell. Astarion followed everyone’s lead, and took a seat-- eyes still roaming, searching the table for this “Lady Lumen-Lunae”  Wyll said so much about. There were no other elves seated at the table, and one extravagantly large seat was left empty at the “head” of the circle. The commission waited an entire minute in near silence. He was starting to grow impatient.

Then, a familiar voice spoke from out of nowhere. “Friends, thank you for your patience!” 

Astarion’s jaw involuntarily dropped.

He didn’t recognize her without the handkerchief or her smock on, at first, but her wavy hair was left loosely curling down to her shoulders. A small pin in the shape of a coin was pinned to the breast of her dark cardigan. Otherwise she looked as perfectly ordinary and unassuming as she did in the shop, but walked toward the group as if she owned the place. 

Perhaps she did. Astarion didn’t know. He was too busy thinking about how fucked he was and how this was all Wyll’s fault. Sure, Astarion should have told Wyll what he did, but this was still Wyll’s fault for not asking about what he did last night! 

Imira didn’t so much as bat an eye when they made eye-contact. She calmly took the vacant seat at the “head” of the table. 

“For those of us who are joining us for the first time,” Imira said as she met Astarion’s stare with a warm smile that didn’t reach her eyes, “I am Imira Lumen-Lunae-- the chair of the Baldur’s Gate Small Business Commission and the owner of Glaze of Glory. Welcome to our group!”

Chapter Text

Astarion felt his heart drop through his asshole when the other blonde elf smiled at him. 

He was fully expecting to be ejected from the meeting at worst, ignored at best-- but Imira Lumen-Lunae took great pains to include everyone in the conversation. Even the man who bitched her out in her own store. 

“Ser Astarion is here on behalf of the Blades of Frontiers, which is led by our own Blade of Avernus, Wyll Ravengard, the famed monster hunter.” Imira said smoothly from her seat as she gestured with an open hand towards the only vampire in the room, “Thank you all  for welcoming him among us, and for treating him as I would like to be treated in a new situation.” 

Astarion tried to not grit his teeth and snap a fang off in the process as Imira smiled warmly at him. 

“Now, Ms. Kaur,” Imira said as she turned her attention to the dark haired woman to her left, “If you could please present our old business?” 

Karlach stared at him as Wyll asked, “Did she say anything else to you?” 

Perhaps against his better judgment, Astarion had disclosed what happened in the meeting and what  he did the night before to Wyll and Karlach. 

“No,” Astarion continued to speak despite Wyll’s confused expression, “After that little quip she would smile at me occasionally, but she didn’t say anything else. The rest of the meeting was so boring , it practically justified what I did the night before.” With that he dropped his notes onto Wyll’s lap, who was still in bed-- he dutifully followed the cleric’s orders at Karlach’s and his father’s insistence. 

Wyll’s brow furrowed, but it was Karlach who spoke first.
“Do you think this is funny?” 

Astarion picked at something under his nails, “I know my tone is a little misleading, but honestly there’s nothing truly funny here. As I said before, the whole affair was boring .” 

“Astarion,” Wyll shook his head, “I’m so disappointed in you. She doesn’t have anything to do with your issues. You could have just talked to us if you were feeling left--” 

“Oh please ,” Astarion interrupted, before Wyll could continue to hit him where it hurts, “I could have done so much  worse, I’m sure she’s dealt with rowdier customers--”

“Oh? Really?” Karlach interrupted with fake surprise, “I didn’t know I’m standing in the presence of a fucking saint ! A random man who verbally harrasses an innocent woman at her job ! Well, I’m sure that fixes everything then and we have nothing to worry about!”

“She didn’t even look offended,” Astarion scoffed, “For all we know, we don’t have anything to worry about, and she’s quite content making her silly little donuts and running her extremely secretive business organization while we’re sitting here throwing tantrums !” 

“It’s her job to be calm and nice when somebody is being a bitch to her, numb nuts!” Karlach said, exasperated, “Our reputation with that group is already in the shitter because of what I’ve done,” Karlach jabbed a taloned thumb toward her chest, before she added with no small hint of disgust, “I can’t believe you.” 

“This isn’t even the worst thing I’ve ever done!” Astarion exclaimed, “I’ve sentenced hundreds to suffer under Cazador’s thumb and this is just one woman that I’ve harangued.” 

“That doesn’t make it better! ” Karlach insisted, “It doesn’t , Astarion, don’t you want to be a better person?” 

“Oh gods,” He began, with a roll of his eyes, “You, of all people honestly think--”
“Oh, gods ,” Karlach said, as she threw her hands up in the air and made her way towards the door, “Why am I even arguing with you right now? I can’t, I can’t -- I’ll be back or something.” 

Then the door slammed and it was just Wyll and Astarion in the dark room. It was nearly silent in there, save for the ticking of the gilded clock on the wall and Wyll’s quiet breathing-- Astarion briefly listened to the soft rhythm of his heart beat from where he was standing at the foot of the bed. His eyes followed the glow of the dancing lights and watched them light up Wyll’s face, revealing a stony faced expression. 

“I’m not going to chide you, Astarion.” 

Astarion raised an eyebrow. 

“You already said you were disappointed,” He pointed out with venom in his voice, “In what, though? Sad, that you didn’t properly domesticate me? Do you regret saving me, because I did one thing wrong?” 

Wyll sighed.

“I’m not your keeper, so I’m not going to waste my breath.” Wyll said simply, “I’ve just about said what I needed to say; as your friend, I’m disappointed. I know you can do better, and I wished you cared more about other people.” 

“But?” Astarion pressed.

“But, as your employer ,” Wyll began, “I’m livid . You don’t seem to understand that what you did could jeopardize our standing with this group. Did you know that their grants help us pay for everything?” 

Wyll doesn’t wait for Astarion to answer, “Equipment, wages, taxes-- man cannot survive on these meager contracts alone, especially now that some of the greatest threats to Baldur’s Gate have passed. A small group of adventurers cannot expect to make a profit during these times of peace.” 

“So what are you saying?” Astarion demanded, “What, if I don't say sorry then I single-handedly caused our group to die out because I bitched out this Imira?”
“I’m saying that if you don’t apologize, then yes, our group will ‘die out’,” Wyll said, matter of fact, “And apologizing is the least you could do. Being your own man means owning up to your own mistakes.” 

Astarion snorted as Wyll continued his lecture. Wyll is practically a boy compared to him! He can feel his annoyance radiate off of him like heat off a furnace. I want to go home, and not be their little pet project-- to be fixed and prodded, and “changed for the better”. After all, he thinks bitterly to himself, tapping his finger against his thigh, I did what they asked of me, it’s not my fault I fucked up without knowing the little sycophant was important, and I don’t need this shit rubbed into my face more than it has been already!

“Astarion,” Wyll interrupted his train of thought, “Imira is incredibly forgiving. It’ll probably work if you gave her an earnest apology. In fact, if you’d like to show Karlach and I that you’d like our professional relationship to continue, then you’re going to have to apologize to Imira and find a way to make amends.” 

“Agreed!” Karlach said from the other side of the door.

Astarion grit his teeth before he responded, in as smooth a voice as he can. “I see.” 

He turned to face the door.

“I meant what I said, Astarion,” Wyll said gently to the vampire’s back, “About freedom, and about Imira. The two of you could be friends . If you gave her a chance, I really think you’d like her.” 

With that, Astarion shut the door behind him and didn’t look back. 

-- 

“It seems ,” Astarion thought to himself one evening, “ That I may not have any friends left if I don’t apologize to the damn donut lady .”

Ever since he told Wyll and Karlach what happened, every person that he is on good terms with in his life has asked him to apologize to Imira, the elf he didn’t know anything about save for the fact that she was small, had a cliche pair of last names, and an equally stupid donut shop/small business organization. 

It only makes him want to apologize less. 

But they kept asking , and honestly? It made being in the house awkward.

Astarion spent his time alone in his room. For the better part of the year it had been decorated scantly, save for the mattress on the floor surrounded by bottles of wine. Thick, burgundy sunproof curtains obscured the stained, double casement windows. 

Sometimes at night, Astarion sat on the ledge of the window to listen to and watch the busy traffic of the streets below. 

He was doing just that with a bottle of whiskey, fixated on the carts and their owners, when Karlach’s words reached him. 

“Did you say sorry yet?” Karlach asked over a sending spell, instead of to his face-- which is ridiculous , they live in the same house! Her room was next to his !

“No.” Astarion responded intellectually, before taking a healthy wig from the bottle. Alone. Because he was being punished . 

“Then,” Began the response, “Wyll and I say, ‘No missions for you.’ Apologize first.” 

Astarion took a bigger drink in response as he sank further down his seat-- his leg propped up against the side of the window, the other dangling over the edge. The whiskey burned in his stomach like acid and his eyes stung as the hustle and bustle continued below, oblivious to his pain. 

Even his other roommate took offense to the incident. 

Gale had been holed up in his study for about three weeks straight. Astarion didn’t take any offense to that, he figured it was normal for Gale of Waterdeep-- the ex academic. Astarion only heard the door to Gale’s study open and close for bathroom breaks, grocery runs with Karlach, Gale’s silly mental health walks, and meals. He assumed the wizard bore him no ill will, until the day he strode into his busily decorated office and received a strange reception. 

Astarion posed casually against the doorframe, picking at a nonexistent flaw in his manicure before de deliberately interrupted the silence.

“Do you ever plan on leaving this office?” 

Gale’s chair spun around and he faced Astarion, his expression quickly schooled into a calm one. Gale straightened the emerald green sweater he wore, and crossed his arms.
“Astarion,” Gale greeted him in a smooth voice, “What can I do for you?” 

The vampire grinned in response before he approached his friend, using the head of the chair as an armstool before he spoke. “What do you say we get out of here? Go for a night on the town, take what pleasures we can, and end up at the midnight spa the halflings opened before the sun rises?” 

The wizard gave him a sad smile and tilted his head slightly.
“I’m afraid that I can’t, my friend,” Gale began, “I’ve been preparing my resume, cover letters, and  arcane demonstrations for the Blackstaff, the Arcane Brotherhood, and Candlekeep job interviews. I have them back to back this week. I dare not imbibe!” 

“I see. When you are finished then.”
“Yes, once I have finished it will be a cause for celebration… or perhaps devastation. Time will tell.” The wizard said with an apprehensive smile.
“I will try to make myself available, then.” Astarion peels himself off of Gale’s chair and moves towards the exit, acting as though the conversation had finished.
“Ah, Astarion,” Gale called out to him, and Astarion tried to not turn around too eagerly, “I don’t know how best to broach this subject, but-- have you apologized to Ms. Imira, the shop keeper of Glaze of Glory?” 

Astarion’s easy smile dropped. There go his hopes and dreams of an Imira-free conversation. It had been exactly four minutes before her name came up in conversation. Must be a new record.  Karlach or Wyll must have told Gale. Astarion does not need to wonder if their retelling came with their commentary, and can only assume Shadowheart and Lae’Zel were looped in.

“No,” Astarion sighed, “I have not.”
“Ah, well,” Gale said awkwardly, before he rolled his shoulders back and his expression steeled, “I see. Well, I think you should. In fact, Astarion, if you don’t pursue forgiveness I think you should feel ashamed of yourself--”
That was the start of yet another lecture, but not the first of Gale’s career in recent years. Astarion left that office with a bruised ego, a worn ear, and a fierce impatience. 

Wizards. They think they know everything.

Imira was brought up again  over drinks with Astarion’s favorite long distance relationship, Shadowheart ruined what would have otherwise been a lovely evening of drinking, talking shit, and ignoring his most pressing issue.
“Did you apologize to Imira yet?” Shadowheart asked tiredly, her head laid on Lae’Zel’s lap, “It’s been six fucking days since Wyll told you to do it.”
Astarion scowled at his fellow platinum blonde and slunk further into the couch, who stared at him, “Et tu, Shadowheart?”
Lae’Zel’s hazel eyes narrowed at the same time as Shadowheart, and he almost couldn’t believe it; the lesbians were scrutinizing him. He scoffed in response, “You know the answer already.”
“In lieu of battle,” Lae’Zel declared, drunkenly, wielding her empty bottle of whiskey like a sword, “I suggest jail. Jail for Astarion, jail for a thousand years!”
Shadowheart nodded enthusiastically, and she raised her hand to clumsily caress her lover’s spotted face. 

“You’re so right, my love,” She cooed, “You’re so beautiful and you’re so right.” 

“Why can you not simply ask for her pardon, Astarion?” Lae’Zel slurred, “I am a master of your culture now. Heed my words carefully, as it is clear you do not know how to perform the rite of apology!”
Astarion started to speak when Shadowheart shushed him.
“Firstly, you must find your target,” Lae’Zel instructed, “Then you must say the customary words-- ‘I am sorry [name of victim]’. Then, Istik, you must name the specific action of offense, and have a discussion with your target to determine a means of reparations.”
“I am not sleeping with the donut lady to get her to forgive me.” Astarion said dryly, and Lae’Zel let out her signature noise of disapproval. 

“Nobody suggested that, you donkey! We all know what you’ve been through. '' Shadowheart snapped. Despite her tone, that melted Astarion’s heart, just a little bit.

 Shadowheart rose languidly from her lover’s lap, her blonde braid slightly mussed, to slur, “Imira is too good for you, anyway. She probably wouldn’t want to sleep with you.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, darling.” Astarion grinned as he propped himself up and leaned towards Shadowheart, with a wicked flash in his eye. “I’ve been able to corrupt even the most innocent of souls.” 

Shadowheart let out a small humph as she downed a glug from Lae’Zel’s bottle. She leaned in and met Astarion’s gaze with a challenge of her own,  “You can’t even apologize.” 

It was late afternoon, when he finally decided to apologize to the damn donut lady. 

He dressed in his most modest midweek best. A dark blue vest, with an ivory shirt and puffed sleeves, high waisted trousers, and a sour expression as he made his way down to Imira’s shop for what he hoped (and knew it wouldn’t be) the final time.  

It was not because of Shadowheart that he chose to stop by Glaze of Glory night after Lae’Zel’s demonstration . Astarion just figured that enough time had passed and Imira wouldn’t be as angry (if she ever was) anymore. 

The timing was intentional, and he had always meant to apologize. 

Or something to that effect.

As he waited for the sun to set, he realized that these apologies usually come with some sort of exchange. Take the noble Reyes. Or Wyll and Karlach. Everyone wanted  something from him the minute he pissed them off-- be it sexual or difficult favors. 

He watched as the busy streets cleared to make room for the night crowd-- small lantern lit carts parked themselves on corners, people walked rapidly to their destinations, and the moon rose slowly from opposite where the sun had risen. 

This is one of the faces of Baldur’s Gate with which he is the most familiar. A night alive with fresh meat and vigor, while something heavy sat in his chest like a boulder in a stream. Astarion pushes aside thoughts of what all of his friends said, of the word shame rattling inside of him, of the constant hunger-- which stung like an itch that begged to be scratched. 

To his surprise, the shop was brightly lit-- so much so that he could see it from afar. When Astarion got closer he saw an illuminated sign that read, “Closed :) Store hours …” and then it listed a time in the early afternoon to the late evening time. 

Astarion assumed the donut lady was likely prepping her next batch for tomorrow. The smell of honeysuckle and jasmine grew stronger and Astarion silently pleaded with any cosmic being that was listening for her to be alone, reluctant to apologize to her in front of an audience. 

“If she’s alone, I won’t ask for anything again.” Astarion silently entreated the horrors that be, before he rapped on the window repeatedly, “ I will be content, no really , with whatever lot I am dealt if she is alone and the apology is accepted .” 

The store was empty, the counters were clean and barren of goods or other materials. The doorway that led to the back of the shop was open and illuminated. He knocked on the door a third time, and a head popped out of the door the furthest away from the window.

Imira’s mouth formed a small oh, and the rest of her materialized to rush and open the door for him. She wore her usual smock and pants,  but instead of normal shoes she wore a fuzzy set of cushy owlbear shaped slippers. 

“Astarion,” Imira greeted him with a nervous smile as she opened the door, “What a surprise! Come in, quickly, I don’t want anyone to think I’m open. We can hang out in the kitchen, it is just through the back door.” 

Astarion was shocked. She spoke as if they were friends, and it was normal for him to just show up and hang out . 

“Certainly,” Astarion said calmly as he entered the shop, before he awkwardly added, “Thank you.” 

He walked through the door, he glanced to his right and saw a dark corridor that led to another two doors. The door closest to him was labeled “bathroom” and the furthest was deemed “PRIVATE” in gold lettering. It had to be an office, Astarion reasoned.
“Kitchen’s to the left.” Imira said behind him, and he turned to enter where the donuts likely happened. 

The kitchen was smaller than he thought it’d be. 

Steel countertops sat atop transparent cabinets that lined the walls, save for the spaces that were occupied by some sort of strange long  steel cart shaped contraption with eight frying baskets, a tub for washing, and fans that hung overhead. The oil had just changed, judging by the faint smell. A wide set fridge sat in the corner, and a small square island with a stool was propped in the middle of the room. Imira went to take a seat on the stool, crossed one leg over the other, and opened her arms.

“Welcome to where the literal and metaphorical magic happens!” Imira smiled, “Lucky for you, I literally just finished cleaning. Prestidigitation and mage hand works wonders.” 

“You’re a wizard?” Astarion leaned against the counter across from her.

“Sorcerer,” She corrected, “Though nowhere near as strong a magic user as Gale of Waterdeep, if you know him. I know my way around a donut better than I do the weave.” 

“I do know Gale of Waterdeep, actually,” Astarion admitted, with a stunted chuckle,  “He’s-- ah, he’s my roommate.” 

“Oh! So you must also know Karlach, Shadowheart, and Lae’Zel.” She said, as she leaned forward, crossed arms over crossed legs, “They come in sometimes and chat over the special. Must be a busy house if they’re all in there.” 

Astarion’s lizard brain knows that she doesn’t mean that in a biting or cruel way, as if to say, they enjoy themselves without you -- but the cruel, snide part of his mind whispers it regardless and it stings. 

“Yes.” He found himself saying, distantly, “But we all don’t live together. I don't know what I’d do with all of us living in the same space again.” 

A sudden silence sits between them. Six heartbeats. 

“Gods,” Astarion thought to himself, “I’m so fucked.”

Imira coughed and it broke him out of his small daze.
“Well,” Astarion started to say with a clap of his hands, “I didn’t come all this way just to talk about my roommates and closest friends-- I actually wanted to speak with you.” 

Imira raised an eyebrow. 

“Okay, I’m all ears.” 

“I wanted to,” Astarion begins, “Erm, I’m not quite sure what the best way to do this is.” 

In the past when he’d need to “apologize” to Cazador for one of his perceived misgivings, he’d basically bleed himself out to win back his master’s favor. Physically  bleed-- and he’d leave himself vulnerable to whatever emotional abuse the ancient vampire or Godey cooked up for him. Self deprecation was encouraged, expected, even. 

So, how was he supposed to apologize to this woman in a normal way that didn’t involve blood letting? Perhaps instead of talking shit and ignoring Lae’Zel he should have actually  paid attention to her little lecture. 

Instead of continuing the conversation, Astarion looked blankly at Imira as he struggled to recall his night with Lae’Zel and Shadowheart in detail.

What did she say the “rite of apology” began with? A greeting? An acknowledgement of, ugh, gods he’s so fucked !

“Is this about last week?” Imira interrupted, yet again, but this time Astarion was grateful for it, “When you, uh, visited my shop?” 

“Yes!” Astarion said with a start, “ Yes . I’m here to apologize , my dear.” 

“Oh.” Imira fidgeted in her chair, and looked literally anywhere but his eyes, “I see.”

“Yes.” Astarion said again, as his soul left his body, “I am…” 

She met his gaze and looked at him, though not with the expectant look he thought she had. She looked as though she thought she was inconveniencing him .

“Good .” Astarion thought vindictively. This conversation should deal psychic damage to the both of them.

“Sorry.” He said aloud. Instead of feeling some sort of metaphorical weight falling off of his shoulders, he felt the burden of continuing the conversation staking him through his heart, “I simply should not have come here, if I couldn’t eat anything-- much less show up to berate you.” 

Imira stared at him, dark brows furrowed as her gaze intensified, and Astarion took that as a sign to continue. 

“I reflected over the past week, and came to the conclusion that my actions the night we met were a bit extreme, and I’d like to… make amends, darling.” Astarion said, having found his stride at fucking last! “I’d hate for what I’ve done to affect not only you, longterm, but also my friends as they seem to enjoy your company. Perhaps if you have some rats or goblins that need killing or--”
“Ok, it’s not like I’m not okay with you apologizing, but I’m going to stop you right there.” Imira said, and she held a hand up and uncrossed her legs. She rose from her seat on both owlbear slippers.  “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” 

“Oh.” He replied, intelligently, “ Okay.” 

Imira did an about face and marched to the fridge, and pulled out a small box. Astarion didn’t know what to think, he only hoped it wasn't a shity pastry he wouldn’t be able to stomach. He resisted the urge to sigh in frustration. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Imira began when she returned to her seat, “It’s probably one of my shitty donuts that you can’t eat.” 

Well.

“And you’re right ,” She said giddily, “It is, but I promise that it’s different this time because it’s one that you can eat! It has a bloody filling!” 

Astarion’s jaw dropped.
“By that I mean, the donut is filled with blood,” Imira fumbled, “It’s been enchanted to be as good as when I had just made it, so I’m pretty sure it's edible, for a vampire that is. And, uh, the blood is mine -- so I can confidently say I put my blood and tears into this.” 

“ She’s not joking .” Astarion thought, horrified, "She's absolutely not joking, she made me a bloody donut .” 

“Imira,” Astarion began carefully, and he noticed how her smile faltered a bit, “Why would you do this for me?” 

“Well,” Imira fidgeted with the box in her hands, “In some ways, you were right. Why would you come here and try the dumb donuts that all of your friends recommended to you, if you can’t even eat them? You’re a vampire. I’m not sure your digestive system works like that.” 

Astarion feels something in him unclench. She looked him in the eyes just as that feeling hit, and now he’s pretty sure his brain stopped working at this point. 

“So,” Imira said, “I made you something that might work. As a gesture of good faith. You don’t have to feel weird coming to the meetings, um, it’s water under the bridge. I’m used to Karens anyway.” 

Now it’s Astarion’s turn to raise a brow in question. 

“Middle aged women who blow up on people who have to work in customer service,” Imira explained sheepishly, before she added playfully, “You have to admit your behavior fits the bill.” 

Astarion grinned. “Oh, I’m not contesting that darling. I’ve always had a certain dramatic flair to me. I’m so glad it’s not deterred you, yet.” 

Gods, I’m still so fucked-- she wants me to drink her blood! 

“However, and it’s not that I’m not flattered,” Astarion began aloud, “But given your profession, I fear that your blood might be a little too sweet for me.”
“ I haven’t broken this rule yet, ” Astarion’s thoughts raced wildly, “ I have only fed on mindless villains or monsters of the week. Not a real- not anything like her. ”
He hadn’t yet drunk the blood of a living creature with its consent. He had tried with his friends in the past, in their sleep, but when Gale discovered that Astarion was about to bite him while Gale’s drool had openly spilled onto his pillow-- the awkwardness and fear made it so that none had offered him a sanguine drink.  

If he had a heart that beat, it would be racing. 

“ She doesn’t know ,” His thoughts raced wildly, “ She doesn’t know, oh,  she doesn’t know what she is offering me. What if I give up on the damn thing and go straight to the source? She could die and then where would I be? ”
While he was having a literal fucking panic attack, Imira looked at him like he was stupid.
“What am I going to do with a fucking blood donut ?” She asked, incredulous, “Dude, just, try it. If you are truly sorry for being a Karen, try my food just once .” 

Astarion glanced between her and the donut, and took it from her hand. Imira smiled widely and did a delighted wiggle, the owlbear slippers danced briefly. 

He could smell the blood as he brought it up to his face, as though he was trying to identify the bouquet-- she smelled like a full bodied red with stone fruit, lavender, iron, and honey notes. Hunger pulled on his stomach, like hands around one’s throat— 

Fuck it , he thought, as he took a bite. 

Astarion let out a brief moan as the blood flooded his mouth. It was thick and jammy, but the flavor was exquisite . His skin pricked as though chilled, and his body began to flush and a part of him stiffened slightly, as he squeezed the blood out of the pastry, greedily swallowing every last drop. 

For me, He thought dizzily with a crazed smile, She made this just for me . 

Finally, he ate the blood soaked dough, and licked his fingers after he swallowed-- his head rushed with joy and excitement. 

“Thank you,” Astarion breathed, as he relished the feeling of a warm body for once, “That was…wow.” 

“You’re welcome!” Imira said, quickly-- her own tanned face and ears had turned a delightful shade of pink.

Adorable. 

“Between this, uh,  private catering and the forgiveness of my behavior,” Astarion said, still dizzy and breathless, “I’m not sure how to repay you.” 

“It truly is no trouble,” Imira assured him, and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling at her. She cocked her head to the side and added, “Actually, I’ve heard bloodletting is healthy for the heart.” 

“Well, I hope you continue to prioritize your good health,” He laughed, before he leaned on his back leg, “I’d follow you into the hells, for another treat like that.” 

It was at that moment, what Lae’Zel had told him came flooding back and he realized that drunk Lae’Zel spoke true.

Astarion would need to offer the woman some form of reparation-- a substantial one too, since she nourished him. The problem is: he has nothing but himself to give her. 

He doesn’t want to offer himself up to her, just to fix things with Wyll and Karlach— but he’s so certain it would work. He’s worked through the social calculus of this situation so many times on the walk over to the shop, and Imira’s gracious attitude and gift only confirmed his suspicions that his abilities would ease the tensions.
“Perhaps,” He started, then he stood closer to Imira. She was shorter than he expected, from one who carried herself so confidently. The top of her curly white head just barely met his chin.  Astarion looked directly into her eyes, she stared at him back, unflinchingly, as he continued.

 “I could help you ease the tension I see pent up in your pretty little shoulders,” He murmured with a small fanged smile, “To pay you back.”
As her eyes bore into his, Astarion noticed fleeting flecks of honey gold in her eyes. Imira lifted herself on her tiptoes, and he felt the warmth of her cheek against his. A chill ran down his spine.
“Find another way to make it up to me.” Imira whispered softly, her lips barely brushed his ears. Her breath was warm and he could smell the blood he had just tasted-- he tried not to think too much of how good she had tasted on his tongue. His first--
She interrupted his reverie when she brought herself back down to her original position.

 “Until then,” Imira said, with a small smile over her shoulder as he followed her to the front door, “You’re welcome to stop by whenever you’d like for a bite.” 

Gods, Astarion is so fucked . 

He practically bolted like lightning through the streets, stronger and faster than he normally was-- the power of Imira’s blood practically shot him through the door. When he finally made it into his room, rounded up the littered bottles and threw them into Gale’s carefully labeled bin, and  changed into his evening wear (his puffed shirt, boxers, and a ruffled robe), he still felt that same feeling-- like adrenaline was running through his veins. Joy rippled through him. 

He’ll never forget the taste .  Stone fruit, iron, lavender… The things he would do for another taste! 

He hoped Imira hadn’t seen him get slightly erect. 

As Astarion sank into his bed, he didn’t need a fire to warm his room tonight. His body now radiated enough heat to warm his sheets unaided by man or fire. Astarion intertwined his fingers behind his bed, and smiled. 

Imira Lumen Lunae had forgiven him, and better yet, she gave him something infinitely more precious: his first taste of blood. 

Astarion wants that again. 

She seems… sweet and nice, he reasons, and it doesn’t seem that she’s completely immune to his charms. All he would need is a reason to be there, a reason to see her again-- then he could make short work of tasting her once more. 

Women are easy, after all. When he successfully brings her to climax, she’d no doubt fall head over heels for him. Then, after Astarion successfully seduced her, he could bring her around town. It would make his friends happy to see her getting along with him. 

She could even assist, legally or otherwise, with acquiring those pesky grants for The Blades. 

Then, when she is completely devoted to him, he could dump her. Maybe. Maybe not. 

The more Astarion thought about it, the better the idea sounded. He fell asleep with a sigh, reliving that moment until hours later a knock roused him from his slumber. 

Astarion changed into daywear as soon as Karlach asked if he could come downstairs to speak with everyone. 

Only he didn’t realize that she meant everyone . Shadowheart, Lae’Zel, Wyll, and Gale were all in attendance-- seated in a circle in Gale’s living room. 

“Oh,” Astarion said softly with an awkward wave, “Hello.” 

Shadowheart snorted. 

“You’re not in trouble, Astarion.” She said dryly, “Come, take a seat. Apparently, there’s big news.” 

“Well,” Astarion smiled as he settled on the free spot next to Karlach, “That’s all well and good, actually! I have news of my own. I apologized to our dear, sweet Imira Lumen-Lunae. You’re all welcome.” 

Karlach and Wyll looked at each other in surprise, then beamed at him as Gale raised a brow, “And did she accept this apology?”
“She did,” he confirmed, practically glowing, “And, get this my friends, she made yours truly a donut-- one that I could stomach given my, erm, dietary restrictions.” 

All of the faces in the room looked at him with surprise. 

He grinned, “It was delicious. I gave it full marks, and she seemed to enjoy my company as well. She invited me back for another bite.” 

Astarion caught the weary look Shadowheart cast toward Lae’Zel, who stared blankly back at her lover. 

“What?”
“Let me get some answers and I’ll catch you up,” Shadowheart looked back at Astarion and sighed, “You didn’t --”

“Oh, I haven’t made good on that little bet my dear,” He interrupted and assured her with a glint in his eye, “But I plan on making good on that front very soon.”

Very, very soon . 

“Well,” Wyll began as he cleared his throat, “I am happy we started with such good news, because I’m afraid I only have bad news to deliver, today.” 

Shit. Astarion thinks.

“Agreed.” Karlach said aloud. 

“I’m so sorry to you all, official and unofficial members of the Blades,” Wyll continues, “Even though I am an excellent ranger, I don’t think that I can continue to run the organization as it stands. I must rethink my course of action, and see how best I can hold myself and my company to Balduran’s principles.” 

“Fuck.” Astarion and Karlach cursed in sync. 

“Is it the ankle?” Shadowheart asked, her voice coated with a slight worry.
Wyll shook his head, the gold on his horns glinted in the fire light, “No, my friend, I’ve made a full recovery. What ails me is truly mental, and emotional.” 

He turned to face Astarion and Karlach, “I’m sorry to you two especially . Because of me, you have to find another means to support yourselves! I will help you find other means--” 

“Oh, Wyll,” Karlach said, softly as she placed a warm hand on his shoulder, “You don’t need to worry about us. ‘Star and I will always land on our feet.”
“This could be rather good for us, actually,” Astarion said, as he leaned in and grinned at Karlach, showing fang, “Open new doors, lead us into new and possibly more lucrative directions. We did a rather good job stealing from the rich and giving to the us in Neverwinter.” 

“Rest in peace, Bing Bong.” Shadowheart murmured solemnly and then she clapped her hands together in a momentary prayer, as Lae’Zel scoffed. 

“I don’t regret ending the imp’s life.” The gith’yanki scowled, and then drew her gaze to the carpet. 

Astarion’s take on a mischievous and money oriented grin to Karlach transformed into one of pure confusion. As if to say, “ Babe, how did we even get to this point in the conversation? ” 

Karlach looked back at him and mouthed, “ I don’t know, bro !” Before she looked down at her boots, and then Wyll, Gale, and Astarion had to do the same. Silence fell over the room. 

Then, after a heart beat, Gale broke the silence.

 “Well! I am going to change the subject.” The wizard announced, with a clap of his own hand, “Ladies, gentlemen, and undead, guess who is now a professor of illusions and weave manipulations at Blackstaff academy?” 

Astarion wasn’t shocked that Gale got a job. 

Gale, of Waterdeep-- despite his many flaws (such as, including but not limited to; refusing to cut any of them slack for not doing the dishes despite the fact the entire party has known he’s had an invisible butler doing his for years) is a great man. He has become a great man, over the course of their journey together so far. Gale’s upward growth did not stop simply because they stopped having problems in proximity to one another-- he continued to grow because he wanted to be a better man more than he wanted to be a legendary wizard . 

Now, it just so happens that through helping people like Astarion and literally everyone in their friend group-- Gale has managed to become both . 

“When do you leave?” Karlach asked sadly. 

“I leave for Waterdeep immediately,” Gale responded quietly, “But worry not! You are all welcome to stay here, free of charge, provided you abide by the rules and pay the utilities. However, this does mean that your cost of living has risen, and for that I apologize. I will also install a portal to my tower here as soon as I can-- for now I will simply teleport to a spot here in the gate. Most likely Ramazith's.” 

Then Astarion felt like he wasn’t even in the room completely. He could feel his feet shuffling underneath him, but it didn’t feel like he was in the conversation-- just above it somehow. 

So many things are changing so quickly again, he had felt so happy for the first time in two hundred years and now he just felt so tired . Suddenly aware of an ache in his back and feet. His back felt tight and his jaw clenched. 

“Good Gods,” Astarion thought to himself once again, “I am so fucked. ”

Chapter Text

Astarion was fucked , but he had no choice but to get over it. 

Day one of his “fun-employment” (Karlach’s term for it, not his) was spent in understandable lethargy, as Astarion chose to lounge miserably in his room, alone with a bottle of what he calls “sanguine sangria” (a red blend mixed with something’s stale blood). 

Day two was filled with the busy schedule of listening to the sounds of Gale preparing to abandon ship. He packed up his scrolls, set his poorly hidden butler to automatic, and instructed Karlach on how to use the scrolls and materials he left in the alcove in the living room would need to cast Sending-- should they need him for a game night, or an emergency. 

“I’d prefer it be the former, rather than the latter.” Astarion heard Gale’s chuckle through the door. “Thank you for lifting my heavier things, Karlach-- this way I didn’t need to waste a spell.”
“Aw, it’s no problem pal!” Astarion heard a heavy smack and the sound of Gale wheezing. “Anything for a friend. You’re coming back soon right?”
“Next week,” The wizard struggled to catch his breath, “For game night.” 

“Sick. I’ll see you then, man.” 

“Indeed, you shall.” 

He heard the sounds of Karlach making her way downstairs, then the whoosh of a spell being cast. Then nothing. 

Gale hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye. Or even knock on his door-- 

Astarion rapidly came to his feet when he heard it. 

Three rhythmic knocks in rapid succession. 

“Astarion!” The wizard called out from the other side of Astarion’s door, “I’ll be taking my leave now, but I will be seeing you next Friday for game night. Who else will play mage hand darts with me?”

Astarion answered by opening the door, aiming for casually tired, and not at all excited to be acknowledged-- but in reality, he landed somewhere closer to casually depressed and in desperate need of attention. The vampire’s pale frame slouched against the doorframe in his silken robe and trousers. He wasn’t sure of the state of his hair, but was glad he masked the stench of his undead skin with his cologne. 

“I suppose I can make myself available,” Astarion sighed, “It’s not as if I have anything better to do, unemployment notwithstanding.” 

Gale’s surprised expression quickly turned into a concerned one. He gestured with his staff sternly. 

“Now, Astarion,” The wizard began, “I know we’ve allowed you a moment to mourn stability as it were-- but don’t think you can just mope your way out of your predicament.”
“Not with that attitude.” Astarion ignored the other man’s glare.
“Be glib all you’d like, my friend, but what is your plan? You have been working on one, right?” 

“I really thought I’d mope my way out of my problems,” Astarion said with mock seriousness, “Because I have totally done that in the past, and am incapable of improvising.” 

Gale didn’t miss a beat, “ Improvisation is not a plan, sir. You can’t just wing employment.”

“I’ve applied to jobs before.” Astarion said defensively. 

“Yes, a few hundred years ago.” Gale pointed out, if a bit snidely.

“One hundred.” The vampire spawn countered.

The “forced at fang point into eternal servitude” didn’t count as a job, obviously . 

Gale’s hand met his forehead, “Please, tell me you’re not going to apply to be magistrate again. I don’t need to explain to you why that may not work for you or society.” 

“I don’t know if I should be offended,” Astarion said, “But I wasn’t planning on being a magistrate again, obviously.” 

Astarion didn’t remember how he fared as a city magistrate, but based on how taking bribes feels like a second nature he must resist in front of better company-- he can’t say that he was the best lawyer, much less a law-abiding citizen. 

He could pull off the robes, at least. 

“ Fashion shouldn’t be why you become a magistrate again,” Gale said to him, his tone rising mildly, “If you need help finding a job, perhaps you should look around the area. You’ve made many friends in the past two years, Astarion. You have more resources than you think.” 

With that said, the stern-faced wizard reached out a hand and smiled. Astarion took it, awkwardly. The wizard's hands were more calloused than he was expecting. 

“I’ll be seeing you.” Gale said as he turned towards the portal roared to life, Astarion stood in the hallway by himself, hand still outstretched.

Time passed again, without Astarion’s consent. 

Gale had left and the vampire chose to return to self isolation when it was suddenly one  in the morning and the moon was high in the sky. The pale elf looked through his window at the busy street, hunger starting to creep up again. 

Obviously that was the perfect time to take a stroll to his favorite bakery. 

Granted, it is the only bakery where he could actually get anything to eat from.

Why not? Imira said he was welcome any time. He imagined the fierce stare she gave him the first night, and the smile she had shyly given him the last time they met. 

For whatever reason, that is what woke him out of his depressed stupor. He changed out of his loungewear and into something more befitting polite company. Astarion wrapped the umbral cloak over him, just in case he didn’t make it in time to avoid the sunrise, and quickly dashed off into the night. 

It would be a quick visit. 

It may be his last, after all-- it’s not like going to the donut shop would fix his problems.

Of course, he was wrong .

Astarion arrived at Glaze of Glory, his hair freshly coiffed and the moon rising proudly behind him as he raised a bottle of wine in the jasmine scented air. 

“Hello, dear!” The vampire grinned as the door closed behind him, “I thought you’d like some company.” 

“Sure…” Imira said slowly, broom in hand, “...But I have a lot of work to finish. Come back in an hour? I’ve got to balance my register and finish tidying. Return in an hour?”
Normally, Astarion would have been happy to fuck off for an hour and gather some “loose” change from an unsuspecting innocent. Then at least he’d be a bit closer to being able to pay rent and maintain his lifestyle. In fact, that’s what he had in mind, but-- 

He took the broom from her hands.

 “Do your insipid balancing,” Astarion’s voice said automatically, then impatiently added,  “ I’ll sweep your floors. What else do you need done, while I’m at it?” 

The shorter elf looked at him as if he had begun speaking in Orcish. He looked at her expectantly as her brain recovered. 

“... After you throw away the floor dust, the floor needs to be mopped, and the waste bins emptied into the dumpster out back.” Imira said quickly as she made her way to the register, “ This should take me a half hour to forty five minutes. Then we can hang out, I promise.”
“And if I run out of things to do?” The alien in Astarion’s body asked. 

Imira gave him a smile, and damn it all, it was nice to be fucking smiled at after being in imposed exile for three days straight. “My office is literally three feet away, I’ll have the door open too.” 

Then, despite the fact that Astarion hated doing chores in his own home-- he did everything Imira asked of him. He disposed of the dust and crumbs Imira’s floor accumulated, he took the bucket she had left in the furthest corner of the room, filled it with water from the sprout outside, dunked solution in it, heated it with a mild firebolt, and set to work.

He scrubbed the kitchen for good measure. The bins in her establishment were emptied and their bags replaced. With his vampire speed he had it all  completed in about 15 minutes. He closed the curtains in the shop. He locked the door, and made sure the back was locked for good measure. 

Then Astarion draped his lanky body against Imira’s door frame, “Are you done yet?” 

The proprietor was lost in the sauce, replenishing the change in her register and updating her notes in the red book she had simultaneously. “I need a bit more time.” 

“You don’t have anything else for me to do?”

She looked up for a moment, and thought for another. “Bathrooms, kitchen, prep, and restock are all done. You seriously just have to wait for make notes so that my weekly reports don’t make my head split, lock away today's profits, and set up the register” 

“Which would take…?” He asked impatiently.

“Fifteen minutes.”

Then he waited. He listened to the soft sounds of her writing, and then watched as she counted her earnings. The immortal man, for whom time is largely irrelevant, but he can’t help but try to occupy his limitless amount of time regardless. 

The office is as sparse as the storefront itself. Imira seems to have the office basics and nothing but-- a desk, some heavy wooden bookshelves, a safe, and her giant leather bound chair. Her committee’s sigilry was painted onto the front of the desk, and there’s a painting of a seaside scape behind her. Waves crashing into a cliff, as a willow tree painted on the cliff’s edge blew  in the wind. 

Imira hastily finishes writing with a flourish, shoves the cash into the safe, and puts her register back together. 

“Stay put.” The younger woman said to him seriously, her white brows furrowed. He responded with a shrug. Upon her, she holds a pair of wine glasses in her hands with a grin.
“Shall we?”

Sure, it was Astarion’s idea to storm in and demand Imira’s attention, but he couldn’t help feel so fucking smug as he floated  (full of blood, wine, and socially tapped out) back to his home before dawn stretched her arms towards the sky-- he was sure he made the right call. 

When was the last time I hung out with a friend without feeling a sense of dread or anxiety about how they feel about me? He asked himself as he brushed his teeth and spat in the sink. 

Then again as he sprayed leave-in conditioner into his silvery hair before bed, When did hanging out with the tiny, bland elven woman who runs an attention stealing donut shop  become more interesting? 

The answer came just as he was about to fall asleep: 

Somehow, Astarion believed she was who she seemed, and somehow, even more baffling, on some level he trusted that image of her.

Then sleep takes him before the implications that thought brought could steal his sleep. 

Astarion began to visit Imira and her Glaze of Glory each night, like clockwork, like it was his job to be there to provide Imira with his presence. Not long after Imia closed Glaze of Glory for the night to begin her prep and get some semblance of rest, Astarion would arrive with a bottle and some sort of nonsense to say to the young woman. 

It would be normal to expect that it was awkward at first, but for whatever reason, Astarion’s thoughts easily poured out of him as he lounged against the strange metal counters in Imira’s kitchen. He told her everything that happened, his sudden unemployment, Gale’s departure, Lae’Zel and Shadowheart rambling about something named Bing Bong-- whatever he could to keep the silence at bay and the air filled with her low chuckles and clever quips as she cleaned. 

Then they’d drink wine after she’d finished her clean up, and she’d yawn, offer him a snack, and after he had his fill of her blood he’d bid her goodnight. 

It was pleasant. Astarion was surprised he wasn’t sick of her yet. The vampire found himself routinely visiting a woman he terrorized literally a week ago, not to torture her, but to listen to her chuckle at his bitching and drink her blood.

 He could scarcely believe he had a friend like this who was so generous with sharing her life force so routinely-- even if it was for “health reasons” as she’d said. Everyone else in his friend group would rather try to kill him than let him have a nibble. 

It’s perfect, right? 

The problem was each day he was unemployed filled him with a small sense of dread-- as if every moment he dallied, a stream of coins slipped through his fingers. 

Then one day, the solution hit him. 

“Imira,” Astarion said fifteen minutes after she had let him through the door, “Hire me.” 

Imira didn’t look up from generously filling the donuts halfway with a peach and basil jam filling as she confidently said, “No.” 

He scoffed, and asked petulantly, “Why not ?” 

“You don’t seem the type.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Why can’t you just take ‘no’ for an answer, Astarion?” Imira sighed, as she swapped the bag of jam filling for her pipeable whipped crème. 

“Why can’t you just tell me why you said ‘no’?” Astarion asked from his stool by the island.  He pantomimed a thoughtful expression before it transformed into a  grin, “Is it because I’m your type?”

“No.” She responded, pausing her piping briefly, before she announced, “You’re going to get offended by my reasoning.” 

Her hands confidently gripped the bag, and with a well timed squeeze and pull she created the perfectly round mound of creme on top of the jelly. 

“I won’t be,” Astarion’s velvety voice said, suddenly at her right shoulder. He gently tilted her chin towards him using his thumb and forefinger before he added with a fanged smile, “I’d cross my heart if I could.” 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t hoping the proximity would bother her. 

Imira looked back at him with an expression he couldn’t quite understand. 

“Well, there are some people who only ever expect to be served and never be the server,” She began to say in an even tone and a small smile, “Seeing as how you’re pretty and unpleasant, you pretty much fit the bill.” 

Astarion let out a bark of a laugh,  as if it escaped from his mouth by accident, “I resent that accusation! I’m not unpleasant, I am a credit to my community and a joy to be around.” 

“Gods, with self esteem like that, why do you even care what I think?” She laughed, the sound rich and throaty.

He met her smile with a wicked grin of his own, “Because you’re the boss, and I’d like to work here.” 

“Why are you even asking to work here? You called my shop tacky and barren.” 

He frowned, “I thought you had forgiven me for that little incident already.” 

Imira raised a brow,  and asked in a mild tone,“ Little ?” 

“That was one of my least problematic moments, believe me,” Astarion huffed and pushed aside thoughts of the time he kidnapped actual children for his evil vampire master, his time as a shitty magistrate,  or of his casual and ongoing relationship with murder. 

 “So you don’t think I have what it takes to work here?” 

“I didn’t say that.” Imira said, “I think I mean that you won’t  like being on the other side of the curtain. It’s a lot of… giving to people even when they don’t deserve it.” 

“We’re still talking about retail right?” Astarion asked with an awkward chuckle. 

Imira didn’t answer him right away. Instead, she got out the sage green boxes she uses for catered events, and began to fold them as the donuts sat in their trays. Astarion watched, slightly entranced by her efficiency. 

“A month.” She said, finally, after she had folded about four of them. 

Astarion raised an eyebrow and sang, “You’re missing context, darling.” 

“You can work here for a month.”
Astarion smiled.

 Imira started to speak while she filled the boxes with about six donuts each.
“It’ll be a probationary period with a contract and everything. If I don’t get annoyed at you, and you don’t think the work is too beneath you, then you can stay indefinitely. Or until Wyll figures out what to do with The Blades. Whichever comes first.” 

“And what would you pay me?” Astarion cocked a hip, “Not to sound presumptuous, but a man needs coin.”
“I don’t believe in doing anything for free.” Imira snorted. 

A woman after my own heart . If he was free to swoon, he would. Astarion chose to grin in response. She ignored him and continued to wrap the boxes with a ribbon.

“You’ll be paid biweekly, if you pass the trial period and stay there’ll be a sign on bonus. We can talk about pay rates after you run your first job for me.” 

“And that is?” 

“These are for your roommates,” She stacked the boxes in front of him and placed them in his arms, “And Wyll, Shadowheart, and Lae’Zel. Please make sure they get them before they go bad. Report for duty an hour before midnight tomorrow.” 

Imira finally looked him in the eye and smiled, like a tiny beam of sunlight that ran through a cracked window. 

“Don’t be late." 

Chapter Text

Astarion was fucked , but he had no choice but to get over it. 

Day one of his “fun-employment” (Karlach’s rebranding for the new horror his life unleashed not his) was spent in understandable lethargy, as Astarion chose to lounge miserably in his room, alone with a bottle of what he calls “sanguine sangria”--a red blend mixed with something’s stale blood. 

Day two was filled with the busy schedule of listening to the sounds of Gale preparing to abandon ship. He packed up his scrolls, set his poorly hidden butler to automatic, and instructed Karlach on how to use the scrolls and materials he left in the alcove in the living room would need to cast Sending-- should they need him for a game night, or an emergency. 

“I’d prefer it be the former, rather than the latter.” Astarion heard Gale’s chuckle through the door. “Thank you for lifting my heavier things, Karlach-- this way I didn’t need to waste a spell.”
“Aw, it’s no problem pal!” Astarion heard a heavy smack which was then accompanied by the sound of Gale wheezing. “Anything for a friend. You’re coming back soon right?”
“Next week,” The wizard croaked as he struggled to catch his breath, “For game night.” 

“Sick. I’ll see you then, man.” 

“Indeed, you shall.” 

He heard the sounds of Karlach making her way downstairs, then the whoosh of a spell being cast. Then nothing. 

Gale hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye. Or even a knock on his door-- 

Astarion rapidly came to his feet when he heard it. 

Three rhythmic knocks in rapid succession. 

“Astarion!” The wizard called out from the other side of Astarion’s door, “I’ll be taking my leave now, but I will be seeing you next Friday for game night. Who else will play mage hand darts with me?”

Astarion answered by opening the door, aiming for casually tired, and not at all excited to be acknowledged-- but in reality, he landed somewhere closer to casually depressed and in desperate need of attention. The vampire’s pale frame slouched against the doorframe in his silken robe and trousers. He wasn’t sure of the state of his hair, but was glad he masked the stench of his undead skin with his cologne. 

“I suppose I can make myself available,” Astarion sighed, “It’s not as if I have anything better to do, my unemployment notwithstanding.” 

Gale’s surprised expression quickly turned into a concerned one. He gestured with his staff sternly. 

“Now, Astarion,” The wizard began, “I know we’ve allowed you a moment to mourn stability as it were-- but don’t think you can just mope your way out of your predicament.”
“Not with that attitude.” Astarion ignored the other man’s glare.
“Be glib all you’d like, my friend, but what is your plan? You have been working on one, right?” 

“I really thought I’d mope my way out of my problems,” Astarion said with mock seriousness, “Because I have totally done that in the past, and am incapable of improvising.” 

Gale didn’t miss a beat, “ Improvisation is not a plan, sir. You can’t just wing employment.”

“I’ve applied to jobs before.” Astarion said defensively. 

“Yes, a few hundred years ago.” Gale pointed out, if a bit snidely.

“One hundred.” The vampire spawn countered.

The “forced at fang point into eternal servitude” didn’t count as a job, obviously . 

Gale’s hand met his forehead, “Please, tell me you’re not going to apply to be magistrate again. I don’t need to explain to you why that may not work for you or society.” 

“I don’t know if I should be offended,” Astarion said, “But I wasn’t planning on being a magistrate again, obviously.” 

Astarion didn’t remember how he fared as a city magistrate, but based on how taking bribes feels like a second nature he must resist in front of better company-- he can’t say that he was the best lawyer, much less a law-abiding citizen. 

He could pull off the robes, at least. 

“ Fashion shouldn’t be why you become a magistrate again,” Gale said to him, his tone rising mildly, “If you need help finding a job, perhaps you should look around the area. You’ve made many friends in the past two years, Astarion. You have more resources than you think.” 

With that said, the stern-faced wizard reached out a hand and smiled. Astarion took it, awkwardly. The wizard's hands were more calloused than he was expecting. 

“I’ll be seeing you.” Gale said as he turned towards the portal roared to life, Astarion stood in the hallway by himself, hand still outstretched.

Time passed again, without Astarion’s consent. 

Gale had left and the vampire chose to return to self isolation when it was suddenly one  in the morning and the moon was high in the sky. The pale elf looked through his window at the busy street, hunger starting to creep up again. 

Obviously that was the perfect time to take a stroll to his favorite bakery. 

Granted, it is the only bakery where he could actually get anything to eat from.

Why not? Imira said he was welcome any time. He imagined the fierce stare she gave him the first night, and the smile she had shyly given him the last time they met. 

For whatever reason, that is what woke him out of his depressed stupor. He changed out of his loungewear and into something more befitting polite company. Astarion wrapped the umbral cloak over him, just in case he didn’t make it in time to avoid the sunrise, and quickly dashed off into the night. 

It would be a quick visit. 

It may be his last, after all-- it’s not like going to the donut shop would fix his problems.

Of course, he was wrong .

Astarion arrived at Glaze of Glory, his hair freshly coiffed and the moon rising proudly behind him as he raised a bottle of wine in the jasmine scented air. 

“Hello, dear!” The vampire grinned as the door closed behind him, “I thought you’d like some company.” 

“Sure…” Imira said slowly, broom in hand, “...But I have a lot of work to finish, like tidying the store and balancing today’s sales. Return in an hour?”
Normally, Astarion would have been happy to fuck off for an hour and gather some “loose” change from an unsuspecting innocent. Then at least he’d be a bit closer to being able to pay rent and maintain his lifestyle. In fact, that’s what he had in mind, but-- 

He took the broom from her hands.

 “Do your insipid balancing,” Astarion’s voice said automatically, then impatiently added,  “ I’ll sweep your floors. What else do you need done, while I’m at it?” 

The shorter elf looked at him as if he had begun speaking in tongues. He looked at her expectantly as her brain recovered. 

“... After you throw away the debris, the floor needs to be mopped, and the waste bins emptied into the dumpster out back.” Imira said quickly as she made her way to the register and a leather bound book, “ This should take me a half hour to forty five minutes. Then we can hang out, I promise.”
“And if I run out of things to do?” The alien in Astarion’s body asked. 

Imira gave him a smile, and damn it all, it was nice to be fucking smiled at after being in imposed exile for three days straight. “My office is literally three feet away, I’ll have the door open too.” 

Then, despite the fact that Astarion hated doing chores in his own home-- he did everything Imira asked of him. He disposed of the dust and crumbs Imira’s floor accumulated, he took the bucket she had left in the furthest corner of the room, filled it with water from the sprout outside, dunked solution in it, heated it with a mild firebolt, and set to work.

He scrubbed the kitchen for good measure. The bins in her establishment were emptied and their bags replaced. With his vampire speed he had it all  completed in about 15 minutes. He closed the curtains in the shop. He locked the door, and made sure the back was locked for good measure. 

Then Astarion draped his lanky body against Imira’s door frame, “Are you done yet?” 

The proprietor was lost in the sauce, counting the change in her register and updating her notes in the leathery red book she had simultaneously. “I need a bit more time.” 

Again, he’s not sure what foreign entity has possessed his body-- it’s not as if he wants to move and yap, but then, again, he found himself asking--

“Do you have anything else for me to do?”

She looked up for a moment, and thought for another. “Bathrooms, kitchen, prep, and restock are all done. You seriously just have to wait for me to make notes so that my weekly reports don’t make my head split, then I’ve gotta lock away today's profits, and set up the register.” 

“Which would take…?” He asked impatiently.

“Fifteen minutes.”

Then he waited. He listened to the soft sounds of her writing, and then watched as she counted her earnings. The immortal man, for whom time is largely irrelevant, but he can’t help but try to occupy his  limitless amount of time regardless. 

The office is as sparse as the storefront itself. Imira seems to have the office basics and nothing but-- a desk, some heavy wooden bookshelves, a safe, and her giant leather bound chair. Her committee’s sigil was painted onto the front of the desk, and there’s a painting of a seaside scape behind her. Waves crashing into a cliff, as a willow tree painted on the cliff’s edge blew  in the wind. 

Then, Imira hastily finished writing with a flourish, shoved the cash into the safe, and put her register back together. 

“Stay put.” The younger woman said to him seriously, her thick dark brows furrowed. He responded with a shrug. Upon her, she holds a pair of wine glasses in her hands with a grin.

“Shall we?”