Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It starts with a phone call from Gale. 

Not to me, of course. He calls Jamie, because it is eight o'clock in the godsdamned morning and Gale possesses some amount of self-preservation. He knows by now that I do not speak to people at eight o'clock in the morning, least of all nervous wizards. 

But I will eavesdrop shamelessly. Vampiric hearing, you understand.

I turn onto my side to face Jamie, their eyes still shut and their hair forming an inky halo on the pillow. They slap the phone to their ear and groan, "Sup?" like it's 1995.

"I am terribly sorry, my friend," he starts, breathless, "for calling at this hour. I know you were likely asleep, and—"

"Magic man," Jamie says, running a hand over their face, "I love you, but please get to the point."

"Right—ah—yes, I—" Gale pauses, and there are some scuffling sounds on the line. I imagine he's herding his children or unnecessarily fumbling with a stack of books. "Okay. Evan's got his soccer tournament in Tacoma today, for the entire day, and Ella was going to stay with Wyll and Karlach, but Karlach called and said Jules has the flu, and now I find myself in a predicament."

"So you need her favorite vampire uncle and her favorite ex-con punk to take her on a lil adventure today instead."

"Um. If you would be so kind, yes! I don't mean to inconvenience you, especially on such short notice, but—"

"We've got her. Tell him we've got her," I say, rising.

Jamie grins at me and waits for Gale to take a breath. He does not. They try to interrupt a few times, but he continues, promising us his eternal love and gratitude (which I could do without) and/or a fine vintage (which I shall accept graciously).

I tune him out when he begins explaining why his daughter shouldn’t attend the event. I already know, of course. Ella Dekarios is a small creature who becomes overwhelmed when faced with loud noise, bright light, and unfamiliarity. I relate to her more strongly than she will likely ever know. 

It is very taxing to hear every heartbeat, every footfall, every breath in every room I enter. Very bothersome, at times, to wrap myself in layers when I go out during the day or carry a parasol like a Victorian maiden too delicate for sunlight. And after two hundred years in the same spot, new places feel... well. New. And sometimes "new" is alarming.

A full day outdoors in another city watching children attempt sports and scream about it sounds about as appealing as gouging out my own eyes. I imagine Ella feels rather the same. Wise little thing.

I cross the room towards the wardrobe and begin assembling today's outfit. It's Friday, so we're meant to go to the farmer's market (for Jamie), the vegan café that sometimes hosts drag brunches and gives away condoms, and the blood co-op (for me).  Though we’ll, ah, probably skip that last one today. Not exactly Ella-friendly. I did finish my last blood bag the other night, and I haven't drunk from Jamie since the anemia incident, no matter how many times they insist they're "fine now." I can wait until tomorrow. I've gone longer.

Gods, have I gone longer.

I shake my head—literally shake it, as if to clear the thought—and focus instead on dressing for the occasion.

A cashmere shirt, naturally, unbuttoned enough to tantalize but not enough to scandalize. Long jacket. High-waisted trousers, grey and creased sharp enough to slice whatever vegetables Jamie's about to purchase. Imported belt (faux leather, Jamie'd have a fit otherwise). Criminally expensive boots with blood-red soles. Sunglasses so large I could commit several crimes behind them and no one would be the wiser. Hypothetically, of course. Ahem.

One ear swivels back towards Jamie, who's still on the phone and giving me an exaggerated eye-roll like Can you believe this guy is still talking? Yes, dear, I can. It's Gale.

He's now reminding Jamie of Ella's schedule, when she must eat and when she should nap and all that, which is silly because:

1. We already have her routine memorized, and

2. if he wanted to remind either of us, it should have been me. I am blessed/cursed with advanced recall, while Jamie cannot remember where their car keys are. (In the ashtray, inexplicably.)

Jamie is liberated from the phone as I slide my rings onto my fingers.

“Good gods, that man needs a vacation,” they sigh, tossing their phone to the end of our bed.

“From?”

“His own mind? Or, like…” They gesture at nothing and everything all at once and make a sound like mmh!?. A fair assessment. “He could’ve just asked us to keep her. He knows we love that kid. She basically thinks you’re her parent.”

“She does not.”

“She totally does! Gale said it himself.”

“He’s an anxious man.”

“Facts. More than usual lately, too.”

“He’s just been through a divorce, darling.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’ll do it.” Jamie pauses for a moment and yawns. Their nose wrinkles when they do, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t find it adorable. A smile finds its way onto my face. I do nothing to hide it from them.

They push themself off the bed at last and stretch. They’re wearing nothing but boxers and a ridiculous t-shirt three sizes too large with Bigfoot’s silhouette on it (Goodwill, I’m certain). They run a hand down their front, bunch up a fistful of shirt, and turn to me like they’re modeling.

“You think if I tie this up higher I can wear it out?”

I don’t dignify that with a response.

Exactly thirty-nine minutes later, we’re on Gale’s street. His warm little house comes into view over the hill, his garden flourishing and his curtains open. A peaceful place. I can smell the laundry soap and fresh ink from here. (Really. I can.)

Jamie’s still wearing that shirt, but they hacked it to pieces with scissors on the walk over so it’s now a sleeveless crop top that does not remotely befit the weather but somehow works beautifully on them. They stuffed the fallen fabric scraps into the countless pockets of their high-waisted jeans and considered at length what they might do with the excess. Ideas so far have ranged from “knit a sweater for a squirrel” to “choke somebody” to “make a quilt, commune with Chauntea, and call her a homophobe,” by which point I fear one of us has lost the plot.

“Is she?”

“Is she what?”

“I— Homophobic. You’ve just said that.”

Jamie shrugs. “Oh, probably. She’s all harvest and fertility. Sus.”

“Right.”

They’re drinking a Red Bull through a paper straw and stomping down Gale’s lovely sidewalk in enormous platform Doc Martens that make them almost as tall as I am.

I love this half-elf so much it frightens me.

I also love Ella Dekarios, which frightens me even more. She is small and sticky and everything I should loathe, but the truth is I’d kill and/or die for her if necessary. She’s four years old. Four! I cannot adequately describe just how short a time that is when you’ve lived two centuries and have eternity stretching before you. I own hair gel older than Ella. I’d bet Jamie has Taco Bell leftovers in their car at least her age.

This tiny, fragile creature has lived such a short time. She doesn’t know about fascism or enslavement or loss or monsters. All she knows, as far as I can tell, is letters (some of them) and love. She loves her father and her brother and her strange snacks. She loves Jamie and, apparently, me. She calls Jamie “Shay” because the J sound doesn’t come easily, given her speech delay. And she calls me… well. She calls me Star. “Astarion” is even trickier than “Jamie.” So she nicknamed me.

I have stabbed men for less. I’ll do so again. But with Ella, it’s… different. With Ella, I am different.

I was hers the day I arrived at Gale’s for our monthly party dinner—holding wine in my hand that I did not plan to share and fending off a hug from Karlach—and Ella, three at the time, looked up at me wide-eyed and small and beaming and said “Star” with utter confidence.

I had never been so enchanted.

“We’re learning names lately,” Gale said, almost defensively, as though I’d be offended. “She finds ‘Astarion’ rather difficult, I’m afraid. It’s multiple syllables, and the st sound is especially challenging for her, though she—”

But I was already crouched down to Ella’s level, telling her how utterly perfect she was and that she could call me anything she liked, and I meant it. Gale went quiet. Jamie called me a sap with great affection. Karlach was misty-eyed.

So. Here we are.

I mean that literally: We are now at Gale’s house. I can hear cleats being thrown into a bag and tiny feet padding across the hardwood in soft socks and Gale writing something down at breakneck speed.

Jamie raises a hand to knock on the door, then thinks better of it and just opens it.

“Hey, wizard fam,” they holler into the foyer.

Gale emerges from the kitchen. “Good morning, Jamie. Astarion. Thank you so very much.”

Evan darts out behind him, nine years old and draped in a uniform that is absolutely too large for him. There’s a cartoon frog on it, which he immediately informs us is a Western Chorus Frog.

“Its science name is Pseudacris triseriata,” he announces with the deliberate slowness that means he’s practiced this pronunciation several times. “It’s like, really small, but it’s actually one of the loudest frogs.”

“You relate to him, huh?” Jamie grins.

“YES! HOW’D YOU KNOW?”

Gods.

For a moment I forget why we’re here. I could be home right now, lounging in bed with Jamie in my arms. I could be drinking wine. I could be drinking blood, which would be even better. I could be stabbing a vampire lord in front of his own spawn and watching him bleed. I could be—

“Star?”

Ella.

I could be nowhere but here.

She steps carefully out of the hallway and into the front room. Today Gale’s got her in a navy jumper covered in bright yellow bees, a doll-sized jacket, her light-up shoes, and soft pants made of a material that is apparently sensory-safe. Her pink headphones rest around her neck in case she needs them—they block out excessive noise—and she’s carrying the tablet that helps her speak when words fail her.

“Hello, little one,” I say in the quiet voice I reserve especially for her. I bend to her level. “Would you like to be picked up?”

She thinks about it, rocks back and forth on her feet for a moment. I wait. We’ve been practicing this, you see. Asking before we touch. Answering truthfully. It’s an effort I am… rather personally invested in.

“Yes,” she says at last, and I gather her in my arms immediately and lift her. It’s impossibly easy to do. Four years old.

“Hey, El,” Jamie says, turning to face her now that she’s eye level. “How’s it goin, lil thing?”

“Hi, Shay.” Ella reaches out a small hand, the other firmly holding her tablet, and Jamie takes it for the briefest moment.

“You ready to go to the farmer’s market? They got fruit.”

Ella brightens and bounces once in my grip. “Strawberries there!?”

“Hells yeah! And blueberries too. And blackberries. And lots of other berries n’ fruits. Also there’s a guy who sells mushrooms he finds randomly, and a lady who makes badass bread.”

Evan snorts when Jamie says “ass,” delighted. Gale shoots them both a look and Jamie’s ears tilt downward, just a touch.

“She does enjoy the market,” the wizard says despite himself, eyes soft and warm as he watches us with his daughter. “We’ve been practicing our colors. See how many you can get her to name while you’re there.” He winks.

I turn back to Ella. “Colors, hm? Do you have a favorite?”

She twists a bit in my arms, thinks, taps a hand against her own leg a few times as she considers, then presses one of the custom icons Gale’s added to her tablet. The device proclaims her answer in a robotic, childlike voice: Red.

“Darling!” I pretend to gasp. “That’s mine, too.”

Ella makes one of her happy sounds and kicks a foot at nothing.

“Let’s see how many red things we can find, shall we?”

She nods, and she’s smiling. And so we go.

Chapter Text

Just as Gale said, Ella is delighted by the market.

Within fifteen minutes she’s tasted three free samples of jam (she proclaimed strawberry the winner), squeezed four apples and directed Jamie to buy them all because they’re “yellow” (they’re green), and disavowed kale for being “uncouth” (a word she learned from yours truly and does not fully understand).

She’s just asked us why the bread at the baker’s stand is “dirty.” It takes Jamie and me a frankly embarrassing amount of time to realize she’s asking why the bread has seeds on it.

“That’s not dirt, baby,” Jamie says, biting back that howling laugh. “Those are seeds.”

Ella’s ears tilt as she ponders this. “Seed bread?”

“Yeah, they put the seeds on there for, like, texture. Crunchy.” Jamie touches their fingers together, mimicking a chewing motion, and Ella looks to me with worried eyes as if I might be able to explain this madness.

“I don’t quite understand it either,” I tell her, voice low and conspiratorial. “I fear our Shay may secretly be a bird.”

She giggles and reaches for my hand—but doesn’t grab it. Just stares up at me, still. Waiting. She’s waiting for me to agree to the touch, I realize, as I so often do for her. Asking not with words but with her hesitation, her expression. The cold, ancient, bitter part of me melts ever so slightly more.

I take her hand in mine. “Thank you for asking,” I say, and my voice does not threaten to break in the middle, thank you. She nods, satisfied, unaware of just how much it means that she asked, that she is learning to ask and be asked.

We walk through the market a little longer: A former street rat in a ruined shirt, an absurdly beautiful vampire in designer, and a tiny mortal girl with noise-reducing headphones at the ready. Other shoppers smile when we pass, as though we’re the sweetest trio they’ve ever seen. We are.

Ella asks why I’m carrying an umbrella, and I remind her it’s a parasol to keep the sun away. “I’m rather sensitive to it.”

Her eyes brighten and she bounces once, remembering. “Vampire,” she says—or tries to say. She stutters over it a few times, then attempts to apologize. As though I’d ever be angry with her. As though this child saying “vampire” with a smile rather than a scream doesn’t elate me. I should thank her, if anything.

By eleven, Jamie’s filled a reusable tote bag with various lettuces, a half-loaf of upsettingly seedy bread, an Ella-approved medley of berries, organic eggs, and foraged mushrooms (they did, in fact, find the fungus purveyor). 

They slipped a jar of local honey into a fabric-stuffed pocket earlier, but their ears flattened and they returned to the beekeeper’s stall to pay for it minutes later. Ella noticed none of this, enamored instead with some shopper’s very small and preposterously curly dog. She did not want to pet it, content to watch with round eyes and stim happily as it trotted past.

“Sorry,” Jamie mumbles when they catch back up with us. I wave them off. Old habits, redemption, recovery, all that. We are doing our best.

“I’m certainly not one to judge nicking a thing or two from the shops, am I?”

“Fair enough.” Jamie pops a (paid-for) strawberry into their mouth and offers another to Ella, who’s walking between us. She declares it “too big” and bites it in half. I try briefly to recall ever being that small and give up quickly before I think too much. Dangerous pastime, that.

“Hey, you good?” Jamie says to me.

“Hmm?”

“Your eyes are a lil red. Did you eat?”

Gods. "Eat." They have always called the way I sustain myself eating rather than feeding, as though I’m sitting down with a Crunchwrap Supreme rather than consuming living creatures’ very vitality. It’s one Jamie-ism that disarmed me from our very first night together, when I… may have attempted to bite them in their sleep like an absolute barbarian.

It’s hardly my fault their blood smells like safety and sin. I didn’t know it was magic, not then, but I knew I smelled something invigorating and perfect, and after everything, I deserved a taste, didn’t I?

Well. Old habits, like I said.

They woke before I sunk my teeth in. I started explaining myself and half-begging for my life, but they’d stopped me, utterly unimpressed. “Everybody’s gotta eat,” they said evenly. “But you could’ve asked first.”

Now a decade has passed and we’re perusing a farmer’s market in Seattle, looking after a wizard’s tiny daughter, who is also learning to ask and be asked, while Jamie checks in to see if I ate. I think this is the recovery bit, or maybe it’s redemption.

I last ate two nights ago, which is fine, truly. Vampires don’t need to feed every day. I’m a bit peckish perhaps, but what’s new?

“I’m all right,” I tell Jamie noncommittally. 

They raise an eyebrow in that you’re-full-of-shit way. They don’t press, though, which I appreciate, because they’re right. I have been trying very hard to block out the smell of other shoppers’ blood, and I did stare a little too long at a stall selling local wine, imagining… well, other wonderful red liquids I could be drinking.

“Star!” Ella chimes, her ears perked up. She pulls my sleeve with one hand and gestures with the other. “Red!”

I follow where she’s pointing and see what’s caught her attention: a stall containing color-coded baskets of cherry tomatoes, some greenish and some orangeish and many, indeed, bright red.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” I say, patting her head. “Shall we investigate them?”

She nods and bounces once before carefully leading me towards the stall. Jamie follows us, saying something about the “sick-ass salad” they can “chef up” with these tomatoes if we buy some hot sauce on the way out.

I didn’t realize hot sauce was involved in salad, but I should have. In Jamie’s world, hot sauce is involved in everything.

Ella asks me to lift her again when we approach the stand so she can see better, and I do, because I will do anything she wants. She nestles against my chest a bit and I pretend to be unfazed.

“Well hey there, honey,” the salesperson says. She’s a curly-haired tiefling with freckles and an apron covered in juice. She brightens when Ella approaches. “Want to taste a tomato? I grew them on my farm.”

“Red,” Ella says after a moment, affirmative.

The salesperson chooses the tiniest, reddest tomato, then looks to me for approval. “That okay, dad?”

I blink. It takes a moment to register: She thinks I’m Ella’s father. I bristle a bit—I am the moment, darling, I am not a dad —but I suppose I can understand why. I do happen to be carrying a toddler at a godsdamned farmer’s market. Jamie’s backpack is loaded with minuscule snacks and fidget toys. And Ella does have blonde hair and pointy little ears, like me. 

Gale would laugh. Or maybe cough politely and blush. 

I clear my throat and pretend not to notice Jamie’s eyes going soft and warm, like I’ve done something sweet. “I’m not her—well. Yes. Yes, of course.” 

The vendor smiles and offers the Lilliputian tomato to Ella, who accepts it but doesn’t sample it right away. First, she squishes it between two fingers and watches as a stream of juice leaks out and runs down her hand. 

“Red. Red food,” she whispers to me with deadly seriousness. “Like yours.”

Then she carefully places it in her mouth and smiles, proud of herself for doing something like I do. Ella sees no difference between her microscopic tomato and my bags of humanoid blood.

Red food, she’d said. So casual, too, as if she hadn’t just done something so devastatingly pure that I may never recover.

I don’t even care that she’s spilled several wet tomato seeds on my shirt. I am overcome. All I can do is kiss her hair. 

She hums while Jamie, unaware of or perhaps simply unaffected by my emotional decimation, tries to haggle with the vendor. I say “tries” because they’re doing it backwards, offering to pay more than the vendor charges. Reasons unclear.

We leave with enough tomatoes to flood Seattle in marinara. Or “to make, like, fifty-two sick-ass salads,” according to Jamie.

It’s 11:39 and we are brunching at Jamie’s favorite vegan cafe. I feel compelled to mention that Jamie is not vegan. They once argued with Shadowheart about whether vegetarianism was “toxic”—not because they think it is, but because they enjoy recreationally arguing with their friends and wanted a reaction from our now-cruelty-free ex-Sharran. (It worked.)

Currently Jamie is demolishing some sort of wrap with potatoes in it and glaring into their second oat milk chai latte like they’re not sure where it went. I’m sipping a raspberry matcha and wondering if I could charm the barista into adding a shot of gin to it. Do they even have gin here? Is gin vegan??

I reach for my phone to Google that but get distracted by Ella dissecting an oatmeal cookie. 

She’s removing raisins with the precision of a surgeon and the focus of a scholar. Her eyebrows crease in a manner that makes her look so fantastically like her father that I nudge Jamie under the table, nod in her direction, and mouth “Gale.” The sight delights Jamie enough to stop slathering their samosa in Tabasco and instead sneak a photo of her. They text it to the wizard, who replies with so many heart emojis that Jamie’s cracked, decrepit Android overheats and makes a sound like death throes.

Ella’s ears flatten instinctively. She looks up from her cookie with a frown and begins tapping the edge of her tablet with her thumbnail, making a tinny, rhythmic sound that apparently soothes her.

“It’s okay, littlest,” Jamie says in their quietest voice. “The bad sound’s gone, I promise. You’re safe.” 

She accepts this after a beat and returns to the all-important work of raisin removal. I sip my useless raspberry matcha and try not to think of blood.

“Star,” Jamie says flatly. “Your stomach literally just growled. Let’s hit up the co-op after this.”

“It did not—!”

It did. This wretched reanimated body of mine likes to simulate living in the worst possible ways, at the worst possible times.

I sigh. “I’m quite alright. I’ll go tomorrow. It’s not exactly a place for mortal children.”

They raise an eyebrow at me, and Ella looks up from her snack with wide little eyes. Her ears tilt and her voice pitches up. “Did you… forget your red food?”

Fuck me. She’s alarmed. I recall Gale saying they’ve been working on hunger cues: She has a schedule, all color-coded and sticker-marked, to ensure she eats the right foods at the right times. Children, he said, struggle to realize when they are hungry. I cannot fathom this, but I accept it. The idea that I am off-schedule concerns her. 

Still. I am not going to bring Ella to the fucking blood co-op. The vampires who shop there are mostly like me—free, for whatever reason, from their sires and choosing to live virtuously, or something like it. The co-op sources blood either from direct donations or through agreements with medical facilities. 

There is rather a lot of excess blood in this world, it seems, and cities like Seattle have found ways to route it to my ilk. We get to eat, and civilians get to sleep peacefully without fear for their necks. It is, undoubtedly, a good arrangement. 

But there are on-site feedings sometimes—booked in advance and according to the co-op’s strict policies of non-coercion—and the staff help fledgling or newly freed vampires resettle. That means half-feral spawn arrive from time to time, terrified and dangerous despite even the best intentions. 

Ella is small, even for four. Ella is warm and easily overstimulated, soft and sweet and vulnerable. If one of my brethren so much as looks at her, dares to smell the air near her, I will become a Problem. 

Somehow even more frightening than the thought of another vampire hurting her is simply the idea that she might be… afraid. Afraid of refrigerators loaded with blood bags, afraid of a room full of cold undead—as any normal mortal would be, should be, even. It’s instinctive to fear an apex predator of the night. 

Therein lies my problem. Ella knows I’m a vampire, knows I drink blood, but her grasp on what that really means is limited. If she were to visit the co-op and fully understand that I am a monster, she would be afraid of me, and I don’t think I could bear it. 

“Star?” 

I snap back to reality. “Hm? Oh—no, dear, I didn’t forget. I ran out and haven’t had time to buy more.”

“We have to eat,” Ella informs me, “to get strong.”

“I’m already strong,” I try to deflect. “And I’ll go tomorrow.”

Jamie remains utterly unimpressed with me. Ella, meanwhile, frowns. Properly frowns, her ears pointing directly downwards. Her brows pull together, her mouth purses, and she hugs her tablet close.

“Not eat,” she begins, slow and careful, “till… tomorrow?!”

“Yes, my sweet,” I say gently. “Tomorrow is soon for me, you know. Vampires don’t ‘eat’ the same way you do, remember?”

“Nooo,” she says, unsure. Her hands wave about. She’s not quite melting down, but she is stressed. “Today.”

She reaches for her tablet and presses a button. It announces: Hungry. But she’s not talking about herself. 

“Ella, I am perfectly—”

Hungry.

Well. Yes.

Jamie’s grinning, the traitor. “She got you, Star. You heard the baby. Let’s go.”

I make a face, and Jamie drops their voice to a whisper. “Look, it’s cool, okay? She just sees it as food, and she’s learning that it’s important to eat when she’s hungry. We gotta be a good influence or some shit.” 

“Bringing her to a blood shop is hardly ‘good influence’ material,” I hiss, “and you have said ‘shit’ no fewer than nine times today. We are possibly the worst influences.”

“She’s not scared of you, Astarion.”

That gets me. I pause, just for a moment. Ella’s pressing the button on her tablet over and over: Hungry. Hungry. Hungry. Occasionally she clicks Red, for emphasis, maybe. Jamie gestures like See?, like Ella is the reasonable one and I’m the stubborn child. 

Fine. I know when I’ve lost. 

“All right,” I say, weary. “We’ll go. But only if it’s quiet there today.” 

Jamie and Ella fist-bump as I type a message to Luci, the vampire who works at the co-op most Fridays. She’s quite young for a vampire, only eighty or so, and she replies immediately. 

Hello, darling. Astarion here.
Planning to stop by with Jamie in a bit. We’re with our niece, who is very small and very mortal.
She has sensory needs and wants to accompany us. Is the co-op… quiet today?
x

hey!! yep coast is clear, no fledglings rn and no on-site feedings scheduled
didn’t know u had a niece!! what’s her name how old is she tell me everything??

Ella. She’s four.
Please don’t be weird xx

ellaaaaa that’s so cute 🥺
can’t wait to meet her omfg
& i’ve never been weird in my unlife dw

...Right.

I almost wish she had said the place was overrun with new spawn or doused in blood from some horrible on-site feeding accident so I could have an excuse to keep Ella away from the place. But she didn't, and Jamie’s reading over my shoulder, denying me any opportunity to lie. Rude.

“Sweet,” they say, wiping Ella’s sugar-sticky mouth clean with a wet cloth as she protests mildly. “You ready to go with Star to the blood store, baby? It’s nice and chill today.”

Ella nods quickly and kicks her little feet. “Chill,” she echoes.

I take a useless breath to try and fend off my anxiety. Just a vampire spawn, his blood-mage spouse, and their wizard friend’s tiny toddler. What could go wrong?

Gods below.