weaponwithoutpurpose

weaponwithoutpurpose

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From:

sixfeetofdirt

"Thank you, darling."

He closes the door behind him, quietly, and lets his shoulders drop.

"...Gods. What a fucking mess of a week, hm?"

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

He can only nod as he walks back to his bed and sits down heavily on it. He's not in his fatigues now, just a t-shirt and jeans, and that's only because Astarion's over. The rumpled mess of bedsheets hasn't been made all day.

"Yeah. A fucking week. I got stabbed, turned into the bitch who isn't my sister, and - well, least I got to yell at someone."

From:

sixfeetofdirt

"And to spit on him, no less. You've fulfilled a long-held fantasy of mine."

He sits down on the bed next to him.

"Who stabbed you?"

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

He laughs, leaning on him slightly.

"Cain. He was here for Abel. Abel and I got into it in the gym and I guess Cain took offense to that. Shoved a knife on my shoulder. John healed me...not that it mattered in the end."

From:

sixfeetofdirt

Astarion, of course, does not catch the reference to an unfamiliar religious text in those names.

He leans back in kind.

"At least he didn't turn you," he murmurs. "Dying isn't a picnic, but coming back to life while you feel the bones of your skull changing shape is just...insult to injury."

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

He shakes his head. "Why the fuck does your skull change shape?"

Because he's pretty sure that his head is going to explode even without that.

From:

sixfeetofdirt

"Because it has to make space for this."

Astarion curls up one lip, the better to show him one fang when it extends downward in a quick, mechanical sort of motion.

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

It isn't hard to see the movement, even in the dim light of the room, and he sighs.

"Yeah, figure that would hurt, then. Still, would rather have no fucking death toll."

He eases himself back onto the bed, his whole body aching, though he rests a hand still on Astarion's.

"What happened to him? In the end?"

From:

sixfeetofdirt

"Not very much. A few people picked fights or had choice words."

John had reached into his head and used what he'd found to terrorise him, but he hadn't even said Astarion's name. He might not have done anything at all if not for his precious Arthur being the one Cazador had picked on. Fuck. What does he even care?

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

"And so he disappeared into the fucking ether," he mutters, feeling that anger well up in him again, hot and furious, for half a second. It wasn't fair.

And then it's gone.

None of this made any fucking difference. He's just one loud mouth in the sea of picked fights, and, in the end, no one got what they fucking deserved.

"What a cunt."

From:

sixfeetofdirt

"I couldn't have put it better myself."

He sighs.

"He left me a note. I don't know if I'm going to read it and then burn it, or just...skip a step."

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

He shakes his head. "Burn it. He doesn't have any fucking power over you. No goods gonna come of reading that shit."

From:

sixfeetofdirt

Astarion pats Jacob's hand lightly.

"You're not wrong, my sweet. Did Faith leave anything for you?"

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

Jacob laughs. "You're getting pretty fucking cozy with the pet names, you know," he grumbles playfully.

"She didn't leave me anything except the memory of what it's like to fuck Father Vincent. She's not actually my sister. Did I ever tell you that?"

From:

sixfeetofdirt

"You did not," Astarion says, with a little sympathetic wince for him. It doesn't seem like a memory he particularly wants to have.

"What is she to you, exactly?"

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

"It's complicated."

He taps Astarion's hand as he talks, not even seeming to notice. "My middle brother Joseph had a wife. Her name was Faith. She was pregnant with their daughter and was in an accident. Faith died and the baby - died, too."

That's a story for another time.

"Anyway, he keeps finding these women, young and blonde, who need help. Usually addicted to some drug. Brings them in and calls them sister and they're obsessed with him. And when they see through him, he finds another one, names her Faith and makes her push the previous one off a fucking cliff."

Jacob lets out a long breath. "It's real fucked up."

From:

sixfeetofdirt

"....Not an ideal way to acquire siblings, and I say that with some experience," Astarion murmurs, gazing up at the ceiling. "How long does a particular 'Faith' tend to last?"

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

He turns on his side with a soft grunt of effort.

"Long enough to count, but not long enough to matter. There's been three now. Lana. Selena. And now Rachel. I don't tend to get to know them well."

From:

sixfeetofdirt

"I don't think I would, either. At least the 'siblings' I acquired along the way were fairly consistent. The ones who weren't going to last were thinned out quickly."

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

"You hate 'em all?" he wonders softly.

From:

sixfeetofdirt

"...No. Cazador wanted us to. He played favourites, pitted us against one another - he even kept better quarters for those who played his games best. He couldn't bear the idea that we might take comfort from each other's company. But when I was able to get away...I don't know. I just pitied them."

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

It's smart. He hates that it's smart.

"Don't reas the note," he tells him, one hand on his arm. "You got nothing to prove to him. Or any of the others."

Which is rich coming from him, but he's trying.

From:

sixfeetofdirt

"I know."

Astarion laughs bitterly.

"He'd only be telling me that it's somehow my fault that the Admiral poached me, instead of permitting the death my master designed for his children."

From:

weaponwithoutpurpose

"That's what he fucking wanted the Admiral for."

Jacob winces. "Well fuck him. And fuck the Admiral, too. He doesn't know half the shit that goes on in his own ship, but wants to play god."

From:

sixfeetofdirt

"It makes me feel rather special, imagining such powerful entities squabbling over what's left of my immortal soul," Astarion says, in grim humour. "But I agree. Fuck the lot of them."