Chapter Text
They’re back in Baldur’s Gate, Bhaalists run rampant in the city streets, and protecting the mysterious list of Bhaalite victims has become a task the party’s fearless leader, the Blade of Frontiers, is determined to see through. Even if, in this case (at least based off what they can tell from all the insane Bhaalist papers they’ve acquired), the target is a much more generic “successfully kill a target at the Wickton Masquerade Ball” than a specific person with a name; and even if, to stop this from happening, they’ll need to be at the party themselves, meaning they’ll have to take Devella Fountainhead up on her offer to secure them invites.
“We’ll need nice clothes,” Wyll adds. He sounds a little glum about it, which Astarion, frankly, cannot stand.
“Excuse me?” he replies with mock indignation. “You’re telling me the rags we’ve picked up from the side of the road aren’t party-going material? The corpses we’ve looted are going to be very upset to hear that.”
“Don’t remind me how much we’ve stolen.” Wyll’s head goes briefly into his hands.
“That said, we do have a good bit of coin saved up,” Shadowheart says, idly swirling her wine around in its glass. “I shouldn’t think it will be much of a dent in our coffers to get a new outfit or two.”
“You’re welcome, by the way,” Astarion says. “Imagine how much poorer we’d be if we didn’t loot all those corpses along the way. Or the non-corpses. Or the homes and places of business of those non-corpses. Or—”
Wyll turns to him. “How much, exactly, have you been stealing?”
“Darling, we’re back in Baldur’s Gate. There are pockets everywhere here.”
Wyll makes a face, eyes narrowed. Astarion meets his eyes dead on, taking a sip of his drink. It’s a fun game they play, Astarion making Wyll guess the limits of his debauchery—but, unfortunately, Wyll is getting much better at reading him, and Astarion’s pretty sure he’s been sussed out as not up to anything nearly as rampant as he claims.
“Be that as it may,” Wyll finally says, suspiciously, not quite turning away from Astarion just yet, “the kind of clothing we’d need would run us a pretty penny.”
“Maybe where you buy from.” Shadowheart sounds sly and just a little smug. “But I bet I could get us something for . . . a little less.”
“Sharran contacts, my dear?” Astarion drawls. “Because I think you can safely consider those bridges burned.”
“Don’t need them,” she says, just as smug. “Now that we’ve decimated the enclave, we have access to everything there, including their infiltration wardrobe. There will be something appropriate for most of us there, I should think.”
“Ch’k. We are really considering this, then?” Lae’zel has been sitting with her arms crossed, drink untouched. On someone less blatantly intimidating, the pose would look petulant, but on her, it just looks glowering.
“Listen, I understand,” Wyll says. “Believe me, the galas and the balls and the parties are not something I miss from my youth in Baldur’s Gate. They’re stuffy, and busy, and excessive—”
“You are not convincing me,” Lae’zel says.
“—but,” Wyll punctuates, “the gossip and information you can get there are second to none. That alone might be worth going for, even if helping Valeria wasn’t a priority.”
“What use have we for gossip?”
“Darling, there’s always use for gossip.”
“Astarion’s right.” Wyll actually points at him, grateful for the back-up. “Knowing who’s involved with who, who’s upset with what. It’s not exactly savory, but it’s valuable currency while we find our footing here. We can determine the extent of just how much loyalty Gortash has inspired. And it’s possible we may even find sympathizers. That could help us in the long run.”
“You agree with this course of action, then?” Lae’zel asks Astarion.
Astarion laughs. It’s genuine; that’s happening absurdly frequently nowadays, and just as absurd is the fact that he’s getting less and less surprised each time it does. “This is the first fun little side mission Wyll’s ever made us go on. I’m delighted.”
Lae’zel makes a disapproving noise. “We shall see what the others say.” Which means she knows she’s already lost.
“Yes, where are those two?” Astarion turns to survey the tavern and frowns. Gale and Karlach had gone up to the bar to order some kind of food plate for the table (sans Astarion) to share several minutes ago; they should be back by now.
Wyll has also turned to look and adopts a matching frown when he, too, doesn’t immediately see them. “Odd, this shouldn’t take that long,” he says to himself, low, which strikes Astarion as slightly strange. But then again, Wyll’s been here before, citing his good memories of the place as a youth when he suggested they come here for dinner to discuss their next move.
Astarion doesn’t know how ordering food at establishments goes. Even working his magic on his marks hadn’t really involved food. For the marks, anyway.
“They’re in the corner,” Shadowheart says, ever the pinnacle of observation. “I’m impressed their little arm-wrestling contest is that quiet, actually.”
The remaining three follow Shadowheart’s gaze to a corner table, where Karlach is locked in an intense, sweating, silent, gritted battle with some random man who is somehow matching her absurd strength. There’s a crowd around them, but the spectators are locked in the same spell as the competitors, nearly holding their breath as each second passes. Gale is part of it, standing directly behind Karlach, mouth scrunched in concentration while he practically white-knuckles the rungs of her chair. Someone behind the other competitor is doing the same thing—he and Gale look like seconds in a duel.
“Oh, gods,” Wyll says.
“I’m transfixed,” Astarion croons. “How much money do you think she’s going to win off of him?”
And transfixed he is, as much by Gale as by the struggle Karlach finds herself in. It’s ridiculous. The man’s not even doing anything. But just seeing him after not seeing him—for what, ten minutes?—makes Astarion happier than he was even moments before.
Keeping tabs on Gale was already something he’d been doing since the start of their merry little adventure, of course, but it’s no longer a scheme. It is, disconcertingly, second nature. He knows where Gale is during battle, naturally—hard to miss a wizard casting, even when you’re darting around the battlefield the way Astarion does—but he also knows how many spells Gale has each day and is getting rather good at counting them as they’re used up. He knows which spots Gale likes to squirrel away in at camp, and is getting very good at pre-emptively identifying those spots in new locations even before Gale does. And, when Gale is conspicuously absent during a group outing for longer than he thinks necessary, he makes it a point to find him, just like Wyll does with Karlach.
It’s sickening, and thrilling, and terrifying, and the best feeling Astarion thinks he’s ever had.
“Why doesn’t she just finish him?” Lae’zel asks.
Shadowheart hums. “I think they’re evenly matched.”
“That man is not stronger than she is.”
Shadowheart hums again, and Astarion realizes she’s concentrating, although it doesn’t seem like the casting type. Astarion’s gotten used to her magic as much as Gale’s, and he doesn’t feel its usual waves from where he’s sitting next to her. He follows when she turns her gaze ever so slightly, landing on a man in a corner sipping a pint.
“He’s casting Guidance. That’s why she’s struggling.” Shadowheart drains the rest of her wine in a rather impressive gulp. “I’ll handle it.”
“Shadowheart, no—we don’t need a scene—”
“Ch’k!” Lae’zel wheels to face Wyll like he’s just suggested they bomb a crèche. “You would let your lady lose to a cheat?”
“No, I don’t want her to lose—”
“Don’t worry, darling, I’m sure Shadowheart will be the very picture of discretion,” Astarion says. It’s a moot point anyway since she’s already up, but he’s not even kidding. Her skills don’t rival his, of course, but she has a way of keeping her composure in less-than-truthful scenarios, all glassy and hard, that Astarion admires.
Case in point: he can tell she’s not going for a confrontation as she wanders over, choosing instead to play the part of an interested bystander. She positions herself directly between the cleric and the man arm-wrestling, peeking around and above the other bystanders like she’s just trying to find the best vantage point to watch from. She backs up a little—another part of the act; obviously, trying to see if some distance gives her a better view—and trips backwards onto the cleric’s table.
The “oh!” she exclaims almost makes Astarion snort into his glass. It’s the higher pitch she uses to play the innocent damsel, the wide-eyed beauty who just has a few questions or is so sorry to bother you or really didn’t mean for this to happen. She’s really hamming it up, and then—when the cleric’s concentration still doesn’t seem to be broken—raises things a notch by reaching over to shake his hand and clumsily knocking his beer aside.
Less than a second later, a cheer erupts from the crowd as Karlach slams the man’s hand onto the table. Her own arms shoot up with a matching cheer of victory; behind her, Gale, with a flourish, makes that “ha-HA!” sound that Astarion loves despite himself.
“You see?” Lae’zel says, smugger than usual. “He was no match for her on a fair battlefield.”
“I never said he was!” Wyll is glowing—with relief, and, Astarion recognizes, pride. He laughs into his glass. “I only didn’t want to run into trouble. We haven’t even eaten yet.”
“I’m afraid Shadowheart may be making other dinner plans,” Astarion says. As frustrated as the shady cleric is, Shadowheart’s clearly charming him; Astarion has the impression that he’s offering to replace Shadowheart’s drink even though she’s the one who ruined his.
“She handled that admirably,” Wyll acknowledges, glancing between where she is and where Karlach and Gale are. But all seems well over there, too; the man Karlach defeated looks angry, but there’s enough of a crowd he can’t turn this into anything, and he’s handing a pouch over to Karlach without anything greater than a grimace.
“She did,” Lae’zel agrees. Astarion is momentarily surprised by how easily the agreement comes before she adds, “Though I would just as soon have him accosted to teach him not to meddle in matters of honor.”
“It’s an arm-wrestling contest, darling, not a patriar duel.”
“Be that as it may. If he doesn’t value integrity here, there’s no telling where else he chooses to ignore it.”
“Ugh, Lae’zel,” Astarion groans. “You’re as much a spoilsport as Wyll. But at least Wyll wants to let us go to a fun party for once. Tell me, Wyll, we can display a lack of integrity at the gala, surely?”
“Depends on what you mean,” Wyll considers. His eyes are still flitting from group member to group member; from his conversation with Astarion, to Shadowheart, to Karlach and Gale, who are making their way back towards the table.
“Why, darling, a lack of integrity in these social circles is expected.” He’s gratified to see Wyll chuckle under his breath at that. “You think people go to these parties for any reason other than to plumb for information, exactly as we’re doing, to see what they can get away with, and to get delightfully shit-faced in the process?”
“Please, no one get shit-faced,” Wyll groans. “We do have a task there, you know.”
Astarion groans back. “And here I was defending you.”
“Dinner’s on me,” Karlach announces, appearing from nowhere with Gale in tow and dropping the bag of gold on the table.
It is actually rather more full than Astarion thought. “That is quite a lot of gold,” he acknowledges. “You persevered quite admirably, you know. Were you aware your foe had a cleric accomplice in the corner casting Guidance?”
Gale, who had been about to slide onto the bench next to Astarion, stops mid-step at that, furrowing his brow and trying to turn to where Astarion is gesturing. “What? Someone was spellcasting during that?”
Astarion reaches out and pulls Gale next to him before the wizard can fall over in the awkward stance he’s stopped in. “Over there. Our own cleric took care of it.”
Gale has successfully followed Astarion’s gesture now to where Shadowheart is still flirting. It’s obvious to Astarion that she’s trying to extricate herself; she’s done her job too well.
“Ha!” Gale laughs. “Serves him right. A nasty trick to pull.”
“Exactly my sentiments,” Lae’zel states, more than agrees. “And if Shadowheart had taught him this lesson through other means instead of avoiding a scene”—she shoots a look at Wyll, but he doesn’t notice because Karlach is whispering something in his ear—“then she would not be caught in this predicament now.”
“One of us ought to go save her,” Astarion says, although he doesn’t move to get up or push anyone to go. It’s very funny watching Shadowheart get more desperate as the seconds tick by.
“And do that how?” Gale asks. “The old pretend-to-be-the-significant-other trick?”
“Just tell her the food’s here. Or it’s going to be in a minute.” Astarion runs his hand up and down Gale’s arm, which he’s still holding. “You did order something, didn’t you?”
“Oh! Yes.” He turns back to Astarion. “And then that blowhard challenged anyone in the near vicinity to an arm-wrestling contest for an absurd amount of money.” He chuckles. “Karlach fairly leaped at it. I admit I was rather supportive.”
“Good,” Astarion says. He means both the food and the mischievous gleam in Gale’s eye; he’s as upstanding as Wyll most of the time, and the good-natured debauchery looks good on him. He rather can’t resist leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose. “We’re richer now for it, and Wyll was just saying we’ll need a pretty penny to afford our next mission.”
“You do want to go to the gala, then?” Gale asks Wyll, although he pecks Astarion’s cheek back first. “You seemed unsure before. Will you run into anyone you know there?”
“Possibly,” Wyll says, “and I’m not sure if that would be an advantage or a problem, considering our . . . circumstances, and my current form. But I believe the pros outweigh the cons. Even when you don’t consider the Bhaal target who needs help.”
“Then I assume we need coin for something suitable to wear,” Gale all but grimaces.
“Ch’k, you agree too?” Lae’zel has turned her gaze away from Shadowheart, finally—she’d been keeping an eye on her ever since she appeared to be having difficulty leaving the conversation she’d trapped herself in. “Karlach, what say you?”
“A party sounds fun.” Karlach scoops up a handful of nuts from the bowl on the table. “Gods, I’m starved, the food better get here soon.” Then she turns to Wyll, sharply, as if something has just occurred to her. “Will there be something good at the party, yeah?”
“Hm,” Wyll hums, noncommittally. “Canapés and dainties, I’m afraid.”
“Damnit.” She shovels more nuts into her mouth. “Well, we should still go. We’ve got to protect the target, right? And find information while we’re at it.”
Gale nods. “Always good to have.”
“This is ridiculous,” Lae’zel says, which Astarion assumes is about the extravagant party she doesn’t want to go to, but then realizes is about Shadowheart, who is still stuck. “It seems I shall have to go extricate her.” She pushes herself up from the table and marches over, going to stand beside Shadowheart with her arms crossed.
“Well, look at that.” Astarion actually turns around to watch, raising his legs and twisting his entire body so he’s facing the other way on the bench. “A white knight going to our damsel’s rescue.”
Shadowheart looks at Lae’zel with a pleasantly surprised expression, like, oh! You’re here, is it that time already?, and sets a hand on her arm, just the way Astarion’s hand is on Gale’s, looking apologetically between Lae’zel and the other cleric.
“Look how readily she plays along,” he smirk-whispers into Gale’s ear.
The wizard makes a low, chagrined hum. “It’s not proof.”
“You know I’m right, darling, just admit it.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” Gale replies. Astarion has been telling Gale that Shadowheart and Lae’zel have been making eyes at each other for weeks, and Gale stubbornly refuses to believe it, although it’s obvious this has more to do with being upset he didn’t notice it first than actually thinking Astarion is wrong. This is a fun game they play, Astarion pointing out any time Shadowheart and Lae’zel send each other lingering glances or happen to touch in an action that would have once seemed uncharacteristic, followed by Gale protesting it can’t possibly be true.
“You not knowing something? I’d say I’m surprised but frankly it wouldn’t be the first time.” Astarion doesn’t look back at the offended sputter Gale makes, choosing instead to focus on the scene in front of him. He can’t quite hear from here, but he can imagine what she’s saying—lost track of time, I didn’t know you were waiting, I’m so sorry to cut and run but it was just lovely to meet you—and with Lae’zel’s glowering and somewhat possessive countenance, it only takes a second for the two to extricate themselves.
“Bravo,” Astarion says to the pair as they come back. He wheels around again to sit at the table the correct way as they take their seats. “Will we have to worry about that cleric staring daggers at our table all night, or do you think Lae’zel put the fear of the gods into him?”
“He’d be a fool to make any further advances,” Lae’zel says.
“As much as I didn’t need your assistance,” Shadowheart adds, while Lae’zel scoffs and Astarion straight-up laughs, “I suppose I am grateful for it. He was a bore but I didn’t think I could get away without pissing him off.”
“Sorry as I am you got stuck there, not pissing him off was a good call,” Wyll says. “Thank you for keeping a low-ish profile.”
“A low-ish profile is what I specialize in. Or, used to. I suppose it’s as valuable a skill set as any. So,” Shadowheart takes a breath and reaches out for the bowl of nuts, which Karlach slides just a little closer to her, before anyone can follow up on that comment. “Have we decided to go to this shindig?”
“Yes,” all of them say, in unison, except Lae’zel, who scoffs again.
Shadowheart laughs. “Then I suppose tomorrow we’ll go to the enclave and see what we can find. I should be able to find something for most of you, and anyone else we can—”
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”
The cacophony is so sudden that Astarion leaps against Gale, tightening his hold on the wizard’s arm in a completely instinctual but embarrassingly dependent action he doesn’t want to linger on. A cake slides onto the table in front of them, a giant tiered monstrosity with a whole ring of candles lit, accompanied by singing, gods-damned singing, from a cabal of barstaff ringed around their table.
Astarion is trying to think of whose fucking birthday it is—he doesn’t even know Gale’s, he realizes—and why, by the gods, they would order a cake and this loud, singing farce that came along with it, when he also realizes, with horror, that the cake is in front of him, and all the barstaff are looking at him.
He glances up from the cake. Wyll is sitting stock-still with his mouth scrunched up trying to keep in a laugh, and Karlach and Shadowheart aren’t even trying. He looks to his right; Lae’zel, at least, looks chagrined. But when he turns to his left, Gale has an expression that mirrors Wyll’s, his mouth all tense and pursed and squiggly with the effort of keeping his composure.
The song is still going. Astarion refuses to look at the barstaff so he looks back at Wyll, trying to beat back the smug delight in the man’s eyes with his own steely gaze. Wyll choosing the restaurant, Karlach going to order the food, the whispers between the two when she returned. Astarion can put two and two together.
The barstaff finish their stupid song with a loud cheer. Astarion doesn’t even look at them as they say some pleasant parting platitude—enjoy! Congratulations!—so it falls to Wyll to be polite about it all, turning to say, “Thank you, he’ll enjoy the cake!” as they disperse. Although, honestly, they seem used to this kind of reception.
When Wyll turns back, Astarion is still holding his gaze, ready to trap Wyll in it. “I suppose you think that was funny,” he says.
Wyll responds by finally breaking into the fit of laughter he’d been trying to keep back. Astarion turns to Karlach. “And you.” And then to Shadowheart. “And you.” And then to Lae’zel. “And—well, maybe not you, you’re apparently the only one with a sense of propriety here.” And then he wheels on Gale, who, he remembers, accompanied Karlach to put in the order. “And you.”
Gale still has his mouth pursed so he doesn’t break into a laugh. “It was Wyll’s idea,” he defends, immediately, but opening his mouth to speak ruins his composure, and he snorts into his hand.
Astarion continues looking at him, considering he can’t stare everyone down at once. “I feel rather betrayed. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I thought you wanted us to engage in a little more debauchery.”
“Yes, I thought it was a rather good prank,” Wyll says, tight and jovial, recovering from his laugh. He’s beaming with his own cleverness as he grabs the edge of the platter to pull the cake towards him—but Astarion grabs the other edge, the one closest to him.
“Excuse me, this is my cake.”
The entire table bursts into laughter at that, including Lae’zel, and almost including Astarion. He fights down the grin threatening to climb its way up. “It’s my birthday.”
He pulls the cake more roughly back towards him now, which is easy, since Wyll’s grip has gone slack because he’s laughing too hard. Karlach’s in the middle of a bonafide knee-slap, Shadowheart has her face behind her hands, and Lae’zel—who Astarion doesn’t think he’s ever seen do anything more than a restrained tsk-chuckle—has covered her own mouth with her hand, damning evidence of a laugh she’s trying so very hard to hide.
“Go on, then—” Gale spurts out; he’s near tears himself—“make your birthday wish.”
Astarion glances down at the cake and then back to Gale. “A what?”
“A wish. You know. You make a wish and then you blow out the candles.”
He furrows his brow. “Is that real?”
“What do you mean is it real?”
“A birthday wish.”
“Of course it’s not real magic,” Gale scoffs, “but it is a real tradition. Have you never . . .?” As Astarion continues to stare blankly at him, Gale seems to finally catch up to the ramifications of Astarion’s question, and, indeed, the implications of putting a birthday cake before him.
“Oh, Astarion.” The wizard lifts a leg so he can straddle the bench, fully facing Astarion, and takes one of Astarion’s hands in both his own, the one closest to him on the table. “This—this was a stupid prank. There was no harm meant by it, except we thought it would be funny to see how much you hated it.” He smiles, a little grim, and starts gently rubbing Astarion’s hand. “I didn’t think about, ah, well . . . you haven’t had one of these in 200 years, have you? Prank or no prank.”
“I just asked about this stupid wish you’re talking about,” Astarion says. He feels more uncomfortable now than he had during the singing; the jovial mood has died down somewhat, and everyone seems to be treating this far more seriously than he intended, even if he is mad about being the butt of a joke.
“On your birthday, when you get your cake, you make a wish—quietly, to yourself—and then blow out all the candles. If you blow out all the candles in one try, your wish will come true,” Gale explains. Then he moves one of his hands up to Astarion’s cheek, leans in to Astarion’s ear, and drops his volume; this part is meant for the vampire only. “This may have been a prank, but the sentiment, from all of us, is very real. I promise you, Astarion, you’re never going to have to go back to . . . to not knowing what a birthday wish is. We’ll make sure of that. I’ll make sure of that.”
Astarion doesn’t know how to reply. He can feel everyone’s eyes looking away, briefly, to give them some privacy, which might actually be worse than if they just kept staring at him straight through it. He’s trying to figure out what to say, what to do, how to feel, when a fat glob of something hits his cheek. He blinks, broken out of the spell, and realizes Gale is grinning; the hand that had been on Astarion’s face is covered in frosting and cake innards.
“Another birthday tradition,” he says, cheerfully, “is pushing the birthday-haver’s face into their own cake. But I’d rather have you blow the candles out first, so I settled for this.”
Astarion blinks again as Shadowheart guffaws. “That’s for wedding cakes,” she says, at the same time Astarion says, “Oh, you fucking—” and reaches down to scoop up his own collection of cake, which he smears across Gale’s face, deftly maneuvering past the arms the wizard puts up to protect himself.
“Stop! Stop! I want to eat that!” Karlach cries. Wyll is calling something out too, but it’s completely deafened by the pure pathos in Karlach’s voice, and then she or someone on that side of the table has grabbed the cake in an attempt to salvage it before Astarion can get any more of his greedy little paws on it. He takes one last swipe before it’s out of his reach, probably forever, and practically flings it onto Gale’s cheek. “Prestidigitate this, you fucking wizard.”
Gale scrunches his eyes closed against the sudden projectile, and his crow’s feet—those blasted, adorable crow’s feet—shine with the laugh on his face. “I’m not sure I want to,” he says, rubbing off some of the cake and then eating it straight out of his hand. “It’s quite good, actually.”
It takes Astarion a good several minutes to realize he never even made a wish, and that he’s not sure he needs to.