Chapter Text
“No. Absolutely not,” said Shadowheart.
“Please?!” Rosalie begged, looking as contrite as she could possibly manage. “I know it sounds bad, but it would be painless, I promise.”
“There’s no way, in all the Nine Hells, that I would ever, I mean ever-”
“But you love trickery! That’s your whole… deal,” she gestured at Shadowheart’s vestments. Since they’d stopped adventuring, her friend now wore black and white cloth instead of armour, monochromatic where Rosalie, with her lilac skin and pink hair, was colourful. “I know you don’t really like parties that much, but I already asked Wyll - he’s busy that night. Opening some government building, cutting the ribbon or something, probably kissing some babies on the forehead-”
“No,” Shadowheart responded, with severity. “No. Not for all the money in the world. And I hope you feel mortified just asking it of me.”
“It would only be for the evening. And you’d be saving my life... after all those times I’ve saved yours?”
“Just… ask Astarion. For gods’ sake.”
Rosalie’s stomach contorted painfully. She wasn’t sure why.
“I can’t ask Astarion.”
“Why the fuck not? He’s perfect. He’s practically a professional flirt, as it is. Give him the excuse for some overt theatricality, at a party, with an audience, with the added bonus that he can be insufferable towards you for an evening? He’d jump at the chance. He’d do it for free!”
“I can’t ask Astarion,” Rosalie said, swallowing against the lump in her throat, “because Astarion…” would understand the assignment all too well, “...looks like her. Like Threnn. She’ll make it about her-”
“It is about her.”
“She’ll think he’s her stand-in, or her replacement,” Rose muttered, embarrassed, “I’ll look like I have a type.”
“You do have a type-”
“I do not!” she said: scandalised, exposed, far too seen.
“- shy, retiring, types, that like books, of which Astarion very much is not one.” Shadowheart continued, as if she hadn’t almost given Rose a heart-attack.
“He’ll draw too much attention,” Rose protested weakly. “He won’t be able to help himself.”
“That will only help with your terrible scheme.”
“He’ll enjoy himself far too much at my expense, and he will laud it over me for years.”
“Then you could do the sensible thing, and go to this event alone, and enjoy it for what it is, without worrying about what your awful ex-girlfriend thinks of you.” Shadowheart replied flatly, with all the mercy of a killing blow. “But instead, you opted for a plus one, and you chose to ask me to pretend to be your partner, and so we’re now having this fucking travesty of a conversation.”
“You don’t understand-”
“I do,” Shadowheart interrupted. “She was awful, and she hurt you, and you’re scared to see her again. And, for all your spotless morality, you want to make her a little jealous. I don’t say I blame you for any of that, but what I can blame you for is thinking I’m the right person for the job. Trickery is my domain, so take my advice - you want to go down this road? At least do it well. If you need a fake date who’s pretty, charming, and distracting for both yourself and others? Who won’t take it too seriously, but also won’t fuck it up by being embarrassed the entire time? You don’t ask me. You ask Astarion.”
Rose wished she could argue with the logic. She’d spent the last three days trying to in her own mind - ever since Wyll had turned her down, and taken her most charismatic and sociable friend out of the running. Or at least, the charismatic and sociable friend most suitable for polite company. There was no arguing that Astarion would thrive at the awards ceremony, rubbing shoulders with the rich and powerful.
It was his definition of ‘thriving’ that worried her.
She knew she couldn’t take Lae’zel, because if she did, someone would end the night gutted and bleeding out across the floors. But at least she knew to expect that from Lae’zel. With Astarion, you just didn’t get any fucking warning in advance as to whether the night would end with mischief, murder, or some of the best memories of your life.
Shadowheart had been her compromise. And even then she’d known, deep down, that Shadowheart would say no.
“....You could always ask Gale?” her friend offered, a frown furrowing her brow. “He’d intimidate all those Candlekeep scholars, and it would make her jealous in an entirely different way, yes?
The two of them shared a silent look, as they imagined Rosalie taking Gale to a party. Gale, their friend, who elected to spend the time he wasn’t adventuring with them locked in his tower with his cats. Gale, who would say yes, but only because he quite clearly and unsubtly had a minor pining crush on Rose, and had done for all their years of said adventuring.
Rose looked down in her cup with resignation, and then drained it to the dregs. Shadowheart was right, of course. Rose could just go alone, push Threnn to the back of her mind... and hope that she didn’t run into her, or could successfully avoid a conversation with her, or that she didn’t accidentally bump into her new girlfriend…
“I’ll… ask Astarion,” Rosalie said, tiredly.
She made the pretense of inviting him to lunch.
Such an invitation wasn’t that unusual. Everyone else in her party had decided by mutual agreement that they wanted to keep up the frankly ludicrous farce that they didn’t actually like each other all that much, despite the many times each one of them had risked their lives for the others. But, having accidentally built a team out of the most reclusively shy introverts or the most brash, abrasive extroverts imaginable, it had quickly fallen to Rose - ever the peacekeeper - to organise their reunions and gatherings. And to check in on each of them individually, prying out their latest news with whatever bottle of alcohol was most suited for the job. Her and Astarion were due a check-in - he’d been away for the month, squandering his riches fuelling an extravagant string of weeklong parties at some fine noble’s estate outside of Waterdeep. And so there was nothing, Rosalie thought, awkward or unusual about asking him out for lunch at one of his preferred restaurants in Bloomridge.
The years had not left a single mark on his ageless face. They hadn’t really on Rose’s, either: the eight - nearly nine - years of their acquaintance was to a tiefling roughly as inconsequential as it was to a vampire. He looked the same as ever, a handsome fly stuck in amber: white hair perfectly coiffed, red eyes bright and knowing, clothes artistically rumpled - likely from activities enjoyed the night before.
“Are you ill, Foxglove?” he asked, halfway through their lunch, in which he didn’t touch anything on his plate because he was a vampire, and she didn’t touch any of the food on hers because she was too nervous to fucking eat.
“No,” she said, shortly.
“...No?”
Rose opened her mouth to lie, and ask him a polite detail about some other pretty wastrel he’d claimed he’d ravished. She decided she couldn’t stomach it. Maybe it was to do with the pathetic light it put on her own request, burning deep in the pit of her stomach, but she didn’t really feel like hearing all the grisly details about his latest string of conquests.
Instead, she put down her cutlery with a clatter, and blurted, “I need to ask you a favour.”
“Ah. So that’s why you brought me here, when I know full well you hate the food and think the drinks are overpriced.” Astarion said, placing his own fork down gently and looking at her with raised eyebrows. He sighed, “What is it this time? A giant? A thieves’ guild? Another cult? I thought our little band of heroes were officially disbanded. I thought we didn’t do your silly little quests anymore?”
“This isn’t a… job-type favour,” Rose said, “this would be… um… something personal. To me.”
He paused, genuinely surprised. “And you’re asking for help… from me?”
An entirely salient observation, if Rosalie was honest.
“I asked Wyll and Shadowheart first,” she admitted, “but they turned me down.”
“Goodness, third in line to be picked, I should consider myself flattered! Normally I’m the much-beloved last resort,” Astarion remarked, taking a draught of wine. Rose bit her tongue as he did it: she knew she shouldn’t judge, but really - with the time he tended to get up, this was his breakfast. “Was his Majesty of Waterdeep indisposed?”
“This is, um, a little bit more in your wheelhouse than his, I think. I, um, should’ve asked you first, to be honest,” she said, “but I… didn’t think you’d say yes.”
“Well, spit it out then, dearest,” he sighed, “my first guess was that you wanted help with a murder, and I was about to ecstatically applaud your descent into criminality. But if you think I’m not going to be immediately on board, then that rules that out. If it’s not illegal, no need to beat about the bush - get to the point.”
“You have to promise you won’t laugh,” Rosalie said, then winced. Saying that basically guaranteed setting herself up as a joke.
Sure enough, Astarion began to smirk. “How intriguing, Foxglove! You know, if it’s some kind of scandalous ailment, or curse, I’m sure the Blade and our darling priestess could be persuaded-”
Oh, fuck it, Rose thought. Whichever way you cut it, this was primed to be one of the most humiliating moments of her life. Might as well push through and get it over with quickly - like ripping off a bandage, or jumping off a cliff.
“I need a date,” she blurted, cheeks burning at her own complete lack of finesse.
“I - I beg your pardon?” Astarion said, looking genuinely surprised. “Why is that an issue you bring to my door? Can’t you just… ask someone? Foxglove… just what kind of business ventures do you think I invested my spoils in?”
Rose closed her eyes, and did what she always did whenever she panicked around Astarion: she began babbling. “My spell - one of the ones I devised, and wrote up, and submitted for patenting - it got… um. Some recognition. An award. And um, I’ve been invited to a ceremony in Candlekeep, where they, um, allow you to perform your spell and then you have your handwritten scroll of it submitted to the library’s archives. It’s kind of, um, silly to you, I’m sure, but it’s a big deal in my field-”
“And you… what? Want to make a weekend of it?”
“They gave me a plus one,” she continued, at this point thoroughly fascinated with the woodgrain of the table, “so I need to bring someone with me -”
“And you didn’t ask Gale?”
“- I was, um, wondering if you would, um,” Rose took a big, gulping breath, reminded herself she was an adult, and looked up into his eyes. “I was wondering if you’d like to go with me.”
Astarion froze. Rosalie wondered why he looked so stunned. And then all was explained when he said, in a tone of utter bewilderment: “as your date?”
Charming, Rose thought. It couldn't be that awful and frightening a prospect.
“No need to look so horrified,” she muttered, feeling a little hurt, “obviously I’m not proposing anything romantic-”
Something about that kicked Astarion back into gear, and he began to drain several mouthfuls of his wine. Rose thought she saw the tips of his ears growing red, but it was probably just a property of the light. “Obviously,” he said, into the wine, “considering you asked two other people first.” He snorted against the rim of the wineglass, muttering, almost as if to himself, “idiot.”
“I just… I need someone to go with me,” she continued, “and I thought you might like to go to a fancy wizard party.”
“Why do you ‘need’ anyone? Can’t you just go there alone, rather than dragging me along to feel inadequate and foolish?” he retorted petulantly, “say a word with enough syllables, and I’m sure you’ll snap someone up in no time. What do you need me for?”
“It’s just… um… Threnn’s going to be there.”
Astarion stopped, then put his glass down to examine her, “...and how do you know that?”
Rose hated that that was all she needed to say, for him to understand. That the admission was enough to turn him thoughtful. It spoke volumes as to how many times she’d foolishly gotten drunk and spilled her guts to Astarion, of all people. By the time they’d reached the five year mark of their working relationship, she’d told him about everything: the messy breakup, the panic attacks, the agoraphobia that followed. Of course, it turned out he knew half of it from snooping in on her during their tadpole days, the rat bastard.
“Her current partner is a scholar at Candlekeep. They are in the department of arcane histories, which means they’ll probably be involved in the ceremony, in some capacity,” Rose muttered. “Which means she will probably be there. Not that I’m keeping tabs or anything, I was just… informed. By a mutual friend.”
“It’s been ten years, Foxglove,” he sighed.
Ten years, in which Rosalie had not been in any long term relationship.
Not that she’d been… trying to have one. She’d never really had time. The first two years since their split had been marred by her breakdown, and then the vigour of work and adventuring had meant that she’d never stayed in one place for long. The first time she’d been stationary for more than a couple of months was this year, having bought her apartment in Baldur’s Gate, when they had all agreed they’d earned enough to set up lives for themselves that did not involve being in constant danger.
“You’re famous now,” Astarion continued, as if he’d read her thoughts. “You’ve journeyed to the Hells. You’ve slayed dragons, multiple. You’re rich beyond compare, and you have this fancy spell thing, which is clearly an impressive feat to people who never leave their libraries. There would truly be no shame in going stag. It can be quite beneficial, actually, when trying to taunt an old flame. Show up with enough impressive stories, a low enough cut dress, and you can flirt your way into being the talk of the entire - oh.”
Rose winced. That kind of ‘oh’ was never good, when it came from Astarion.
“That’s why you’ve asked me to be your date,” he said, the revelation dawning on his face.
“I - I just need some moral support,” she lied. “You know how I get in crowds.”
“Oh, fuck that, dearest. If it was innocent as all that, then one of the other two would’ve said yes. But you… you want an actual date, don’t you?” he grinned, looking extremely entertained, exactly as she’d feared. “You want to be the hotter ex! Have some pretty little sidepiece dolled up and hanging off your arm all evening, telling everyone they think the world of you. All to make that woman jealous. My goodness, Foxglove, how devious! That’s astonishingly underhand, for you!”
Rose wondered if the ground would do her the immense favour of swallowing her whole - even if they were on the restaurant’s first floor.
“And I’m to be your trophy husband for the evening?” he crooned, “am I really that pretty? But of course you’d have to come to me, darling. Couldn’t ask Gale, could you? All a bit close to the bone for him, I suppose. Or, gods, you asked Shadowheart? I would’ve paid to be witness to that conversation-”
“The last time Threnn saw me, things were… bad,” Rosalie said flatly, which was an understatement for describing the embarrassing and grim state of affairs that Threnn had no doubt witnessed, the one time she’d come back to the Watchful Order to pick up the last of her belongings and Rose had had a panic attack in the library she’d made her home, as it was invaded. “I just… I don’t want her thinking that… that you know, I haven’t… moved on.”
“And have you?”
“Yes,” she said, vehemently. “Just because I haven’t found anyone else yet doesn’t mean I spend every night pining after her or anything absurd. Life just… hasn’t really worked out that way.”
“And yet, here you are, asking me to put on a show. All so that she thinks you’re hot shit-”
“Astarion, shut up,” Rose said, hating that her voice came out closer to tears than she actually was, just because of the sheer humiliation and frustration. “You know why this is hard for me. It’s an important party full of people, in a place I’ve never been, which would be bad enough, but then she’s there. I just… I want someone with me, to help me with the… with the space. And then I thought it would just be… you know… easier, if they also made it look like I was, y’know… not single... Look, I already know it’s pathetic and I already know it’s stupid, but it’ll guarantee that she’ll stay away from me and stop me from having a breakdown and ruining my own night. So… please?”
She risked a glance towards Astarion, and something that had been on his face flitted quickly away, to be quickly replaced by another goading smile. He leant forward, resting his chin in his hands. “I suppose my answer depends on a couple of things. How passionate a couple are we? And will you be sporting that low cut dress we just discussed?”
“Don’t make fun of me,” she said, already glumly resigned to her fate of being mocked for years to come. “I don’t expect you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, I’m not a monster. And I have to wear my dress robes. It’s an official ceremony, so no slutty clothes for me. But you can drink as much free wine as you want, and you don’t even have to hold my hand.”
They fell silent for a moment before he gave her a calculating look, as it finally occurred to him to ask her the one question she’d been anticipating, and dreading: “And just how desperate are you for the pleasure of my company, dearest Foxglove? What do I get out of this, exactly?”
“Is a fancy night out, paid for entirely on my tab, not enough?” Rose sighed.
“Bear in mind you’re inviting me to a party of scholars, darling. Not exactly my usual scene, and I have quite the busy social calendar - you know this! Why not make this the best offer I have going, hmm?”
Rose remembered what Shadowheart said: that if he knew how much he could use this against her, he’d likely do it for free. So why was he bothering to negotiate?
Probably just to be difficult. That was usually the answer when it came to Astarion.
“Then… I don’t know,” she said, honestly, and looked him straight in the eye as she decided to call his bluff, “what is it that you want, Astarion? If I can give it to you, I will.”
The direct question left him a little flustered. He blinked at her, and avoided her gaze, like he didn’t know where to look. Rose couldn’t say she was surprised: they’d known each other so long, at this point, that everyone had learnt how to deal with his mercenary ways. Usually, there was a little hold out for negotiation. Usually, a person wouldn’t leave such an obvious opening for both exploitation, and innuendo. But she was desperate, and there was no point hiding it. Maybe it would even help her case. Perhaps she was naive, but she hoped that after all this time of what certainly seemed like a friendship, her distress might prove to be enough of a motivation.
Not that Astarion would ever admit to doing her a kindness, and that’s why this entire conversation was needed in the first place.
“I’ll do anything, whatever you want,” she told him, honestly. Then she remembered who she was talking to, and added: “within reason.”
He smirked at her hurried amendment. “...'Within reason'?”
“No murder, blackmail, theft, or nudity.”
“Well, now this ‘night out’ of yours just sounds thoroughly dull-”
“Please, Astarion.” she said, quietly. He stopped, mid-taunt, surprised, and his brow furrowed, and he started to examine her, gaze burrowing a little too deep-.
Quickly, she looked down at her hands in her lap, becoming absorbed in the blunted half moons of her talons as she felt her cheeks start to heat. “I can’t - I can’t do the normal thing we do, of dancing around until you’ve gotten gold or a spell or a promise or - or whatever it is you want out of me. I need your help. Please. I’ll pay for your hotel, and your clothes, and your drinks for the night. And then I’ll owe you a favour, of your choosing, and you can make it embarrassing or excruciating, and maybe a little illegal, if that’s what it takes. But… can you just… agree to do this? For me? Please.”
She risked a glance up through her lashes. Partly because she knew that kind of look worked against Gale and Shadowheart, and even sometimes Wyll. And partly because she knew she’d just given Astarion a dangerous amount of ammunition, and she needed to stay on her guard for how he’d used it.
He was silent, uncharacteristically so, and while her sincerity (her pleading, let’s be honest) had wiped the gloating smirk off his face, the rest of his expression was frustratingly unreadable.
“A favour, unnamed, agreed to before the bargain is even struck?” he mused aloud, after a long pause. "Even that ancient dragon hunt to the north didn’t earn me such honeyed words, Foxglove. Are you suggesting being your escort is somehow... less pleasant than that little endeavour? Is this perhaps why you’ve stayed single all these years?”
That ancient dragon hunt had resulted in requisitioning a hoard so big that his share had bought him his house, so bargaining hadn’t really been necessary. But Rose didn’t bother pointing that out. She knew him well enough to see that she’d already won him over, and that this was his last snide comment before he capitulated. Because gods forbid Astarion wouldn’t ever not try his luck, to the very edge of everyone’s patience.
Rosalie was lucky she knew him so well: the next line in the script was easy enough to say, if you numbed yourself to it, first. She bunched her fists into her lap to stop herself from doing something stupid, like punching him, or reaching out over the table to take his hand.
“Please, Astarion,” she said, again, swallowing her pride and looking back up at him again. “I’ll be in your debt.”
He held her gaze a second too long, to make the moment uncomfortable. To take his time enjoying the way a fresh flush rose up through her face under scrutiny. And then he shrugged magnanimously, and grinned.
“Well, dearest,” he replied, smile devilish and easy as his eyes bored into hers, “when you beg so prettily, what can a man do but accept?”