Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Despite the implicit associations between the arcane and lavish, ornate architecture, the College of Magic at Baldur’s Gate University is housed in an incredibly corporate looking building. It’s all windowed exteriors and glass doors, towering high into the sky with a deck on the top floor for special events. The security guard, a grumpy man named Aradin, gives Gale a brief nod of acknowledgement as the wizard rushes to the elevators. 

He is familiar enough to Aradin that he no longer gets stopped on the way in to present his faculty ID. But Gale still fumbles with the small plastic card in his hands listing his name and appointment and whatever other information had been encoded onto it. Swiping the card once and then a second time as he guesses the wrong orientation again, Gale heaves a sigh as the elevator makes its smooth trip to the tenth floor. 

He is late to a mandatory, one-time orientation on using Parchment, the online curricular platform where his students would submit their assignments and receive their grades. When he enters the lecture hall, he quickly signs in with an apologetic smile to the bored Teaching Center staff person manning a table with informational packets. Taking a seat in the second to last row, close to the door he’d entered through, Gale sighs quietly and tries to follow the ongoing presentation, of which he’s missed 20 minutes. 

It seems that everyone had been instructed to post a test announcement on the platform, for practice. But he is still burning with the awkward frazzledness of being late and he finds that he has no idea how to even get onto the platform, let alone post a trial announcement. 

“Need some help?” 

He’s somehow missed the woman sitting to his right, who leanings towards him with a small sympathetic smile. 

”Oh no, I’m sure I can...” Gale trails off as he realizes that no, actually, he still can not even begin to parse how he is supposed to do this and so he abandons his polite refusal with a grateful nod. 

“May I?” She gestures towards the laptop he’d taken out of his bag without noticing somehow, and he passes it to her after opening a new browser window.

He has to protect his open tabs, after all. 

He watches as she wordlessly demonstrates how to get to Parchment through his browser and navigates through the dashboard to the webpage where he can try posting an announcement. He sees his courses for the rapidly approaching semester listed under an auto-populated reading (“Hello, Professor Dekarios”) and he is suddenly reminded that he is going from never having taught a class in his life to teaching two classes per semester for at least the next five years, or in the case of external funding, as per his tenure-track agreement. 

In a roundabout way, that incredible shift in his reality is why he was late to the orientation. Despite Tara’s increasingly stern insistence that he go to sleep at a normal hour, he’d been up late the past few nights fretting about the syllabi and lesson plans he finalized weeks ago. He fell asleep sitting up at his desk and never set his alarm on the clunky clock he’s used since his days at Blackstaff. 

The helpful stranger passes his laptop back to him, confident in his ability to type in a few random words for a fake course announcement, and leans back in her chair to scroll on her phone. 

After another hour, the orientation is finally over. As the lights are undimmed, he turns and introduces himself. 

“I’m Gale. Gale Dekarios,” he holds out a hand and gives her a friendly smile, “And the name of my Parchment savior is…?”

“Tavelle Ancunín,” she grins at him, breathing a laugh out of her nose, “But everyone calls me Tav.” 

They shake hands and Gale invites her for coffee. She does not drink coffee, but tells him she will take a hot chocolate “if it’s allowed” and so that is how he finds himself sitting across from her in the college cafe on the fourth floor. 

Tav is more eclectic in the light. Her dark curly hair is full and stops just shy of her shoulders in tight ringlets. She wears dark blue overalls over a light sweater and colorful clogs. Her nose is pierced on the right side and when he compliments her stylish oversized glasses, she says “thanks, I need them to see.”

She is funny. Very funny, in a dry sort of way he quite likes. And she is well acquainted with the ins and outs of online higher education platforms; apparently graduate teaching assistants or lead instructors have to attend the Parchment seminar every semester they have a course appointment, whereas professors only have to go once, period. Another policy that makes no sense, yet must be fulfilled anyway. 

Ah, academia. 

Gale learns Tav is ABD (“all but dissertation”) in the doctoral program in Interdisciplinary Magics; it is anticipated that she’ll officially defend her work in about a year, gods willing, and she is looking forward to it. She enjoys working on her project, despite the incredible pressure of the most vital period she is in. The dissertation phase, to put it lightly, is like a stew of every negative emotion and mental challenge one could think of, boiled over the vicious heat of hellfire. Even the most well-adjusted, self-assured, and knowledgeable person cries through at least some of it. 

In short: he does not envy her. 

“My advisors are wonderful, so at least I have that. Things could be much, much worse.” 

Oh, yes. As he intimately knows, they definitely could be. But even so, the process is still hard, even without the burden of a fucked up committee. So he gives her his reassurance anyway, telling her in the very small amount of time they’ve known each other, she’s proven to be very competent and so he is positive that she will succeed. And she finds that to be plenty funny, laughing while trying down a sip of her still-too-hot drink. 

Eventually, the conversation turns to him, which he hadn’t realized he’d been dreading. She asks him where he’s from and what he’s doing at BGU despite having seen his courses listed on the Parchment site.

When he tells her he’s come from University of Waterdeep, he expects the response he’s received so far when meeting new colleagues. 

“Waterdeep? We better watch out,” another Wizardry faculty, Gregor Aeiulvana, had mostly joked, “I think you’ll find we BGU types are not nearly as bloodthirsty.”

Instead, Tav’s eyes light up in recognition. 

“Wait! G. Dekarios! There’s a paper you wrote–fuck, what was it called? Oh, yes: ‘Alternative Histories of the Other Weave’! I loved it. Even cited it in my proposal.”

Gale feels a confused mix of flattered and prideful and embarrassed. 

He is definitely proud of the paper and delighted that Tav had read it and found enough value to include it in her dissertation plans. But he can never forget how Mystra had called it an “incredible waste of faculties and resources” for him to pursue that oral history project in the north of the Sword Coast. In hindsight, even though she left him much later, his decision to spend those 4 months in Neverwinter Wood had been the beginning of the end. Every moment he spent interviewing the almost 40 living descendents of the Xin’kar enclave that had survived Karsus’s Folly, he was betraying her. She made that quite clear in their correspondence, limited to letters and the occasional email due to the lack of cellphone and internet service in the region. 

Still, he couldn’t ever regret it. Everyone had been so generous with the stories and traditions they’d inherited, all shaped thoroughly by an incredible moment of destruction. They had vital, undocumented knowledge on the Karsite Weave and had long hoped to share it with the outside world. They opened their gatherings and spaces to him without a second thought. It was deeply humbling and irrevocably changed his visions for his work, forever.

He even keeps in touch with some of them still, years later. 

“Well, I’m touched,” and he is telling the truth. 

Gale and Tav sit together, trading quips about things they’ve read, leading to a series of lighthearted, entirely-too-fun-to-become-heated debates until a call comes in on his phone. 

It is Elminster. He frowns at the vibrating device for a moment, until Tav asks him if he’s going to pick it up. When he hesitates to respond, she is suddenly standing, belongings all packed away, and telling him that she has to go anyway and will let him take his call. Then she waves and walks away, leaving him alone. 

He lets the phone buzz until it finally isn’t. 

–

As Tav unlocks the door to her apartment, she can hear Rolan’s exasperated “Finally!” from her living room. Kicking off her clogs, she pads over to set the large bag of takeout on the coffee table beside Astarion’s feet. 

“You know, Tavelle, punctuality is always an option,” the pale high elf moves to rip open the stapled brown paper bags with their dinner inside. 

Tav rolls her eyes and waves off Astarion and Rolan as she walks down the hallway to her room to change. Emerging in a cozy bleach-stained sweatshirt and pajama pants, she sits on the floor in front of the coffee table, a well-loved cushion underneath her.

“Sorry I got side-tracked. I was talking to a new faculty member. I think he’s in your department now, Rolan,” she rolls her sore shoulders as she deliberates with herself between two movies for dinner background noise. 

Rolan speaks in a bored tone, only mildly interested as he serves himself a plate from the still-steaming containers, “And who was so fascinating that you bothered speaking with them, let alone got side-tracked? You hate almost everyone at BGU.”

Rolan is a grad student in the Department of Wizardry and one of her closest friends. Currently in his third year of the doctoral program, he will soon propose his dissertation under Ramazith Flamesinger on ecologically sustaining applications for water magics. 

Tav and Rolan became friends under difficult circumstances. Rolan had just reported his previous advisor, Lorroakan Athkatlan, for abusive behavior and Tav had been a witness to that behavior in a course she’d taken with Lorroakan. Rolan had filed the complaint, but wasn’t being taken seriously and he’d needed more evidence. Tav wrote a statement on his behalf, he funded her bar tab for a night, and the rest is history, as they say.

“Gale… Dekarios. Gale Dekarios,” she ignores the look Astarion gives her when she answers in a tone soaked by familiarity. 

Rolan, on the other hand, snaps to attention.

“Dekarios! From Waterdeep?” Tav nods, “What’s he doing here?”

“He’s starting this semester in your department. He had to go to the Parchment thing today.”

“That’s really surprising,” Rolan’s face reflects this, “He’s one of Mystra Savra’s closest collaborators. They’re… together and have been for a while. At least, they were definitely together when I last went to WAA. I wonder why Dekarios would leave Waterdeep. And in the middle of the academic year?”

“You seem very interested in Gale’s situation, Rolan," Tav grins and points her fork at the tiefling, continuing with a knowing tone.

"And you say you don’t like gossip.” 

“I don’t like gossip,” Rolan rolls his eyes, "But Dekarios and Savras are a known quantity and a highly common topic of scandalous conversation among us academic wizards, Tavelle,” Tav sticks her tongue out at Rolan’s use of her full name, “Him being at BGU means that maybe they’ve ended their relationship.”

Rolan seems surprised at the conclusion himself even though he is the one who’d come to it. 

“Well,” Tav begins, feeling uncomfortable with dwelling on Gale’s personal life, “He’s really nice. And generous with his time. You should try talking to him about your work if you can.”

“Oh, is he?” Astarion asks. 

“Hm?” Tav feigns confusion. 

“Nice, Tav? Generous, Tav?” Astarion’s pronounced canines almost glint as he grins.

“Oh shut up,” Tav replies through a mouthful of rice. 

“I’ve actually heard he’s quite arrogant,” Rolan says this as he twirls a forkful of noodles, “So I’m going to assume you think he’s attractive.”

Tav throws Rolan a deeply unamused look as she recalls her time with Gale. 

How quickly two hours had passed between them. He was so smart, so easy to talk to. And he had an unrestrained enthusiasm about him. He asked plenty of questions and gave just as many answers—about BGU and his work and her work and her, as a person. The call he received had somewhat snapped her back to earth, anchored her back to the normal procession of time, and she’d felt self-conscious about how much she had been enjoying the entirety of his attention. 

So she ran off.

Gale hadn’t come off to her as arrogant. He was thoroughly opinionated, yes. And he spoke with easy confidence in his knowledge and recollections. But he was also curious and he seemed like a natural at banter and charming unsuspecting strangers (like her).

Sure, he is also very nice to look at—so nice, in fact, that it took her absolutely off guard when the lights came on in the lecture hall. But he’s also just nice.

Tav sighs to herself.

What is she doing? She doesn’t know Gale. She spent hardly any time with him at all and now she’s here insisting that he’s some perfect little prince. 

She really needs to get laid, she thinks.

Tav refocuses on dinner, Astarion and Rolan long having moved onto discussing the shitty customer Astarion had dealt with that morning. Falling into the rhythms of a typical weeknight, the three of them enjoy their takeout, bickering and joking all the while, and ignore the movie in the background.

Later that night, Tav and Gale take too long to fall asleep, separated by miles, both committing to not thinking too hard about the other. 

Chapter Text

Tav does not speak to Gale again until a couple of weeks into the semester. 

She wants to, but feels weird about emailing him at his university address without a real reason for it. Maybe it would be different if he wasn’t a professor or if she wasn’t a grad student, but they are what they are and she wants to initiate a somewhat casual (non-professional) interaction, so she hesitates. But then Rolan mentions an upcoming guest lecture from Elminster Aumar, the Sage of Shadowdale, and she remembers the name on Gale’s phone screen that day. 

‘Incoming call from… Elminster’ 

And so, for the first time since before her medical leave, Tav goes to a non-mandatory College of Magic event. 

She’s seen him twice—once as walked by his office on her way to Rolan, where multiple students lingered to speak to him, and then another time when he was in an elevator and the doors were just closing as she’d entered the lobby. They’d made surprised, but happy eye contact and Gale seemed to move to try to keep the doors open, but it was already too late. 

Tav doesn’t question her own decision to come to the seminar—despite both Astarion and Rolan’s (justified) confusion about her attendance—until she’s actually here and is once again looking at Gale.

He seems comfortable in the practically packed auditorium on the first floor, at ease in front of so many people. Gale prefaces Aumar’s talk with a detailed and praising introduction that is more than suited to the speaker’s renown. 

And he looks good in all black. 

Tav does her best to pay attention to Aumar’s lecture regarding psionic metamagic. And for the most part, she succeeds in listening and being interested. But when she can’t reach Gale afterwards, because he’s been swarmed by faculty and students after closing out the event (he wasn’t even the main speaker?), she can’t help but feel like she’s wasted a perfectly good early evening. 

Moving reluctantly towards the adjacent room, where a small cocktail hour is almost done being set up, Tav finds Rolan beside a table full of wine bottles.

“Not gonna try talking to the great Sage?” Tav leans against the wall near Rolan, trying to alleviate some of the pressure on her lower back. 

Rolan scoffs, “Absolutely not. There’s already too many people waiting.”

“You gonna email him afterwards and get ignored like a good little grad student?” 

“Yup,” Rolan says, mirroring Tav’s deadpan tone. 

They both snort with laughter and talk shit as faculty and students trickle into room.

While the lecture had been open to everyone, the cocktail hour is specifically for CoM grad students and faculty.  Tav looks around the room again as Rolan gets a first glass of wine from the (“finally open”) bar. Too many people, too many roaming platters of hors d'oeuvres to find what (who) she is looking for. She guesses that the larger cluster of bodies around the entrance to the auditorium is likely composed of people still waiting to speak to Aumar or Gale or both of them, but she has no way of knowing for sure. 

Drinking from a plastic cup of ginger ale, she watches, perhaps not patiently but at least with the understanding that it could take a while. And as she does this, Tav also wonders just what the fuck has come over her.

What is she doing? 

“Okay, confession time: why did you come? And who do you keep looking for?”

Rolan’s glowing eyes signal he will have nothing less than a response devoid of bullshit, but Tav still gives it a try.

“I go to this school,” Tav murmurs detachedly as she looks into her ginger ale, “When did it become remarkable for a student to go to an event hosted by the school they go to?” 

“Oh, come off it. You and I both know that you’d rather get fingered by a Hook Horror than willingly go to an event at this school that wasn’t actually required,” Rolan retorts flatly, an unamused fist coming to rest on his hip, “At least, you would on a normal day.” 

“That is…” Tav replies, nose scrunched, “very graphic.”

It is at that moment that Gale’s face finally emerges from the cluster of people she’s been watching. And this time, he finds her eyes too, spotting her, already staring, from her perch against the wall. Tav slides up a hit, trying to stand a bit straighter in an extremely casual way while keeping her eyes glued on Gale’s face. 

Rolan raises an eyebrow at Tav’s focus and follows her eyes out to the portion of the room behind him. He doesn’t notice it for a moment. But then he does—Gale Dekarios, slowly moving towards the two of them. At first, it could pass as coincidental. After all, the side of the room they’re standing on is filled with plenty of other people to speak to, most of them with more cachet than two grad students. But Gale moves in a practically diagonal path across the room and, eventually, keeps his eyes on Tav as he does so.

Realization dawning, the tiefling watches as Gale Dekarios weaves past clusters of conversations, charmingly cutting short different interactions with a smile and a hand gesture, to get to Tav.  

Well, fuck.

Eventually, the man is only a few feet away and perfectly within greeting distance. His eyes crinkle towards Tav fondly and he’s opening his mouth, hand already moving into a small wave. But it is not yet meant to be and Rolan watches as Gale mistakenly turns towards a light touch on his shoulder and, before he knows it, the man is integrated into another discussion with a senior faculty and a university dean, both seemingly congratulating him for a successful event. 

When Rolan turns back to Tav, she is looking around the room absentmindedly, trying to appear casual. 

Well, fuck. 

Rolan starts to feel like ants are under his skin. It is sudden and arresting, but he pushes it away. Composure, his mother used to remind him with a singular word. Composure. 

“Did you come for Dekarios?” Rolan asks without preamble, softer than Tav seems to expect. It almost makes Rolan roll his eyes. Almost. They are, after all, around many people, all of whom know who Gale Dekarios is and capable of wondering what kind of circumstance would prompt such a question. So he’s obviously not going to shout the damn words.

Still. There is something else in Rolan’s voice, something that he avoids to acknowledge until, in a rare move, he relents. As he takes in Tav’s evasive, embarrassed face, Rolan admits it to himself: he is concerned. 

On the day Tav first mentioned Dekarios and the conversation they’d had, Rolan, admittedly,  had not thought much about it at first—not even as he and Astarion teased her about her sudden praise for a random BGU faculty member. She never denied that she found Dekarios attractive and it’s not like she’s dated anyone or even snuck around with a fuck buddy in the time he’s known her. On some level, she has to be lonely. As he’s picked up on over the years, Tav is fully capable of, even liable to, getting swept away by attraction. Desire. And a bit of thirst is normal during a dry spell, as Astarion might say. But this—actually going to a seminar in order to, as he increasingly believed, see the man? A faculty member! And putting on a dress to do so? 

Rolan is worried.

With Tav’s… history, it would be best for her if she didn’t develop or, at the very least, follow through on any infatuations with any faculty members. So this, he thinks, whatever messiness she seems to be feeling about Dekarios, needs to be confronted head on and given a swift and early death.

Because Tav has a reputation. 

A complicated one. An unkind one. A reputation that sometimes makes Rolan genuinely concerned about her ability to find a job after she finishes at BGU.

Rolan never got the full story about Gortash from Tav. In reality, he hadn’t needed to. What he learned from the whispers and prying questions after being seen with her, after being marked as her friend, and always poorly masked as concern, was more than enough: Tav and Gortash, one of her advisors, had been involved in unethical ways. Something especially messed up happened. Then Tav took two years away from school before returning with an all-new advising team and a drastically different program of research. 

And upon that return, Rolan met her and they became friends. Actual friends, like close enough to actually have things to speak about outside of school and for her to not brush her teeth before he comes  over in the morning. Hells, enough for him to come over in the morning. She was there for him when he needed her, needed anyone, to back him up the most. She did that. 

So, right at that moment, Rolan decides that he will at least attempt to put on his “concerned friend” hat, no matter how awkward it feels.

But not before swearing at Tav in his head for making him do so. 

“Is there something you’d like to…,” gods he hated this, “talk about? I’m all ears.” 

“Huh?” Tav's eyes had drifted back to some undefined spot behind him. Rolan has a good inkling of exactly where, however.  

“The professor you keep staring at,” He steps closer to speak in a low whisper, “Is everything okay?”

She looks up at him for a moment, her eyes wide behind her glasses. His heart beats faster. Is this it? Is she going to cry? Confess?

And then, damn her to the Hells, Tav laughs at him. 

In a casual but steady voice, Tav tells him that he is overreacting and that, “while cute,” it is “incredibly unnecessary.” 

“I just like looking at him,” Tav says with an amused shrug, a very can you blame me? expression on her face. 

She doesn’t seem to be lying. Rolan’s eyes slide shut and he chuckles. Of course. Of course. How silly of him. 

“Wanna come outside? I rolled before I left home,” Tav offers, already on her way towards the door that leads to the small garden behind the CoM building. Her fingers brush the pocket of her sweater where, he is sure, a neatly rolled joint awaits.

“Some of us are surrounded by our colleagues, you heathen,” Rolan retorts, relieved and without malice.

“Fine, fine,” Tav turns away from him fully and eventually slips outside. 

Rolan turns back to the rest of the room, briefly glancing over Gale (Dekarios) before turning to identify a few potentially generative conversations.

Now that that’s over, it’s time to network. 

–

Tav sits on a bench near the end of one of the garden’s hedges and exhales. 

She’d been obvious enough about… whatever was happening in her head regarding Gale, that she worried Rolan. Rolan. He was never so sincere unless he needed to be and, apparently, he’d felt he needed to be. 

Tav never told Rolan everything that happened before they met. When she met him, it felt imperative that she focus solely on moving on and, hopefully, making a friend in the process. So they didn’t talk about it and then she never brought it back up, even though the story is at the top of her throat at any given time. But she’s always known her secrecy doesn’t mean Rolan is unaware, that he doesn’t know some things. After all, people talk. And talked. And continue to talk.

From her vantage point now, it seems clear that, at the very least, Rolan knows enough about her past to be worried over some minor irregularities in her present behavior. And realizing this makes her feel quite pathetic.

Tav is confused. She does not feel like herself. It’s not like she hasn’t had crushes on her teachers before—she races past whatever was conjured by that statement—and yet, with one extremely notable exception that she learned from, godsdammit, she’s never acted like this. 

Tav takes another hit and tries the difficult exercise of giving herself some grace. And it is hard to attempt it, especially after a young lifetime of feeling like not giving herself grace has been integral to her success thus far. But she still tries. It feels important to do it at that moment, to go through the steps of untangling whatever interlaced ball of chastisement is sitting heavy in the space between her gut and her chest.

Her crush is morally neutral. Nothing has happened. Nothing is happening. No boundaries have been crossed. No one is being hurt (except her own self, maybe. And by her own hand).

She holds no power over him. He holds no power over her. Nothing has happened.

It is okay, she tells herself. It is okay to like, to crush. It is okay to want. Just because she hasn’t done it in a long time, just because it fucking scares her, doesn’t mean it’s wrong. Even the part where she decided to put on a dress to go to a campus event was alright, really. Morally neutral. She only got dressed and picked something different and went outside. It is not the end of the world. Her desire is not inherently harmful, inherently destructive. Her desire is not the end of the world.

She decides: after she finishes this joint, she will get up to ride the campus shuttle as close as she can to home and leave the guilt right here, right at this bench. 

Tav nods to herself, slowly letting her thoughts sink in, letting them fade into her stomach and her face and her chest.

Everything is okay.

“—You called twice in the middle of the event,” a familiar voice says in slight annoyance before sighing and sounding a bit guilty, “I apologize. It’s just been a very long day.”

It’s Gale. He is a couple of yards away on her left, down by the other door that leads out to the garden. He walks a few steps forward as he speaks again and there he is, orange tinted in the glow of the outdoor lanterns. 

“I have an appointment scheduled with a new therapist, but it’s still a ways off. That’s just how it is in this city.”

Another pause. 

“I will. I miss you too,” Gale drops his head, “As soon as I have a spare moment, I will figure out when I can visit next.” 

Tav watches as his foot kicks a small pebble on the concrete ground. 

“No,” Gale shakes his head, exasperation on his tongue, “I have enough going on, but I’m sure that eventually, I will find some time to… re-engage.”

On the last word, Gale decides to finally take a look to his right, only to find her, clearly eavesdropping on his conversation and smoking weed on BGU property.

Shit. 

But if Gale notices the many rules she’s breaking in his line of sight, he doesn’t comment on it. He says a quick “goodbye” and “I love you” to the person on the phone and then slips it into the pocket of his impeccably tailored slacks. (She decides to not think about this part, those words at all, or the person who could’ve been on the receiving end. She is almost sure that its a family member; probably his mother, if the abundant guilt is anything to go by, in addition to the fact that he needs to “figure out” when he can visit. Yes, it makes sense, she thinks.

She ignores a tiny little voice that reminds her of Rolan’s comment a couple of weeks ago, about his former collaborator and probably-no-longer-intimate partner being in a different city.)

A wide grin graces Gale’s face and his eyes squint at her. He puts a playful hand above his eyes, as if he's shielding them from the sun. 

“Is that the extremely elusive Tav Ancunín, I see?” He looks so pleased to see her. Like she’s making his whole damn night. 

“The one and only,” and because he does not seem to give a single shit about it, she offers.

“...Want a hit?” 

Walking towards her at a slightly more than leisurely pace, he stops in front of her bench before shaking his head lightly.

“No, thank you,” he declines politely, “But may I sit?” 

She wants to be casual about being around him, but her voice can’t manage it quite yet, so she just nods and tries not to lean into the scent of his cologne. 

“I’m glad you came,” he smiles at her, goodnaturedly. 

Tav’s head feels cloudy, but she doesn’t know if it’s the weed or the Gale of it. Regardless, she must press forward. 

“How could I miss it?” She attempts to say it politely, but it comes out sounding more teasing than she consciously intended. 

Gale’s smile widens and he huffs a little laugh before responding, all understanding and hindsight, “Somehow, I can imagine it quite easily. You’re in the dissertation phase. Not much was able to keep me on campus at that point, not when I didn’t have to be.” 

It is solid logic. It is unrelated to her particular brand of avoidance, of course, but he doesn’t have to know that. 

“You know,” he continues, “I’ve been hoping to run into you.”

Wow, she can’t stop herself from thinking, way to make the whole being casual thing even harder, Gale.

“And why is that?” She reflexively takes another small hit, but cringes immediately at having done so in front of him. She snuffs the joint out of the thick edge of the bench and slips what’s left into her sweater pocket, determined to keep whatever wits she has left about her. 

“Well, I thoroughly enjoyed talking to you when I had the chance,” it sounds genuine, and, more importantly, devoid of indecent subtext.

“You’re very… cool,” he says, angling towards her, “Grounded, I suppose, in a way scholars rarely are.”

“I’m just a grad student, not a scholar,” Tav fiddles with the hem of her dress as she replies. 

“Actually the historical usage of the term scholar was more aligned with the consumer, rather than the producer of esoteric knowledge,” Gale grins at her cheekily, a dimple showing itself.

Gods help her. 

“Regardless, you do have specialized knowledge and you do disseminate that knowledge. You may not be one for publishing in academic journals, but I have seen your writing,” his eyes seem to twinkle extra brightly at this, “It’s quite good.”

Tav feels deja vu undulate over her, a roiling wave of nausea that leaves her unable to respond. Enver had said something not dissimilar to her years ago, when she was a comparatively dewy-eyed first year grad student and as desperate to please as she was for praise. 

It made her feel like she was flying. She’s always taken pride in her writing, her ability to talk about her work in ways that blend analysis and research and narrative. She likes writing things that are nuanced and interesting and, maybe in a sneaky way, educational. Even as she was still interviewing for doctoral programs at different schools, before she’d even been officially offered a spot in the Interdisciplinary Magics program, Enver made it clear he saw her public scholarship skills to be valuable. It was a large part of why she decided to come to BGU; even though Enver had not been ultimately assigned to advise her (at first), the interaction with him made her feel like her work would be accepted at Baldur’s Gate and that she would be nurtured into the kind of thinker she wanted to be. 

What bullshit. 

“Would you like to join me for lunch? Or dinner?” A bit of nervousness shows itself in Gale’s eyebrows, “I’m new to this city and I’d like to retain any and all of the worthwhile acquaintances I can find, if you don’t mind.” 

Tav feels far away. It’s a bit like she’s a bystander to the whole interaction, or like he’s something breakable and behind glass. Or maybe it’s her. Maybe she is locked away, unable to be reached. Too precious for touching. 

“Tav? Are you alright?” 

Vaguely, she registers Gale’s sincere brown eyes looking at her in concern and the worry in his voice. 

He is really, very pretty.

Blinking away the phantom cling film over her vision, Tav’s attention snaps fully back to the present moment in time to catch the last bit of something Gale is saying. 

“—uncomfortable. We don’t have to go anywhere together or even have another conversation again, if you don’t want to.” 

“No,” Tav’s eyes slide shut tightly for a moment before reopening. No.

“I’m sorry,” she almost trips over her own tongue to assuage his concerns, to distance them from the possibility of not ever having another conversation.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, I swear. I’ve just been very spacey today. Miles away, really. I’m sure the weed’s not helping either,” she throws in, trying to lighten the mood. 

She puts on a sheepish smile that she hopes will do the trick and it seems to work, if Gale’s reassurances are any proper indication. 

“Let’s get lunch,” she says this and then winces, flooding with reminders of all the ‘lunches’ she had with Enver in another period of her life, one that still seemed to shine with some dim fondness despite how it looms over her, darkening her doorway. 

Or, perhaps, she is the shadow.

“No, dinner,” she corrects herself. 

She never had dinner with Enver, not a normal one anyway. She can do dinner now, with Gale. 

“Let’s get dinner. There’s a good Athkatlan place we could go to,” she repeats, offers. “It’s one of my favorites.” 

“I’m already looking forward to it,” Gale’s face is transparent in its hardly veiled excitement. “How about—”

“Ah Gale, there you are!”

Elminster Aumar approaches them from where Gale had previously emerged, a small disposable plate of cheeses in one hand and a half-full plastic wine glass in the other. 

Gale and Tav both jump a bit and she notices Gale move further away than he had been the entire time on the bench as he sits straight up to greet Aumar. 

“Elminster,” less frazzled, Gale gestures from the Sage to Tav, “This is Tav Ancunín. She’s a doctoral candidate in the program for Interdisciplinary Magics.”

“Splendid. I believe I know someone there,” the older wizard turns to Tav directly, “Are you familiar with Jaheira Calim?”

Tav smiles and nods, feeling a bit more comfortable despite how the cottonmouth is beginning to settle.

“Yes!" Shit, does her mouth sound dry? 

"Jaheira is actually my dissertation chair.” Okay, she thinks, that sounded moister.

Elminster leans in a bit. “Then that means you must be very special,” his blue eyes crinkle at Tav, “Jaheira is kind, please do not misunderstand me, but she is very selective. And has very high standards.”

“Higher than yours?” Gale interjects, playfully, before throwing in for Tav’s understanding: “Elminster here was my dissertation chair. And I have the forever-changed relationship to receiving feedback on my writing to prove it.”

Elminster seems to enjoy this mention of Gale’s journey to the Ph.D., so Tav lets herself laugh lightly.

“Much, much higher, Dr. Dekarios,” Elminster counters, amused, “And that reminds me, there are a few other doctors waiting to be introduced to you back inside.”

“Oh, of course,” Gale seems to slip right back into academic mode, “I will join you.”

Gale almost rushes back inside ahead of Elminster before taking a beat to turn back to Tav.

“It was nice seeing you again, Tav.”

“Oh yes, it was very nice meeting you,” Elminster offers, something knowing in his blue-gray eyes.

Tav plasters on a tight lipped smile and gives "Dr. Dekarios" and "Dr. Aumar" a polite goodnight, missing Gale's odd look as she turns and walks towards the shuttle bus stop. 

Chapter Text

Tav hurries between the columns surrounding the entrance to Stormshore Tabernacle, cursing herself for not being familiar enough with her own syllabus. Rushing past the towering statues dedicated to Selûne, Mystra, Tyr, and Helm, she throws herself into an opening elevator and taps the button for the third floor with more force than necessary.

She completely forgot that this week’s meeting of her Histories of the Hellish and Arcane class was to be held at the Tabernacle, a University library and archive housing many of their plane’s oldest and most significant tomes and artifacts. She told her students last week that they would be meeting at the Tabernacle and even published a reminder course announcement so no one turned up at their usual classroom only to find it empty. 

Of course, she did just that. And then had to rush to the Tabernacle as fast as she could, which is a 15 minute average speed walk away.

For most of her life, this kind of switch up, even of her own doing, would not have mattered very much. She could’ve run the distance from her CoM classroom to the Tabernacle in a third of the time and not given it a second thought, even if she got kinda sweaty. But Tav is no longer that person and she can no longer run that distance. Her body, which began to fall apart not long after starting grad school, is too broken for unanticipated obstacle courses. Her lower back. Her head. Her knees. They had been perfectly okay one day and fucked up the next, and no one could really figure out why. 

Her point: rushing hurts in this body. And there’s nothing more to it than that. 

She leans against the wall of the elevator and tries to take some calming breaths.

Teaching is a physically demanding job on a regular day. To be upright and engaged and walk and turn and talk. At least it is for her. But once she gets to the seminar room she reserved with the Tabernacle staff, she’ll be able to relax a bit. And when she gets home, she can collapse into a heap of pained limbs and flesh and just push the work she had planned onto Tomorrow Tav. 

Tav finds her way to the seminar room only five minutes after the official start of class and speaks to the Tabernacle librarian and archivist preparing their presentation. After making sure they’re good to start, she greets her class and reminds them of their plan for today: they’ll listen to a presentation from the staff on the resources available at the Tabernacle and how to access them before going off to start some preliminary on their semester projects. 15 minutes before the end of class, everyone should meet her in the Tabernacle lobby, where she’ll debrief and send them off. After answering a few course-related questions, Tav hands her students off to the staff and sits in the back of the room, practically in bliss when the lights turn off.    

Soon, too soon, the lights come back on and she finds she has been staring at the back of the chair in front of her for an hour and fifteen minutes. Tav pulls herself up with tired limbs and holds the door to the seminar room open, answering passing questions as her students pour into the quiet,  incensed corridor. She thanks the staff for their presentation as they exit behind her class and then she closes the room behind her with a quiet click. 

She stands alone in the stony-walled cloister. She wants to sit on the floor, right in the godsdamned middle of everything, and stare at a single spot some more. Ultimately she decides against it, and instead walks towards a quieter section of the Tabernacle, making sure to avoid running into any students lest they feel needlessly surveilled. 

Her feet take her to a familiar pair of glass doors. The singular entrance to the Rare Artifacts wing was enchanted to record all who touch the doors in some far off and probably highly complex magical system. Inside sits unique weapons and items imbued with divine magics, all on display in maximally secure warded glass cases. She read once that all that glass had been made in an enchanted forge at a monastery named for Saint Cooeeoh and then teleported to Baldur’s Gate from the complete opposite side of the Sword Coast. 

She touches the smooth brass door handle and feels the anticipated tingle of her name, her presence, being noted somewhere out of sight. It is quiet inside and the air is crisp, like biting an apple, and she feels the tiniest bit of pain leech out of her into the coolness. 

Tav does not study artifacts and has never really wanted to; she’s heard many stories of chaotic trips through the jungle or plains or otherwise in search of something special and always flinches just a bit at how grueling it all sounds. But this place, where so many of the most special things come to live once unearthed, has always given her a bit of peace. Whether it’s the quiet or hyperpresence of magic, she’s not sure. 

Tav shifts her backpack on her shoulders and walks towards the corner of the Wing where she wrote much of her dissertation proposal. Stopping a few feet away, she blinks at a man sitting in her usual seat, the padded bench in the alcove beside a towering window looking over the street below.

“Gale?”

Gale looks up from his book at the sound of his name, and, upon registering her, he sits up straight, moving his hiked up leg to the ground. 

“Tav Ancunín! As I live and breathe!” He smiles widely. 

When would he stop being so ridiculously pleased to see her? She can’t help the smile on her face at Gale’s (seemingly customary) enthusiasm. What did he eat for breakfast? The sun?

Tav thinks of the night of Aumar’s seminar (of him, lit up under the orange light of the garden lanterns). She wonders if he will mention it at all. What “it” is, she doesn’t fully know herself, but she hopes it will go undredged.

Regardless, it is nice to see him. (And alone, something whispers.)

“Gale,” she repeats. And because she cannot resist: “You’re in my seat.”

His eyebrows rise above the line of his glasses, “Your seat? Well, that is a problem, isn’t it?”

The frames… suit him. She has to leave it at that. 

He adjusts his face to a grave seriousness, “Although I don’t recall seeing your name anywhere,” he pretends to search through his memory. “Perhaps your ownership is up for some… renegotiating?” 

Gale folds his hands in his lap expectantly, very pleased with their little exchange so far.  

Trying to not get sidetracked by the ridiculous (hot) look on his face, Tav puts her hands on her hips and retorts, “Not that I’m interested, but what are the terms?”

“50/50, of course,” he proposes with theatrical deference, “And alternating holidays. But seeing as we’re both here currently and have yet to devise a use schedule, it seems you will need to share the seat with me if you’d like to sit right now.”

Tav rolls her eyes in fake annoyance and slides her backpack off her shoulders before lowering herself next to Gale. She can smell his cologne and so she leans her back against the side wall of the alcove in order to ground herself. At the last minute, she sets her bag in front of her; she feels less liable to do something ridiculous with her backpack between them.

“Are you here for dissertation research?” Gale says before sipping from his thermos. It smells like… tea. Black tea?

Tav shakes her head, “Nope, just class. My students are off doing some independent research on their projects.”

Gale hums in understanding and nods before setting his thermos down and turning to face her directly with a curious expression, his leg coming to rest back on the bench.

“Do you often bring your students here for class?” 

“No, but I try to do it at least once or twice, especially when I’m teaching a 100-level course,“ Tav explains, “Those students tend to be earlier on in their programs, and most of them have never navigated an academic library or archives. So it’s for the course as much as it is for their overall acclimation to university life and to encourage them to make use of university resources. They are paying for it, after all.”

She looks down at her hands and finishes in a playful tone, “Plus, I get to somewhat relax for at least one class meeting. The staff does a great job.” 

“A win-win,” Gale laughs briefly before returning to his pondering, “But seriously, that’s very thoughtful pedagogy. I think I’ll remember that when I’m ironing out the details for next semester.”

“By all means.” 

They sit in a slightly awkward silence for a moment. 

“So,” Tav begins, “How are you liking BGU so far?” 

Gale sits up a bit straighter and says in a congenial tone, “It’s been a wonderful experience. I’m producing cutting-edge scholarship beside venerable faculty and teaching magic to our passionate, deeply engaged student body.”

Tav huffs and gives him an amused look, “Okay. Now that you’ve demonstrated your excellent interview training, tell me how you really feel.” 

Gale breathes a laugh through his nose and relaxes again, giving her a sideways glance before focusing on a mystic thurible glowing across the long room.

“It’s… a university. Like all others. I’ve enjoyed my students immensely so far; I was research faculty at Waterdeep and never taught courses, so being in the classroom has actually been delightful. But there’s also the constant push for grants and meetings and administration and the University’s drive to buy up all the real estate in town under the guise of knowledge production and the common good.” 

“It’s different from Waterdeep,” Gale summarizes, ”Good. But it’s still a university. And being an academic is still a job, no matter how much some like to pretend it is much more.” 

“That’s…” Tav starts, a bit breathless with no small amount of surprise.

“That’s not what I was expecting.”

“Hm?” 

“You just strike me as someone who is very… attached to their academic persona. I was sure you’d rank ‘Doctor Dekarios’-ing quite highly among your favorite pastimes,” Tav studies Gale’s profile with interest as she says this.

“Oh I would, if asked to proffer such a ranking,” he catches her tracing eyes briefly before his flit away again, “But… I suppose I’ve learned the hard way that a job cannot comprise a whole life. It’s better to find meaning elsewhere. Imperative, even.” 

She looks down at her hands and thinks. He’d made it sound like an especially hard won wisdom and, not for the first time, Tav’s mind wanders to the two years she’d spent on medical leave. 

It had been hard to do anything after getting out of rehab, after withdrawing from school. She had little interest in anything in those early days and Astarion spent the first month with her almost entirely on their couch, watching the same horror movies over and over and eating the same foods on repeat. Eventually, she started to talk about going back to grad school, and only about going back to grad school, and he would just listen, knowingly and never offering any criticisms even with the obvious, glaring issues with her fixation. 

Despite her insistence, there was absolutely a worse outcome than her not finishing her program. That outcome had almost happened, had been the reason she’d been in rehab, and it would return to an uncomfortable probability if she returned too soon. But without school, without work, she hadn’t known who she was or what she was supposed to be doing. Or even what she liked doing. Not even a little bit. 

There was nothing else worth talking about.

“And what about you?”

It’s Tav’s turn to hum for elaboration. 

“Hm?”

“How are you liking it here so far? You have years on me, I’m sure you have plenty of opinions regarding our,” he gestures between the two of them, “illustrious institution.” 

“Oh I do. But I’m afraid whatever time we have left before my students expect me is not nearly enough to start opening that box,” she says this without thinking and then worries if she sounds too resentful. Bitter, in an unfun way.

Angling away from Gale, she starts to place her backpack over her shoulders and prepare herself to get up. 

“Well,” Gale watches as she openly progresses towards leaving, “how about we open it over dinner? We did plan on that, although we never got to set anything in stone.”

She recalls their moment in the garden before Dr. Aumar came looking for Gale, the look the Sage had given her as he bid her a goodbye. It gives her pause. She wonders if the renowned wizard somehow read her infatuation with Gale right off her forehead. 

“You’re serious? You wanna hear me bitch about BGU that bad?”

“You can complain about whatever you’d like,” he rephrases with a shrug of his shoulders, “And yes, I would like to talk to you over a meal sometime, preferably more than coffee and sooner rather than later. As I said before, I’d like to retain any and all of the worthwhile acquaintances I can find,“ he says matter-of-factly. 

“Why?” She can’t hold back her confusion. 

Why am I worthwhile?

“You seem a bit… resistant to the idea that I’d like to be your friend,” Gale broaches this gently, all too gently for how they are still strangers, she thinks. But then he continues and she understands why. 

“I’m new here. I haven’t lived, actually lived, in a city besides Waterdeep since before starting my own doctorate. And that was for barely even a year,” Gale lets out a breath that shakes a bit, “My life, my… relationships… they are not what they once were.”

“If you don’t want to, we don’t have to spend any more time together than what we have so far, of course. But in the interest of,” he thinks back to his earlier phrasing, “finding meaning elsewhere, I’d like to start by having dinner with a new friend,” he finishes this with a sad kind of smile, as if he’s talked himself into anticipating her rejection along the way. 

Tav closes her eyes briefly in an effort to reset herself. 

She’s being shitty. And confusing. She’s pushing when she wants to pull. Of course, that’s also the problem. She’s not supposed to be pulling, regardless of what she wants. She can only give herself grace if she continues to make good decisions. Her want—deep, crushing—can only be morally neutral so long as no one gets hurt. She cannot do this, the slow melt towards him that she is very clearly doing and lying to herself about.  

But Gale is being vulnerable with her. And by doing so, he is making an unspoken request: Please be gentle with my feelings.

It makes her think of Rolan, the way he’d looked the day she offered to write a witness statement against Lorroakan. She had been insistent, but she knew he hadn't believed her. Not at first. And never fully until it had been submitted, another page in a color coded folder somewhere.

Please don’t let me down.

Tav feels it. She wants—needs—to believe she is the kind of person who can do this, who can set their feelings aside to honor someone else’s needs. Who can do that without irrevocably fucking it up.

“Does Friday work for you?”

“Friday as in two days from now?” Gale is surprised. Pleasantly surprised. It rolls off of him in waves and she has to tamp down the incredibly strong urge to kiss him on his parted mouth.

(Bad sign, but it’s too late now.) 

“That’s right. 8 would be good; I should be done for the week by then.” 

Gale’s eyes crinkle at her. “Friday at 8 then.”

She pulls out a receipt from her pocket and asks for Gale’s pen. She writes down her number, immediately regretting showing him her awful handwriting, and hands it to him. Their fingers brush just as a buzzing goes off in her pocket. 

Her alarm. She has to get back to her students. 

She tells him this, but feels like she’s underwater as she does so. She thinks he says something about texting her and she nods before walking away with a small wave. 

She somehow makes it to the lobby, meets with her students, and then dismisses them after a few reminders. She glides to the campus shuttle on a low cloud—near the ground, but floating regardless. And when she lays in bed, a crumpled heap of pained limbs and flesh, all she can think about is the terrible decision she’s made and the reward she hopes is coming.

Chapter Text

Gale sags against the metal desk at the front of his assigned classroom and, for the first time all semester, feels impatient for the end of class. 

Much earlier that morning, he had his first therapy session since moving to Baldur’s Gate three months ago. He feels he’s made the right choice of therapist, even with the first session being mostly paperwork and confirming insurance details and discussions about her treatment modalities. Isobel is knowledgeable and kind. And sharp. Observant to a degree that, perhaps, his old therapist hadn’t been.

Despite the limitations of the first session, she expressed interest in the major life changes he’d indicated on his intake paper ([x] ‘career shift’, [x] ‘move to a new area’, [x] ‘change in relationship status’). And it had been difficult to remain vague, especially with his penchant for including as much context and nuance and evenhandedness as possible.

He hadn’t been able to keep himself from discussing Mystra directly, details about how it all started. And so he’d also struggled with the implicit pressure he often felt—not quite from Isobel or his last therapist, but another force that never missed a session regardless of where he was. 

He knows there are expectations, that he is supposed to see Mystra as someone she just isn’t: A shark. A monster. A user. 

Sure, maybe he would feel better about himself if he gave in to that pressure. Maybe he could let go of the not-quite-love that still lingered for her if he did it, and then let what may follow swallow him whole in its warm maw.

But he can’t. It’s not the whole story. He knows the whole story, had been there for the whole thing. (All 12 years. She ended their relationship on the 12th anniversary of when they first got together. He was in the modern kitchen of their Sea Ward home, flattening pasta dough for dinner. It was also a week before his birthday, reminding him, as it did every year, of what she had told him that afternoon in her office so many years ago.

“I swear, I was going to wait until after next week. But consider this an early gift.”)

He was 21, almost 22, and in the final year of his undergraduate degree at the University of Waterdeep. She was 36 and an Associate Professor, teaching an upper level course he’d needed to get advance permission to register for. After the first lecture, he sped to her office to discuss one of the finer points of next week’s concepts. And every week, after every lecture, during every office hours session, he returned to her.

He worked harder on his assignments for her than he had ever worked on anything in his life at that point. He strove to be faultless. This was how Gale had always managed whatever came his way: Persistence. Diligence. Pressure. Study. 

He did additional reading and applications, hours and hours of it, just so he could move their discussions away from the syllabus. And once he managed that, he started bringing her coffee (a splash of cream, no sugar). He claimed the leather armchair in the corner of her office and could be found reading there even when she wasn’t scheduled to see students. Before he knew it, they were eating lunch and dinner together while he helped with the more tedious labors of her numerous research projects. 

Once they kissed in her office, he was swiftly integrated into her nights, away from eyes at U of Waterdeep. After finishing classes for the day, he would beeline straight to her home, the home that would become theirs, and let himself in with a spare key. He would water her plants, work on his assignments, and then prepare himself for her return: Shower. Shave. Brush his teeth. Clip his nails. Get dressed in the loungewear she bought for him to wear while he stayed with her. And when she arrived, she would straddle him on her soft couch with the custom upholstery and kiss him until he was trembling like something frail and desperate.

By the time he graduated, she’d told him the plan—their plan: Shortly after his degree was conferred, he would accompany her close colleague Elminster Aumar, the esteemed Sage of Shadowdale, on a research project to Candlekeep for the following year. Gale would apply to work under Elminster in the doctoral program while they were away and by the time the following academic year came around, he would be back in Waterdeep—and back with her—as Elminster’s graduate student. They would wait a few months before filing paperwork with Human Resources regarding their relationship and she would never, ever have a documented power or sway over his advancement or standing in his program. 

The operative word there being “documented,” of course. Because even as Elminster was the signature on any paperwork regarding his progress, the Sage would only sign with Mystra’s blessing. Only if she said Gale had done well enough. 

It sounds bad, he thinks, when he puts it all together like that. But he still rejects the implication that she preyed on him, that she was some evil temptress who stole away a poor, unsuspecting, senior year Gale. He knows too well, too innately, the burn of the want that ran through him as he waited outside of Mystra’s office each time, the anticipation as she closed the door behind them. 

And, of course, he’d thoroughly reaped the benefits of her choosing him as she had: the degree, the professional network, the prestige, the job, the sex, the belonging he’d felt by her side—even through the whispers, the subterfuge, and his mother’s disappointment and Tara’s distance. 

However.  

However.

This Friday morning, a few hours after therapy, Gale struggles in his 300-level course. Gale struggles because he teaches his class and looks at his students and sees a junior meticulously color code their lecture notes and hears a senior ask for advice on an assignment. Gale struggles because he cannot even begin to imagine them as he was sure Mystra had once imagined him. 

Because they all look so much like poor, unsuspecting, senior year Gale—all ambition and nerves and curiosity and concerns over fractions of points on little assignments.

It overwhelms him. By the time the last student leaves his office and all the post-lecture conversations have been had, Gale feels he’s at his end. He hardly manages to close his door and turn off the lights before he collapses, bent over one of the chairs in front of his desk. His lungs, his traitorous fucking lungs, refuse to accept any air and he sinks to the floor. 

Some distant part of him thinks to reach for a throw pillow on the small loveseat in his office—the one his (young) students often flop onto with abandon—and he screams right into it. Once. Twice. 

With less terror in his chest, there is finally space for air. He sucks it in. He’s covered in sweat. 

Feeling a bit drunk and queasy, he loosens his tie with clumsy hands and focuses on stilling his breath and pushing his hair away from his face.

He’s not sure how much time passes before someone knocks on his door. Once. Twice. Three times. But however long it’s been, he’s too disheveled still to pretend he’s alright and so he stays on the cool floor, tie loose and screaming pillow in fist. 

“Aw. I guess he’s not in.” The voice sounds familiar. Gale tries very hard to put a name to it, but it feels beyond his abilities at the moment. 

“Yes, yes, what a shame. Well then. On we go, Tav.”

Tav? That seemed right. It was her voice he heard. He couldn’t place the second voice at all.

“Uh… yeah, just hold on.” 

“What are you–?” The unfamiliar voice sighs deeply, long suffering.

“I’m leaving a note, just hold on.”

“Why would you leave a note?” 

It’s a reasonable question in Gale’s mind. They finally have each other’s numbers after he texted to confirm their dinner plans… and also to send a picture from one of his new reference books. 

It had been of a millennia old sculpture of a cat, of all things—so small as to fit in one’s palm and imbued with an earlier form of the Magic Mouth. The message? Listen when I’m gone and I will be with you.

“More personal? I don’t know! I just think it’d be nice.” Gale agrees with her, now  thoroughly convinced. It would be nice.

Write me a note, Tav, Gale thinks. I’d love a note from you.

“That’s ridiculous. Hey, do not put my name on that.” 

“Fine, fine. I won’t.”

“...You can mention me, but I’m not signing it,” the second voice says after a quiet moment. Gale can hear the scratch of the pen as she writes against his door. 

He hears Tav laugh, “Okay I will, hold on.”

“...Gods, Tav, your penmanship is abominable.” 

Gale doesn’t think it's abominable as much as it's the mixed style of someone who learned to write in both cursive and print and used them at the same time. At least, that was what he could tell from the receipt she’d given him with her number and her name written on top (as if he could forget it was hers; “just in case,” she’d said, distractedly). 

“Oh fuck off.”

They bicker a bit more and then he hears a sheet of paper slide a few feet across his floor from underneath his door. It lands not far from his head, but he doesn’t dare pick it up, not until their voices travel down the hall and out of range. 

He moves his arm across the floor until it brushes against her note and then he conjures a small orb of light above his head. She’d written it on the back of an outdated flier for a bake sale, printed on bright blue paper. 

Hi Gale,

Stopped by your office to say hi, but you weren’t around. Boooooo

Was going to introduce you to my friend Rolan (he’s in your department), but maybe another time?

Looking forward to dinner tonight :) I think you’ll like Ophal!

- Tav’

Gale looks at the note, and then reads it over again. And then again. He takes a deep breath. And then another. 

Rolling over onto his knees and pushing up against a chair, he stands up. He looks at the note again, rubbing a thumb over the name signed at the bottom.

He thinks, admittedly for just a moment and with not quite an abundance of conviction, that he can do this. But he still thinks it. He does. 

Folding up the blue paper and slipping it into his pocket, he dismisses the orb of light and flicks on the lights in his office. 

Then, he prepares for the lunchtime faculty meeting on his calendar.  

—

Tav was having a good Friday. 

She’d woken up before her alarm and, in a rare turn of events, actually felt rested. She’d showered and gotten dressed at a leisurely pace and still found the time to grab herself a hot chocolate and a matcha latte for Jaheira. Her dissertation chair would never order it for herself (“Who am I,” Jaheira said once, “Lady Selemchant? Coffee is fine.”), but Tav knew she enjoyed it regardless. The brief, surprised lift of the woman’s eyebrows and her continued sipping, even as her keys were uncooperative with the lock of her office, gave the older druid away. 

Jaheira had just finished her summary of her feedback on Tav’s chapter drafts and Tav had been looking at the line-by-line comments when the older woman had asked. 

“You seem… lighter?” She looked at Tav over her glasses, “Have you been sleeping?” 

It was a joke, one with much precedent. Tav did not usually sleep well or enough and they’ve spoken about the irony of her additional inability to drink coffee, lest she tempt any uncontrollable surges of magic. 

Tav had paused before answering that she had, in fact, slept well. And then, because she could not resist, she added: “And you’ll be proud to know I have plans tonight. I’m going to dinner.” 

Jaheira had looked at her with an amused, half-impressed expression. And before she could ask for more details, Tav shifted the conversation in a related, but safer direction.

“Oh! Guess who I met the other day? They mentioned you.” 

After discussing Elminster with Jaheira (and successfully leaving Gale unmentioned), Tav went to the college cafe for a short check-in with a student, who seemed in much better shape after last class. Because they were now almost fully recovered from a “small hiking incident” with gnolls, of all things! He even showed her pictures of the creatures, sedated by a group of rangers who’d been patrolling nearby. She’d been shocked, really; she thought he was maybe just really hungover last class, but had given him the requested extension on the most recent assignment regardless.

What a colorful tapestry life is, she thought afterwards. 

Of course, this is how Rolan finds her—contemplating the intricate weave of life and its possibilites—before briefly attempting to fuck up her day. 

“So you’re going to dinner with him now?” 

Ah.

“Did Astarion tell you?” He’d been on the couch with her when Gale texted to get the name of the restaurant they were going to. 

He found the whole thing very funny, including the bit about Rolan’s concern the night of the seminar. Ha. What a dick. 

“Does it matter?,” that means yes, as far as Tav know, “What happened to ‘I just like looking at him’?” 

Tav tries to balance her annoyance at being quoted with the understanding that this is Rolan expressing concern and trying to be a good friend. It helps a bit, takes some of the sting out of the veiled accusation of something… unwise—that she hasn’t done, of course. 

(But the day is still young, she hears from somewhere in her head.)

“He needs a friend,” she says simply, knowing he would understand this, “I think he left everything behind when he left Waterdeep. Everything, Rolan.”

And Rolan does understand it. He doesn’t like it, per se, but he understands it. And he knows that Tav is a very good friend, one of the best options for such a role. 

Still, he is no longer up for entertaining Tav’s plausible deniability. 

“But you’re attracted to him.” 

Tav nods. It is true, after all. 

“And he’s attracted to you.”

She scrunches up her nose and her mouth twists into something disbelieving. “Mm, I’m not sure about that. I don’t think he’s into bigger girls with h-indexes below 60.” 

“Well, I do. Because I’m capable of sight and inference,” Tav rolls her eyes at this, “So what’s the plan there?” 

Tav thinks this over, not dissimilar to her thinking since seeing Gale in the Tabernacle. If he is attracted to her, which she doesn’t really think he is beyond a passing kind of fancy, she should try to keep it friendly. She probably won’t. She’ll probably fall into bed with him without a second thought, if he offers. It will be a bad decision, she thinks. One that will nullify any future attempts to give herself grace in this regard. 

She nods to herself after that last thought. Indeed, it would.

“I don’t really have one,” she says, incomplete but truthful, “Guess we’ll just have to see.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” Rolan says flatly, “But if you insist on doing this, I insist on benefitting. Come on, you’re introducing me.” 

Tav recognizes this for what it is—acceptance—and so she happily follows behind Rolan, feeling almost giddy at the prospect of exposing Gale’s sun to Rolan’s shade. 

Gale is not in his office, however, and with more than a little disappointment (and a note left in her horrific scrawl), she gets on with the rest of her day until the moment she can come home to prepare. 

Tav stands in front of her closet feeling dissatisfied with all of her options before settling on a simple black dress in a thicker, stretchier ribbed material and a square neckline. But it feels like too much and not enough once it's on and so she puts on a pair of black stockings and throws a lavender cardigan on over the whole thing. 

It feels off. The outfit. The shape of her hair. And with the shine of the first part of her day gone, she is left with just the anxiety and the anticipation and the distinct feeling that whatever she has been looking for, she is about to find.

Chapter Text

This, Gale thinks as he serves his plate, was a bad idea. 

It happens a little later. Ophal is an Athkatlan restaurant with dim lighting, red walls, gold accents, and slightly disinterested service. The plush chairs at their table are much more comfortable than he is anticipating for their seating. Gale reviews the menu and can’t decide—“too many promising options”—so Tav suggests forgoing entrees in favor of ordering many smaller things and splitting it all. He likes the idea, likes the prospect of actually sharing the same things, so, after a quip about her brilliant mind, he agrees. 

And he thinks for a little while that it’s all so easy, that being here with her feels simple. No awkwardness surfaces when she opens the entrance door for him (“tenure-track before beauty”) and sweeps a theatrical hand towards inside. There are no uncomfortable transitions in their conversation, even as they jump around between different topics, doing nothing to resist their own tangents. She even leans forward over the table as part of a funny little bit and when she almost knocks over her water, they laugh about it as if this—a suggested propensity for tipping over glasses in restaurants—is something well-established and just so very Tav. Like they've done it a hundred times before.

While he may have had to wait for fate to throw them together multiple times in order to get here, it doesn’t matter. Whatever is in her, he thinks, agrees perfectly with whatever is in him. 

Soon, there are 7 dishes on their table—stews and rice and flatbread and fish and vegetables mingling in savory seasonings and a bit of heat. He prepares to enjoy them immensely. 

And this is where things go wrong. 

Tav, having immediately dipped flatbread in a stewed sauce she calls “her favorite”, spills a bit on the front of her sweater. And as she shrugs it off and sets it beside her, he realizes it. His eyes drag with friction over her bare arms and the way her curly hair grazes her shoulders and the stain of her pouting lips and he knows. 

He is attracted to her. 

The fuzzy lavender material seems to mock him as it lays despondently, Tav-less on the rounded arm of her seat.

It feels… silly to realize it then, across a dinner table from her. 

It’s abundantly obvious, too, in hindsight.

He hasn’t asked any of the people he’s met at BGU out to dinner, and certainly not twice. Not his departmental colleagues who he is on a friendly basis with, nor any of the faculty or staff on the committees he’s joined. When he goes home, he doesn’t think of any of them and when he’s on campus, he doesn’t look around for them as he goes to the cafe or his classrooms or his office. He doesn’t work on a paper-in-progress and wonder at any of their possible opinions on the developing contents.

Tav is different. And he is just realizing this now, when it is entirely too late to go home and think very, very hard about his next steps. 

He puts food on his plate from the dishes in front of them, just to give himself something to do, and tries to do some of that thinking now. Foolishly, he looks back at her and just catches her moist tongue poke out to run over her bottom lip. 

Oh gods. 

Has she always been so… decadent? Plush? He wants to sleep in her cleavage. Has it always looked that way, even as he’s spoken to her before this? 

Obviously, Gale has looked at Tav before. He has taken in her face and her hair and the way she dresses and the darkness of her eyes. He has even noticed that she is soft, with a full chest and ample thighs, has noted the way she filled her jeans from the back as she’d walked away in the Tabernacle in a detached sort of appraisal. He has seen her, her qualities and attributes, and, sure, he’s felt a vague positiveness about what he’s found. But it was only really because they were hers and he had been collecting details about what Tav-ness is, what it means to be a grounded person with interesting opinions and a multi-faceted personality that, sure, sometimes is a bit hard to pin down, but is ultimately very worth being proximal to. In a word: study.

This, the way he is looking at her now, thinking about her—not for understanding or analysis, but for enjoyment, for something like pleasure… 

And after claiming twice that he was just interested in her friendship…

It all feels a bit fucked up. 

And because that morning is not yet so far away, he has an even worse thought: 

How is he any different from Mystra? 

No. No! It’s just not a remotely fair comparison. No. Tav is 27 and ABD in a doctoral program, a program that is housed in a completely different department. He could not damage her chances at her doctorate even if he wanted to. He has nothing to do with her current success. He has done nothing to make her into the sharp mind, the highly competent scholar and pedagogue that she is. 

But there’s still a glacier collapsing inside of his chest. Despite the facts he cites to convince himself that he is not Mystra and Tav is not him and the cycles are not repeating, his body doesn’t care. His chest doesn’t think it’s relevant. His stomach does not give a single shit. 

Gale is scared. For seemingly endless reasons, too, both known and unknown to him. And he is concerned that if he does not manage to find a way to calm down soon, he will do something incredibly dramatic and embarrassing, like have a panic attack in a restaurant he’d like to return to. 

And so he utilizes a, perhaps unwise, but desperate strategy: He waves a waiter over and asks for the wine menu.

—

One of the things Tav’s undergraduate mentors impressed upon her, frequently and especially before interviews and off-campus-but-still-university-sanctioned functions, was to not overindulge. Or indulge at all, really. One drink, enough for the purposes of not seeming prudish or unfun. Not too much food, just enough to not be hungry and get through the social event. 

Gale either never received the same guidance or had discarded it at some point between getting it and this part of dinner. 

She was surprised when he asked for a wine menu, but approved of his request for the Athkathlan clarry, a blended wine she’d had before and enjoyed. It’s a mix of red sour wines, honey, and various spices and herbs, but the primary note is vanilla—so primary, in fact, that it’s perhaps a bit much, but it’s not like she’s a big drinker anyway. Not anymore, at least. 

Gale, however? 

Tav looks at the red flush of his face and neck and the empty bottle on their table and thinks that, perhaps, she should start planning to drive him home in his car. Or maybe drive them to her place, so she doesn’t have to take a cab back from… wherever he lives? 

No. He is still too handsome and charming for her to trust herself to sleep in the same place as him, she thinks. And then she realizes that still finding him attractive, even as he slurs a story and gets distracted with laughter in the middle and seems to forget to actually say the funny bit, means that she is thoroughly fucked. So incredibly fucked. 

She nods to herself at this, a sense of detached acceptance falling over her. And then she begins the process of cleaning up the (unfairly attractive, still) mess in front of her. She finds no small amount of comfort in it though.

Familiarity. 

Tav pays their bill, asks for to-go boxes, receives, and fills them without Gale realizing. He’s too engrossed in something he’s saying to himself (maybe the rest of the story he was telling?), and she decides that she will, in fact, drive him home in his car and take a cab back. Waking up in an unfamiliar place is never fun and so she will try to spare him the experience if he hasn't already had it. 

“Gale?”

She says this softly as she stands over him and tries to identify which of his pockets has his keys before touching him needlessly.

“Mm?” He looks confused and sleepy (dreamy) as she tries a pocket and (yes!) finds his keys on the first try, but ultimately doesn’t resist. 

Keys in hand, she pulls him up and then wraps an arm around his waist, telling him softly that she’s going to take him home and everything is going to be just fine. Because it will be...

As long as she can figure out where the hell he lives. 

His key fob leads her to his hatchback, thankfully just a few cars away from the front of Ophal, and she opens the door to the backseat, intending to lay him inside before slipping into the front. 

But Gale does not know this and even if he did, he does not seem particularly interested in letting her do so. 

In a clumsy move, the hand across her back moves to her waist and then Gale spins them a bit, swapping places with her in front of the open backseat. He sways too severely for a moment and she grabs his waist to steady him, pulling him into her until he stills. 

“Tav,” he breathes her name into her face and though he’s not fully there (and also not the first very drunk man to look at her like she’s everything), her heart still races. The pool at the core of her still warms underneath the sun. 

She knows what’s coming. And it’s not fair, she thinks before he leans in and kisses her. It’s not fair that this will be everything to her and, at best, absolutely nothing to him when he wakes up tomorrow. 

It does not start out slow. There is no build up. With an entire bottle of clarry in his system, the kiss is sloppy. Gale breathes hard into her mouth.

It makes her head spin.

She can taste the vanilla on his tongue as it slides against hers. He presses his body on her with more force and she has to press back so she doesn’t fall into the open backseat and the feel of it is so good. Wonderful. Excellent. 

“Tav,” he breathes again and she swallows it with her mouth. Do it again, she wants to say. Keep saying my name. Maybe she does. His hips press into her again and her head is against the roof of the car and the way he licks into her mouth feels fucking diabolical. 

Gale lets out something between a groan and a whimper as she shifts her hips and her hand is inspired to rake down his side. But this makes Gale sway again, so forcefully she is almost dragged down with him. It takes everything she has to keep his knees from hitting the sidewalk harshly and she smacks her head on the roof of his car in the process, hard enough to burn for long afterwards.

The moment is gone. Done. She has been yanked from it, plucked right from Elysium and plopped back on earth. Gale is none the wiser. His eyes are unfocused and his lips are well-kissed, covered in a shiny sheen of shared saliva. And while it should make her want to surrender again, all she can muster is a deep exhaustion. 

He sways again and Tav moves them back around. 

“Okay, in you go.” 

Shielding the back of his head with her hand, she pushes him down and into the backseat, giving his feet an extra push, and closes the door behind him. 

That’s it. Her one bad decision for the night has been made. It lives no longer and so there is nothing left but to finish cleaning the mess. 

She opens the door, slides into the front seat, and avoids looking at Gale. She rifles through the glove compartment until she finds his registration paperwork and (thank the gods) his address. It’s right by campus, meaning the cab back won’t be too expensive and she finds relief in there being one less possible justification to do another unwise thing.

As she drives, she hears Gale sigh and try to stretch out in the back seat. When he can’t, because he is too tall for that shit, he lets out a little whine that she knows she will think about later and again and again.

She parks in the reserved space in front of his place—a three-floor townhouse in sunny yellow paint—and steels herself for what will surely be a chaotic walk up the stairs. Before she retrieves Gale from the backseat, who obediently lets her pull him from the car, she grabs a hat with a trademarked W in Waterdeep Red from the glove compartment and slips it on. She’s unsure of who she might run into while hauling Gale into his home and decides the most she can do about that is hide herself as best she can while hauling said man. 

The difficulty begins sooner than expected. She doesn’t run into anyone on the way towards the door, but Gale almost falls after she leads him into the foyer and she has to press into him in a way she’d been avoiding. His body feels delicious and soft and solid underneath his plum sweater, but these evaluations come to her in a detached sort of way.

She wants to be done. 

“Okay, stairs. Ready, Gale?

He nods at her, his face scrunching up like a newborn, and they begin their ascent. It’s an awkward fit, trying to walk by his side, so she moves behind him. Steadying him at the waist, they make it to the second floor with only a moderate level of difficulty. At one point, he falls forward in a way that concerns her, but they manage. 

She doesn’t know where Gale’s bedroom is, but he seems to and she lets him pull them along to a door towards the left. 

It’s dark, but with the light of his window, she can make out the shape of his large bed and steps with him carefully in that direction. 

“There you go,” Tav says as she sits him down. She kneels to slip off his shoes and then shifts his feet onto the mattress. She moves to take his belt off, but doesn’t feel like she can because her hands are fucking shaking and so she stops. 

“Sleep,” Gale groans this, and his arm comes to flop on the other side of the bed. The action makes something sharp touch her throat and she decides she has been strong enough for one night. 

Tav lets a rush of nervous energy carry her out of the room and down the stairs. She grabs the bag with the to-go boxes beside the front door and finds his kitchen, stowing the food away in his fridge carefully and without looking at whatever else is inside. 

She leaves. She rushes out of the front door and keeps walking, much further than is probably necessary, and finally stops to stand in front of a bar that is five blocks away from Gale’s home. She feels it now, the way her back and shoulders hurt, the throbbing where she hit her head on Gale’s car. She leans against a parked car in an effort to alleviate even one of the things she’s feeling and orders a cab. Her driver arrives a few minutes later and she slides into the backseat with a minimal greeting. 

Tav watches storefronts and people and lights pass by in a haze as she thinks about her decisions that night. She realizes she is still wearing Gale’s hat because it is tight around the throbbing and her hair and it’s started hurting, so she takes it off. Then she reaches into the pocket of her purse and finds his keys laying inside all innocently. So no, she hasn’t done all the right things.  The right things would’ve been to double check her purse and leave his hat and not take any part of him with her. But she has done (and not done) the important things, so she tries to be content with them. 

She sends Gale a text about his keys that she knows will not be seen until morning and then puts her phone away. She eventually finds herself unlocking the front door to her apartment. As she toes off her boots, Astarion calls to her from the living room. 

“Tav? Back so soon?”

She checks her phone and finds he is right. It is not yet 11:00pm. 

“Yeah, it’s me.”

She walks to the opening of the living room and sees Astarion on the couch with a glass of wine in his hand. A look of concern emerges as he takes in… whatever she must look like. 

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine.”

He does not believe her and sets his glass on the coffee table before sitting up straighter. “Was dinner alright?”

Briefly, Tav reflects on the other times Astarion has asked her that question, in situations bearing so many similarities to this one. So many nighttime outings. So many unsettled Tavs. 

“Yeah. He got very drunk off the clarry and I brought him home. Didn’t even have a chance to do something extra stupid,” she tries to say this in a joking way, but it just sounds sad. She is sad. 

And Astarion knows what she is saying. He had been there, after all, when Gale first used her number and texted. He saw the way she'd looked at her phone, how she tried to suppress the smile on her face. He had teased her before she left about the dress she chose and the fact that she put lipstick on and the nervousness that was rolling off of her in waves and so yes, he knows. He knows what she had been looking for and knows she did not get it, at least not in the way she wanted it, and he understands. So when she wishes him a goodnight, he doesn’t stop her. He lets her go to her room, where he knows she will undress slowly and lay awake for a few hours until she gives into sleep.

And she does. 

Chapter Text

Sunday, 2:03pm: “Hey! I don’t wanna leave you keyless, so let me know when I should come around.”

Monday, 11:17am: “Lol I’m starting to think you don’t want them?”

Thursday, 9:02am: “Left them in your dept mailbox.”

And she had. He’d just finished meeting with his department chair when he saw her text and, as if he hadn’t believed her, he’d made a beeline to the departmental office where all the faculty mailboxes are organized by last name. She’d placed his keys into a small tote bag from a bookstore he’s seen somewhere around town and folded it over, tucking the straps into the crease. 

He shakes his head, almost annoyed that he’s noticing something as small as how she put (placed) his keys in his mailbox. Almost. 

He hasn’t responded to any of her texts. He’s been too scared. What he can remember—getting hammered, leaving her with the bill for dinner, and needing to be driven home—is not good. And then there was everything he doesn’t remember. Who knows what happened after he got to the last third of the bottle? No one but Tav. And so he’s been avoiding her. 

There is also the matter of his little realization at dinner. 

Being attracted to her is… not ideal. Tav may be ABD, but that very fact also means she is still a grad student. And he is a faculty member. In a different department, sure, but at the same institution, in the same college division even. It’s all a bit too close for comfort for him and he suspects it would be even for others with less complicated relationship histories. 

He wishes, not for the first time in the past few days, that he’d met her a year from now. She would be finished with school, he’d probably be more emotionally stable, and they could get to know each other without their institution looming over the whole thing. Of course, there’s always the chance he never would’ve met her if not at the Parchment orientation. 

He likes that idea even less and so he lets it all go, again. 

He thinks back to the morning after their disaster of a dinner, how he’d looked down and found his socked feet and realized she’d taken his shoes off. How he made his way downstairs to get aspirin and a glass of water and ended up finding unfamiliar leftover containers placed (so neatly) inside of his fridge.

That had done him in. Overcome by a blistering sense of mortification, he sat on the floor for a long while with his head in his hands, ruminating over how he’d gotten himself into this godsforsaken situation in the first place. 

There is a small temptation that lingers to blame his sudden, intense feelings for her all on his emotional state. It’s quite possible that he is, perhaps, just very lonely. Or that he is finally learning to feel like himself, slowly learning who he is outside of the relationship that defined a grand portion of his life and nearly all his adult years so far, and he is trying to color over that relationship with new intimate experiences. A new intimate fixation. 

These explanations feel true to some degree, but they don’t account for enough. And they don’t account for Tav or the ridiculous, sparkly things she makes him feel. Beyond physical attraction, he feels lighter than he has been in years around her.

Light: both unburdened and iridescent. 

Gale opens his briefcase and tries to work on something that is actually work, before quickly giving up and placing his head on his desk. Because he can’t think about anything else but Tav and things will probably remain that way until the whole damn thing is settled. 

Well. And with that, Gale decides to stop avoiding what he knows he has to do. 

He searches Tav’s name in the University’s course portal and finds two classes listed for the current semester: IMCOM140: Histories of the Hellish and Arcane (W, 2:00-5:00pm) and IMCOM203: Alternative Qualitative Methodologies in Magical Research (T,TH 10:00-11:30am) 

She is teaching the second, right now. 

Before overthinking it, Gale puts his things in his satchel and heads to the 2nd floor. There are about 20 minutes left until the end of her class meeting. And then he can finally speak to her face-to-face, in a place that is not quite neutral, but not as personal as his home and not as emotionally fraught as his office. 

Room 211. It is one of the smaller classrooms in the College of Magic building, too small for him to sit in the back like just another spectator in a sea of others. He will need to wait in the hallway until the session is over and the students have cleared away. 

Gale rocks on his feet a bit before setting his satchel on the ground and leaning against the wall beside the entrance. 

He is curious, after all. What would she be lecturing about? 

Gale strains to listen.

Interviewing, it seems, is the topic of discussion. Her students are expected to collect one oral history for their semester projects and she is preparing them for the task.

He now understands the name of the course. “Alternative Qualitative Methodologies in Magical Research” clearly refers to less widely used methods of primary data collection, including interviewing and gathering oral histories. For those who conduct magical research, the implicit and explicit stance is that the best knowledge exists in ancient and rare tomes and all-powerful antiquities embedded with secrets. Things and documentations of the past, when the nature and use of magic was rawer in its power, are the golden standard—the only standard, really. It is not as expected to consult living people—learned or not. Mortal memories are so corruptible, after all. 

Oral histories from primary witnesses are rarely considered to be relevant to magical academics, let alone valuable. And anything beyond primary witnesses to a key event of interest is decried as actively detrimental to the rigor of magical research. This was part of what Mystra had taught him and why she was so appalled at his interview project in Neverwinter Wood. 

“What an incredible waste of faculties and resources,” she’d said. “There’s absolutely nothing to be gained from listening to some forest crone’s story that she got secondhand in the first place. We have artifacts to analyze and you are forsaking your responsibilities to go chase pure fictions, Doctor Dekarios.”

Gale had not agreed, obviously. And Tav wouldn’t have either. He knew that soon after reviewing her work and from the portion of his scholarship that she’d paid any attention to. But now he knows it in a different way. 

Tav sounds comfortable in her knowledge and her teaching skills. As she explains the complex natures of gathering qualitative data, her students ask questions—both applied and theoretical. But she never claims to have all the answers. She tells them about what she’s done and what she’s read and what she’s seen others do and how it worked and didn't work. And then she asks for them to consider the goals that undergird their work. What are they doing this for? To document? To complicate an existing story? The more explicit these motivations, she says, the more conscious one becomes of the processes of data gathering and analysis. 

Gale finds himself nodding and at one point he even scrambles for the small notebook in his satchel to quickly scrawl a note or two for later. 

A note or two becomes a page or two and before he realizes, a student is exiting the door beside him. He moves further out of the way to not get bowled over by all the bodies. Once the stream of students slows to a trickle, he takes a peek through the window in the door and finds that Tav is speaking to just one student and they are laughing about something.

Feeling reasonably sure it’s alright to enter, he opens the room and steps inside. 

“Gale?”

Tav is taken by surprise at his arrival and the student she’s speaking to turns around. He recognizes her. 

“Good morning, Arabella. Hello, Tav,” he greets both of them with what he hopes is not an impatient air about him. 

Arabella is a junior in one of his classes, bright and curious. She’s a bit shy and unsure, but always turns in interesting work that he doesn’t mind grading. By the end of the semester, he will likely speak to her about her interest, if any, in graduate study. 

“Hello Dr. Dekarios,” Arabella picks up her bag, “I was just leaving. See you both in class.” 

Arabella walks quickly out of the room and finally he is alone with Tav.

Despite being exactly what he'd sought out, he starts to feel a bit nervous at being alone with Tav again. But before he can too caught up in it, she says his name again. 

“Gale,” she is still surprised, but somehow not displeased to see him. He can definitely work with that. 

“Hello Tav,” he can’t help but smile as he greets her again, “That was a very informative lecture. I didn’t mean to surveil, unseen from the shadows, but I caught the last 15 minutes.”

She blushes at the compliment and he takes a moment to admire the hue of bashfulness on her face. It goes nicely with the rest of her. Her curly hair is piled onto the top of her head and she’s wearing a light pink sweater over a pleated red skirt that swishes around her lower calves.

She looks… soft. 

He wants to bite her. 

Tav gives him a look before coming down from her perch on the wide metal desk and walking behind it, seemingly to pack her things. But from his vantage point, it also seems like she’s giving herself something to do.

She’s nervous too. 

“And you just happened to be walking by, prowling for lecture scraps?” Tav shuts her laptop slowly and slides it into her backpack. 

It is an odd image she's described and he chuckles for a moment.

“Not quite. I came to speak with you. To apologize,” Gale notices her hands still for a moment before resuming her careful packing. 

“For what?” She says it in a careful sort of voice, like too much inflection will break something. 

“Where do I start?” Gale gives this an unnecessary (redundant) moment of consideration before continuing.

”Well, most recently, I did not respond to your texts, which was especially rude considering you were trying to return something quite vital,” Gale watches her reactions carefully as he says this first part, the comparatively easy part, and decides it is okay to say the rest.

“…And, of course, before that, I asked you to dinner only to get very intoxicated, leave you with the bill, and force you to chauffeur me home. That is what I can remember and infer, but I’m sure there’s much more that I can’t.” 

Her head snaps up to look at him. She searches his face for something. 

“That’s all you remember?” 

The “all” heavily implies to him that he is forgetting something vital, just as he’d thought. 

“Oh, gods. Am I really missing that much?” He can’t keep this from sounding tortured. The blush on Tav’s face seems to return at this.

“No,” she starts off, reassuringly, “No. That’s basically it.” 

“…Basically?”

“Well…,” Tav trails off and seems to consider the benefits and drawbacks of sharing more. 

“There’s one thing you’re forgetting.”

“Whatever it is, Tav: I sincerely apologize. Truly,” Gale says this as genuinely as he can. Because it’s true. It had promised to be a lovely evening and then he ruined it and made her mind him in ways that weren’t fair—especially not for a developing friendship. 

But Tav closes her eyes for a moment and huffs a laugh. 

“This particular thing doesn’t quite warrant an apology…," she trails off and for a moment he doesn't think she'll elaborate. But then she does.

"You kissed me.”

Gale wants to take a seat in the chairs around him. But he also wants to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness and finds himself caught between the two options, despite the way she’s said the apology was not warranted. 

Wait what? 

“...It’s not warranted?” He asks this quietly, sure his voice will crack if he tries to be clearer. 

“No,” she shakes her head and smiles at him. 

“It was a great kiss. I enjoyed it,” her eyes stay trained on his and he wants to look away but he feels stuck there. 

“…Oh,” is all he can manage.

“Yeah,” she chuckles and enjoys looking at him for a moment more before she drops her eyes shyly. 

Gale does not know what to say. He is scared of ruining this moment of vulnerability and also desperately wants to indicate something positive. What he lands on is something plain in its truth.

“I wish I could remember it.”

And if there was ever a right thing to say, that may have been it. Because then they are looking at each other with a blossoming optimism and warmness that he wants to luxuriate in. He thinks for a second that, perhaps, it’s the most perfect moment he’s ever stood through. 

“Ah, but that honor remains mine and mine alone,” she interrupts their staring cheekily and Gale finds he enjoys being teased by her, “How was your head when you woke up, by the way?”

“Oh,” he somehow grimaces and smiles at the same time, “It was awful. I haven’t been hungover like that in so long, I don’t think I’ll ever have clarry again. That is, unless I suddenly develop a taste for torture. Flavored with vanilla.”

They laugh for a bit at this before settling into a pensive quiet. Tav breaks the silence again.

“Gale, I like you.” 

It is a simple statement that makes him feel like he’s flying. And how could it not? How many hours had he already spent thinking about her? 

“I like you too, Tav,” she seems surprised at this, even after knowing he would’ve liked to remember kissing her. 

“I—I wasn’t expecting that,” she laughs through this, smiling widely, “I thought maybe you remembered what happened and regretted it.” 

Something hurts inside of him with the knowledge of what he’d made her think, how she’d directed his silence inward. He can’t take it back, so he focuses on reassuring her. 

“My only regret is that I don’t remember it,” he thinks about this after he says it and then provides a brief amendment, “Well, that and also all of the other things I apologized about before.”

“Uh uh,” she shakes her head playfully, “Technically you’ve only apologized for the thing you didn't need to apologize for. Otherwise, you've only told me that you’re here to give me an apology. But an apology has not yet been provided."

She crosses her arms against her chest and looks exceedingly pleased with herself.  

Cheeky minx. 

Gale musters all the confidence he has to take the few steps towards the metal desk separating them. He leans on it with one hand and uses the other to slowly, gratuitously tuck a stray hair behind her ear. 

“Tavelle,” Gale begins in a low, not-entirely-pure tone, “I am so very sorry for my inexcusable behavior the other night. Someone as lovely as you deserves far better than my terrible display.” 

Her mouth falls open a bit and he feels an immense amount of satisfaction how he has rendered her speechless. 

“Please,” he leans in further, close to her face, eyes glued to her lips, “please, let me make it up to you.” 

Tav’s tongue darts out to lick her lips and just as he thinks he will taste it now, she pulls back. Her face is a mix of astonishment, desire, and, in no small portion, regret.

“Gale, I would love to… let you make it up to me,” she starts slowly, with a hand on her chest, as if to calm a racing heart, “It’s just that… this whole thing, the professor-student thing, it seems to be a pattern for me. And I’m trying to not let it be that, a pattern.”

Gale is completely taken by surprise for a moment. And then he feels it. 

Relief. 

She understands. To some degree, by some wonderful and terrible miracle, she understands the turmoil he’s in, has been in. He thinks for another moment, trying to remember the last time he felt so seen by someone. But the warm embrace of shared history soon gives way, slowly and then all at one, to sadness. 

She understands. Meaning he is not the first professor to be drawn to her or to follow through on that attraction. And he can only assume it went terribly, really, because what other outcome is there? 

They have things to discuss, clearly. But first: honesty. 

“It… it also seems to be a bit of a pattern for me as well,” and despite how he fully planned on sharing this, he is still surprised at the admission as it comes from his mouth. 

“You’ve dated a student before?” He finds some kind of backwards relief in her plain confusion at this. 

“No,” he hurriedly replies, “a faculty member. My professor. For quite a long time, in fact.”

And it seems to lay over him just as thickly as it does over her. He’s never explained it in so few words, with so few elaborations and explanations before. But it doesn’t feel necessary here. 

“Oh,” she says in a light voice. 

“I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it,” Gale looks closely at her face as he continues, masking his anxiety in a flippant tone and wave of his hand, “She was one of my primary collaborators and is my senior. Highly influential. Magic people in the academy tend to know about the whole affair. Some of the retellings are quite salacious.”

“I… Actually, I did hear something about that. Not much, but I heard about… her,” Tav says this to him in a tone devoid of judgment or pity. 

“That’s… quite honest of you to admit,” he is breathless as he responds. Like a stiff wind, its refreshing and practically knocks him over. 

“Well, I try to be on occasion… but I also think we’re beyond lying to each other, aren’t we, Gale?”

He can’t help but agree. Indeed, they are. 

They look at the back of the room, towards the sound of the classroom door opening, and a handful of students walk in, sparing them only a glance as they put down their things. The next class in the room will begin soon. 

“We should get out of here.” 

Tav finishes packing her things and they leave the room together, unrushed, to stand in the increasingly populated hallway. 

She comes to stand in front of him and gives him an apologetic look. 

“I should go. I have a meeting with one of my advisors,” Tav explains,”…although I don’t know how exactly I’m going to focus on that. Or anything. For the rest of the day.” 

She smoothes the back of her hair with her hand, self-consciously, before giving him a shy smile. Gale struggles quite a bit to not kiss her right then, in open view of whoever is in the vicinity. And that could be anyone, really. From her friends to their students to his boss.

He cools a bit, with that last thought. 

“Would you come over later? Or maybe I could come and see you? I think we have things to discuss.” It is unlikely to be a meeting purely consisting of them exploring each other’s bodies, but he can’t help but hope for it just a bit. 

She nods and fiddles with her hands. 

“It would probably be best if you came to mine. You’re very… close to campus.” She hesitates as she says this, clearly due to how it reminds her of the circumstances they’re in, but she’s right. 

Discretion. He understands discretion. 

He nods. “Send me your address and I’ll be there later. I should be done around 6.” 

“Okay,” she nods and repeats it, “Okay.” 

Tav and Gale part with this promise of later, each waiting eagerly for it to be fulfilled.

Chapter Text

Gale wakes up and feels what he ignored at Tav’s apartment last night. 

She opened her door with her curly hair partially wet and her skin still flushed from her shower, wearing an oversized BGU sweater and a pair of shorts. The way he wanted to rut against her in the doorway took him completely by surprise, he’ll admit, but he was able to make his way into her apartment without backing her up against a wall just fine, thank you. 

Tav was a dutiful host. She took his jacket as he shrugged it off (a bit of a novel experience for him, actually) and hung it carefully in the closet by the doorway. She grabbed him a glass of water with ice without asking and he only realized he was terribly thirsty when it was right in front of him. She offered him a phone charger and fiddled with the thermostat when he “seemed warm”. Not 20 minutes after he arrived, a delivery driver knocked on the door and handed her two large bags with dinner for them (“I chose a few different things in case you didn’t like something or had an allergy.”). It was all very thoughtful of her… 

Which turned him on immensely. 

But then they began speaking about their situation over dinner, which pushed his desire to the background (if only slightly). 

Her main concerns with pursuing anything were 1) his career and 2) becoming involved in another “academic intrigue-fueled haze of lust”. He noted to himself that her career had not been listed among those core concerns, but had not mentioned this, opting to keep it as his main concern if she would not. After all, professors were rarely ruined by such incidents; Gale could not think of a single instance of a professor not being able to bounce back at another institution in a case like this, if they were required to leave at all. 

Gale also recalled then: Even as rumors circulated that his relationship with Mystra had predated his start in the doctoral program, she’d been buttressed by supporters on all sides. And it was not unique in the slightest for well-known scholars. Where relationships are power, people in the academy are hardly willing to decry acquaintances or friends with institutional and discipline-wide sway. That was all to say: people would stand by him if something awful came to pass. 

He may be newer on the teaching tenure-track, but his research reputation, from a place like U of Waterdeep no less, meant he had a much more straightforward (not to mention shorter) path to tenure at BGU. That was just the reality. 

So yes, if she was not concerned about her own prospects, he would be. 

Tav also voiced, again, to his deep gratification, that she likes him “genuinely, as a person” and even added that she wanted for them to have space to form a real relationship outside of physical attraction.

“I want you to really like me, too, you know? If that’s in the cards, I mean.” 

And this took him by surprise, although he wasn’t sure why. Because hadn’t he just thought yesterday about the confusing depth of his feelings for her? Even tried to attribute it to his loneliness or the scars he still carried with him from over a decade with Mystra? Of course Tav would feel the same. Of course.

She told him this a bit more shyly, tentatively than she’d said the rest, perhaps because she was unaware of how much he truly thought of her—both her incredibly high standing in his mind and the numbers of hours he spent each day, thinking of her in small ways that added up to a sizeable mountain by the time he slept. Clearly they shared the same feelings and the same penchant for thinking the other didn’t. 

And then she moved on, looking up at him anxiously from her seat on the floor in front of her coffee table, and asked him if he’d seen anyone else since his relationship (with Mystra left mercifully unspoken).

He told her he hadn’t and she said she hadn’t been with anyone since the professor she’d mentioned earlier that day. And that it had ended four years or so ago. She hadn’t named the faculty person, but confirmed they were a former advisor of hers. (Gale has to restrain himself from trying to piece it together with some strategic web searching even now, after an entire night has passed.) 

They eventually came to a very measured and realistic plan. They were going to spend time together, a balance between very plausibly deniable public engagements and carefully utilized private time in order to make this “less like making out in a closet”, which had been Tav’s phraseology for it. And despite how Gale thinks he’d like to sometime make out in a closet with her, he thinks it’s both an apt description and a good thing to avoid. Outside of Tav’s career, his other concern is ending up in yet another relationship that dominates his whole life with its need to be hidden and carefully managed. 

Even years after being with Mystra openly, even after becoming faculty, he never felt like he could stop hiding. He never got past being the grad student in a relationship with her, to the point where he could never bring himself to even look at her too long during meetings or give her something as chaste as a kiss on the cheek on university grounds after returning from Candlekeep with Elminster. 

So Gale needs this, what they are doing, to exist at least partly in the light of day and outside of the walls of their bedrooms. And he is glad that Tav agrees with this. 

Gods, he likes her. 

But in case he needs reminding, the throb of his dick is intense and unwilling to be ignored any longer. 

Fine, he thinks and pulls himself out of his briefs before muttering a quick incantation with a gesture. 

With a slick hand, he strokes his cock with slow, firm pressure, from root to tip, and closes his eyes. 

He turns to a long, intense thought he’d had while watching Tav clear the coffee table of dishes—after insisting that he not insult her in her home by laboring. 

He could see her clearly at the sink from his seat on the right side of the couch, the way she threw one leg out behind her when she bent down to fill the dishwasher. The soft backs of her thighs taunted him, as did the smoothness of her lower back, out to greet him when her sweater rode up. He’d wanted to press himself against her round ass and grind against her before pulling her shorts down. He’d stick his tongue in her while she moaned over the counter, legs trembling while he drank her down and brought her to the edge of thought. 

How would she sound? Breathy? Whimpering? He hears her gasp in his mind and it makes him groan into the cool air of his bedroom. He imagines she would try to be quiet at first and it would only make him want to coax the moans out of her even more. By the time he’d latch onto her clit and suck, two fingers deep, she’d be sobbing openly and saying his name into the sink.

He wonders if she’d ever be amenable to hearing him tell her how good she feels, like hot liquid silk around him as he slides his cock into her. Would she like that? 

Gale feels the coil within him draw tighter and he increases his pace, throwing his head back into his pillows when a pang of pleasure strikes him. 

He thinks of pulling Tav’s back to his chest and pressing her hips against the counter with his own, fucking up into her while pressing against her soft lower stomach. He wants to whisper filthy little encouragements in her ear and feel her clench around him again and again. Would she reach back for him, drag her nails against his thigh? 

How would Tav squeeze him as she came? How would it push him over the edge behind her, eager and ready to hurtle towards infinity?

Gale is ripped from the fantasy as his back arches and he spends himself on his stomach and fist in hot furious spurts. If she were here, he swears, he would be kissing her shoulders and cradling her against him as his cum leaked from her. 

He feels himself tremble from the aftermath of it and waits for calm to emerge. Slowly, he catches his breath and looks at the clock on his bedside table. 

Fuck. He’s running late for therapy. 

—

Gale does not remember much of his Friday. He made it to therapy 5 minutes late and Isobel had seemed nonplussed, being much more interested in hearing how his week had gone. She noted that it seemed he was in a good mood and he wondered how she gleaned it beneath how frazzled rushing made him. 

He couldn’t stop himself from mentioning Tav, whose name he hadn’t uttered yet. He was still getting to know Isobel and though he had confidence in her capabilities, it went against every logical faculty he had to share this with her. it’s not like dating Tav was illegal… Just incredibly in violation of several guidelines for professional behavior and a few ethical standards. 

She had not been fazed, opting to ask him for more details on his thoughts—regarding Tav’s student status and the approach they were taking and the other concerns he’d let slip as he explained their entanglement. His concerns about Tav’s future career. The potential of retraumatization for them both. That his commitment to her would deepen so integrally, so quickly that he would lose himself again just as he was understanding it all better. 

Isobel had no easy answers for any of the questions he'd been rife with, but she told him they seemed to be thinking about the right things and each other and that made him feel a bit better about it all. And speaking Tav’s name to another being, someone that wasn’t Tav herself, helped in a way he’d sorely needed. 

After therapy ended, he knows he attended a committee meeting, answered some emails, and had coffee with another faculty in his department with a secondary interest in something that had prompted Gale to set it the meeting up, but the details of these events are completely lost to him. He read at least 50 pages of something too, but has no idea what. 

Because he is seeing Tav today for a Saturday morning breakfast. And he is already somewhat in the ridiculous frame of mind that if she isn’t in front of him, thinking about her as hard as he can may bring her back to him. 

(A terrible sign of things to come, if he had to mark it.)

They meet at a restaurant closer to her place, completely across town from campus. In her experience, BGU people don’t really go there, but they still need to be “appropriately well-behaved.” She said this the night before, smiling humorously as she sat on her bed, a pillow in her lap, and Gale had enjoyed the comfortable image she made from his comfortable slump in her armchair by the window.

She was being completely serious, of course. But he had been excited just to sit somewhere outside with her. He hadn’t even gotten to the point of considering any lascivious antics. 

He sits across from her now. She looks characteristically lovely in a knee-length dress, drawstring ties in a bow over her chest, adorned in navy cotton decked with small white flowers. She’d shrugged off her gray cardigan as she sat down and he’d been reminded of their dinner in Ophal and the realization that somehow led them here.

So far, he’s learned over breakfast that she doesn’t usually eat it, but that she likes her eggs over easy, her pancakes as waffles, and her juice? Orange. He stores these facts in his Tav file and awaits a future time when he can use them. He briefly thinks of making her breakfast as she walks into his kitchen, barefoot and wearing one of his shirts. And then he almost rolls his eyes. 

The fantasy is trite. He can do better. 

“So you like butter and jam on your scones,” she observes aloud, “Not to my taste, but I’ll remember it regardless.”

“Please do consider your incorrect breakfast opinions more quietly, Tav. I am trying to eat, after all,” he says this to surprised laughter from across the table and a light nudge with her foot underneath. 

He bites into the pastry and tries to keep his smiles down as he chews, but he can’t and doesn’t really care. 

“So why don’t you usually eat breakfast?” He’s curious about this. Gale loves breakfast, always has. His mother was adamant about him eating something substantial every morning even if he was rushing. “You need the extra energy to run, my brilliant boy,” she’d say whenever he’d try to bypass the kitchen table. 

“I would just rather sleep more. Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love food,” Tav prepares a forkful with a bit of everything on her plate, “But it usually takes me so long to fall asleep that I’d rather sleep until the last possible minute.”

“Hm,” Gale takes a sip of his coffee thoughtfully, “Have you always had trouble sleeping?”

“Uh,” Tav thinks for a moment, “No, not really. Not until undergrad I don’t think.” 

“What changed?”

“I think it was working two jobs,” Tav says, nodding to herself, “My sleeping schedule was all over the place. Years later, it’s still that way.”

She shrugs. And Gale files another fact away. 

“What about you?”

“Me? I didn’t work during my undergraduate study,” Gale says, slightly embarrassed, “My mother and scholarship from the House of Wonder covered everything.”

“No,” she shakes her head as she sips juice from a straw, “Sleep. How do you sleep?”

“Oh! Well I’ve known myself to ruminate for several hours before winding down, but it’s not an every night occurrence,” Gale reflects, surprising himself with his honesty, “Although I suppose I have a much… livelier way of sleeping than most.”

Tav looks almost excited at this, “Do you sleepwalk?”

“No, nothing so interesting,” he huffs a laugh at her odd interest, “I lucid dream frequently and I speak in my sleep often as well. I have since I was a child.”

Tav enjoys his retelling of how he sometimes casted as he slept in his childhood, laughing at how he’d produced flames to the detriment of his mother’s rosebush while napping in the garden.

“Is that Gale Dekarios I see?”

A tall, lean man with a moderately long white beard and matching braid approaches their table. Ramazith Flamesinger, senior faculty member in Gale's department and Rolan’s advisor, shakes Gale’s hand enthusiastically, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. 

“Oh please excuse my rude interruption,” the standing man turns to Tav and holds out his hand for hers, “Ramazith Flamesinger. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Tav laughs for a bit as Ramazith—Dr. Flamesinger—kisses her knuckles lightly, “Tav Ancunín, Interdisciplinary Magics.”

“Ah yes!” Ramazith’s hazel eyes shine with recognition, “You are well acquainted with my Rolan.”

Tav nods, “For a few years now, yes.”

Ramazith stoops down a bit with an amused smile, “I swear, his mentions of you are some of the only times he isn’t scowling something fierce!”

“Oh,” Tav exhales stiltingly, a grin stretching her face, “You have no idea how much I will enjoy bringing that up every chance I get, Dr. Flamesinger.” 

Rolan’s advisor winks at her cheekily, “Oh I think I have some idea. And please, Ramazith is fine. The title gets very old after a few decades or so.” 

Ramazith stands up to his full height and continues, “But what brings the two of you to The Blushing Mermaid? I love this place, but I never see campus people here.”

Tav waits a moment for Gale to answer, but, when he can’t seem to find the words, she takes over.

“Dr. Dekarios was kind enough to grant me a weekend breakfast meeting to discuss some of the analysis for my dissertation. He’s busy enough during the week, but I guess he’s being extra gracious during his first semester. Trying to prove us wrong about Waterdeep folks, if I had to guess.”

She says the last part in a mock whisper to Ramazith before continuing, "As for the restaurant, well, that was my good taste at play.”

Ramazith laughs, completely taken with her. Gale cannot find any surprise at that particular outcome. He thinks briefly back to when he introduced her to Elminster and what his storied mentor said as she’d walked away quickly (“Keep an eye on that one.” And at his questioning look, Elminster just kept walking inside.).

Some part of his brain faintly acknowledges Tav and Ramazith are still talking. He seems to be asking her a question about her timeline (“When are you up to defend?”), but Gale feels very far away from it all. 

It isn’t without humor—the way she slips into the lie much more gracefully than he can despite the years he has on her in the art of Lying So No One Thinks (or Remembers) You’re Dating Your Professor. And while the skill came in handy just now, Gale can’t help but feel off-kilter at the reminder of their reality. It feels more obvious now, and by a significant amount, that they are not sitting in the light together, but in the shade. 

A younger looking woman sidles up to Ramazith then, introducing herself as “Celia” before asking the older wizard if he’s ready to go. Ramazith bids them both a kind, but eager goodbye as he lets himself be led away.

“Did you know that guy is a phenomenal dancer? I saw him at a University-level thing with donors once, so like an actual occasion for dancing. That was back when I did lots of committee-type stuff. Anyway, he was so smooth, everyone in the room wanted to dance with him. The only reason I didn’t is because my balance is awful,” Tav laughs a little at her retelling before it seems to fall heavily over her.

Another thing to file away, in a cabinet in the shade.

“Everything okay?”

He tells her he believes so, if only because he can’t fully justify articulating how he feels after watching her respond to Ramazith. 

It’s silly, he knows. Someone had to respond and he clearly forgot every word he’d ever heard at that moment, so she’d needed to manage the situation. But that was the problem, he supposed. The fact that it needed to be managed.

He asks himself for a moment why he can’t just pick easier people to love. And then he throws the question aside immediately. Because he doesn’t know Tav yet, doesn’t have enough of her to love her yet and yet he is already always trying to temper the thing inside him that agrees with the thing inside her—the thing inside him that could very well love her right now and be willing to ruin a whole life over it. Again. 

“Gale?” 

He’s been staring into space over the rest of the restaurant and when he turns back, Tav is looking at him in concern. 

He feels a foot emerge from across the floor between them. It presses on the outside of his and he feels her ankle lean on him. Her eyes and smile are soft.

I’m here.

He wants to hold her hand. He wants to, but he can’t, and this makes him more upset than he already feels. 

Later, after he scrapes up whatever lightheartedness he can muster, after he drops her off and finally makes it back home, he misses her just a bit more than before he’d left.

Chapter Text

A mandatory event for the Interdisciplinary Magics doctoral program is currently happening in the conference room on the sixth floor. But she isn’t there. She is in a stall in the bathroom on the fifth floor, wondering if she will feel—maybe through the Weave or some other ever-connected entity—when the coast is clear. 

Tav reaches into her vibrating pocket and finds a text from Wyll Ravengard, the only other student in her program she would even approach calling a friend. 

“She’s not here yet. And if you’re any later, they’re going to give you shit about it.”

Sometimes, Tav forgets quite how many people know extensive portions of her personal history. But Wyll reminds her, as people periodically do, that this is her life. And it will likely be her life after she leaves BGU and goes on to another fucked up institution of learning—if she somehow gets a job post-dissertation, that is. 

Tav checks the time and Wyll is right. She needs to go; to be any much later than she already is would mean to wind up on someone’s radar for “failing to display professional etiquette” or being “insufficiently engaged.” And she’s had more than enough of that in her program evaluations already. 

Tav walks quickly up the stairs (regretting it the entire time) and to the conference room and slips inside with only a few turned heads—and none from anyone with desires or power to bother her. The large conference table is full, so she takes a seat in a desk chair along the back wall beside a departmental administrative manager. 

This is a meeting—a “town hall”—that department leadership arrange each semester to solicit feedback on the doctoral program and inform students of new opportunities for research or professional development. It is, in the plainest of terms, how they keep students from being too pissed off or too rowdy or from trying to unionize. A more time-intensive suggestion box.

She took these meetings quite seriously in her first two years, back when she still thought she could single handedly change this institution as long as she argued it convincingly enough, made the right friends in the right way.

Tav watches the newer doctoral students at the table, many filled with the same kind of fervor and delusion she’d had at their stage. They speak of the same things she once did: How to target under-admitted student demographics. How to get faculty to update their course syllabi to reflect at least the last 3 decades of scholarship. How to better prepare students for dissertation proposals and research.

And despite the many hours and suggestions and strategic plans she created in her first two years at BGU, the same problems persist in worsened states.

It is the academic way of things. 

The door opens again and Tav notices several people sit up a bit straighter, become a bit more engaged. It means she’s here:

Orin Anchev. 

Executive Director of Institutional Acquisitions and Giving.

Daughter of Sarevok Anchev, her former advisor.

And, of course, Enver’s wife. 

As she’s done every year at least since Tav was a grad student, Orin is at this meeting to discuss administrative training opportunities for students who want to stay in the academy, but don’t see themselves continuing the research rat race. Instead, they could help bring in millions and millions of dollars through fancy galas and schmoozing on yachts and somehow getting people to donate their second or third homes to the University in their advanced estate plans.

In a luxuriously tailored oxblood pantsuit, Orin crosses her legs and speaks in her effusive, lilting voice to thank the program faculty and staff for inviting her to speak with the students about “administrative futures”. Orin’s eyes scan the room and, regardless if it misses anyone else’s attention, Tav sees it. Something like bloodlust and pleasure meeting to bear her expression. 

It goes away as quickly as it happens.

After another incredibly long 30 minutes, the meeting finally ends as scheduled. Tav wastes no time slipping her backpack on and leaving as everyone mingles, but it doesn’t matter.

She can’t get away fast enough this time. 

“Tavelle Ancunín,” Orin takes easy, hip swinging steps towards her, stopping about a yard away to drag her pale eyes over Tav’s body. 

Orin’s thick blond hair cascades behind her shoulders and Tav briefly recalls one of the few times she’d laid with Orin as well as Enver. It was towards the very end of it all. 

Tav remembers how Orin had bent over to stare down at her, blonde hair surrounding their faces like curtains. 

“This is going to hurt,” she’d breathed above her, almost reverently, “And I want to hear it all. I want to drink every ounce of your sweet, perishing sounds.”

“Executive Director Anchev.”

But Tav knows something that few other people do—no one else, perhaps, besides Enver and Sarevok. 

Orin craves acknowledgement. At least, she did back then, which Tav had learned over many instances of ignored texts and undisclosed weekend trips and silent treatments and one-sided, explosive arguments in which Orin raged at him and Enver simply… watched. 

He was never really into direct confrontation as a primary or even tertiary strategy. Enver liked victory, not battle. 

Domination, not conflict.

So Tav strives to give Orin as little as possible: always, yes, but she’ll settle for just this exchange, even the next few seconds if it’s all she can manage. 

“Nothing else for me?” The pale woman feigns heartbreak and takes another step forward, “What happened to the unbreakable spirit, hm?”

Tav shrugs her shoulders, feigning boredom, “Perhaps you broke it.”

She turns and grasps the strap of her backpack with a subtly shaking hand, “Now if you’ll excuse me.”

Orin shakes her head and clicks her tongue in rapid succession, “Or does it think itself too good?”

Tav continues her measured steps towards the elevators. 

“Oh no no no,” Orin continues, as if hit by a sudden wave of disappointment, “Enver won’t like that at all.”

And when Tav spins back around on her heels, she can see the surprised satisfaction on Orin’s face. It’s surprising to Tav too, how something so deeply juvenile is getting to her. How much smoke from an internal fire is puffing from her eyes. It’s outsized, really. Like a bonfire is raging in her chest. 

Maybe it is all due the use of won’t over wouldn’t, the implication that there will be a future in which Enver gets to express his displeasure. But he’s been away since her return to the program, on a supposed research trip around the Realms with one of the overmoneyed fuckheads Orin likes to milk for BGU. 

For a moment, Tav is only upset that she didn’t hurt Enver more during the incident. But she backs away from this cautiously. 

It’s a dangerous thought. Not to be woken up. 

“I don’t give a fuck what Enver wants. Unless he ever decides he wants a knife to the fucking windpipe,” Tav finishes biting this out between gritting teeth that ache to snap. 

“Then, perhaps, the two of you could trust me to service that desire, as well. For old time’s sake,” Tav regrets finishing with this as she says it. It is the kind of thing that would only get to herself, after all. 

Tav isn’t sure when it happened, but she is close enough to feel Orin’s heavy breaths on her face, to be surrounded by the cold, sharp fragrance of whatever her perfume is. With all the time she’s spent in the woman’s home, she should really know. 

But it’s like Orin is barely hearing her, even with their faces so close together. 

”Your rage, your agony…” the pale woman closes her eyes as if to savor it, “It’s still delicious, really. The way it moves in your blood, under your skin. Even after all this time.”

Orin’s hands move towards her slightly before pulling back, as if she’s remembered where they are: the middle of a hallway that is a straight shot from the conference room to the elevators. 

Orin frowns and her voice lowers to a whisper instead, almost trembling.

“I never got to tell you… how exquisite you made Enver that day.”

Orin’s gaze lowers to Tav’s fists, clenching so hard she can’t really feel them anymore. 

“…And all with your bare hands.”

And then it really seems like Orin will actually touch her, will tell her to come back with her to the manor and the library and the sprawling garden and the red, red room where Tav once spent so much of her time. But if she is, she doesn’t get the chance. 

“Tav! There you are!”

After a few long strides dampened by carpet, Wyll Ravengard is suddenly at Tav’s side, placing a hand on her shoulder. 

“We’re running late. Sorry I took so long back there. Are you ready to go?” Wyll says this to Tav, as if in a rush, before turning to Orin. 

“My apologies, Executive Director Anchev, I’m afraid I must steal away Tav for a prior commitment.”

He’s lying. The three of them know it, of course. But Wyll is too good, has been around too long with too tricky of an advisor to let a sliver of deception slip. His smile at Orin, apologetic and warm, is too much for even someone like her to pull apart.

“Of course, Mr. Ravengard,” Orin is almost congenial after a brief pinch of her eyebrows, “I will just have to catch up with Ms. Ancunín at a later time.”

The promise in that statement does not escape either of their attentions, but Tav cannot do anything about that right now. 

Tav lets herself be guided by a large hand on her shoulder into an open elevator further down the hall. Wyll swipes his ID card to take them to the cafe and doesn’t ask her any questions during their short trip to the fourth floor. 

When they make it down there, Tav is in a daze. Her hands are still trembling and Wyll has to ask her three times what she’d like to drink (his treat, he repeats) before she can say she’ll have a small hot chocolate. 

Her feet carry her to the furthest booth her eyes see and then she lowers herself unsteadily into the seat.

“There you are,” Wyll’s large hand eventually comes into view with a navy blue paper cup. 

He slides into the other side of the booth and looks around for a moment. The cafe is practically empty, as campus typically is after midday on Fridays. 

He turns back to her with a face entirely too even for how she feels. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Wyll asks simply. 

It’s unprecedented, but not odd for him to ask. Wyll is just that sort of person. She doesn’t have many friends, couldn’t keep most of the campus relationships she carefully cultivated during her first two years. Everyone who didn’t avoid her completely once word spread about her misdeeds eventually ceased reaching out during her time on medical leave. But Wyll makes friends with everyone he meets. He’s smooth and puts people at ease in a way not unbefitting a high-ranking politician's son. 

It would make her suspicious of him if she hadn’t already witnessed his deep sense of morality during countless meetings and seminars where someone started saying something highly fucked up under the guise of “science”, as academics often did,  and he’d stepped in expertly to push back in his noble tongue.  

“Don’t you have a defense to prepare for?” Tav says, sounding tired and defensive. Because she is. 

“I do,” Wyll nods, unbothered, “But I figure I can spare a few minutes to speak with the only person in our department who’s had a worse advisor experience than me.” 

It speaks volumes to Tav that this is how Wyll sees it. After all, Mizora pushed back his defense four times before the Director of Graduate Study told her to knock it off, last she’d heard it. He probably would have graduated in five years instead of seven if she hadn’t overworked him on her own projects while refusing to approve his proposed plan of dissertation research for a year and half. He’s tried to switch advisors at several points, but it always seems to fall through one way or another. 

Wyll hasn’t told her about any of it—they’ve really never been that close—but people talk. And sometimes Tav listens. 

“My thing is over, though. Yours… not so much,” Tav attempts to counter weakly. 

“That didn’t look particularly over to me… but, regardless, the end of mine is in sight. And I have yet to tempt the wrath of Mizora’s wife or father, so I think I still win.” Wyll brings his coffee to his lips and sips with feigned innocence as Tav narrows her eyes at him. 

He has a point, of course. 

No one really knows about the extent to which Orin and Tav were involved. The incident with Enver had been intense enough and there had been witnesses to confirm the details. There was little interest in widening the scope of the “investigation” that happened and it wasn’t like she made a compelling case for her rationale. She was incapable of it at the time. If she had managed it, perhaps Wyll would know about her and Orin and maybe she wouldn’t always feel like she’s about to collapse under the incredible weight of a backstory no one knows about.

But she didn’t manage it, so here they are: with two completely different understandings of Orin’s wrath and how she tempted it.

“Thanks,” she attempts awkwardly, “for cutting in.” 

“I was happy to help,” Wyll says reassuringly. 

They sit there for a while, eventually speaking idly about Wyll’s upcoming defense. It’s only two months away, he says, and then he’ll be able to start his post at the Ministry of Monsters and live happily ever after with his soon-to-be wife Karlach, all while using new magical techniques he developed for his dissertation that are particularly potent against monstrosities. And, best of all, he’ll have no overlap with Mizora ever again. 

He sounds hopeful and surprisingly sure that it will all happen—even while acknowledging that Mizora won’t let him go so easily, even as he says that he’s expecting to have to rope in some poor faculty member to do an external review of his dissertation in the very expected case that Mizora refuses to give him a fair evaluation. And he seems ready, Tav notices. To fight for it, to get what he came for and get out.

It’s absurd, she thinks, that he sounds so eager to do it, so damn excited to defend the minutest details of the most extensive project of his career while fully expecting for Mizora to try and fuck him over at the very end regardless of how faultless his work is.

“How do you stay so damn chipper all the time?” she asks with no annoyance. If there’s a secret, she wants to know.

“Tav,” a warm smile graces Wyll’s face, ”It is genuinely hard to feel too bad about what happens in this circus when I have such a lovely partner waiting for me at home. A woman who, if I finally let her, would turn Mizora into street paste.”

Tav met Karlach a few years ago at some kind of fall semester department event. Tav had marveled at the woman a bit too transparently for her own liking. Karlach is beautiful and tall and bursting with energy and jokes. She and Wyll make a striking pair. 

They laugh, almost giddy at the thought of Karlach beating Mizora into a pulp, before quieting into a relaxed pensiveness. 

“That is the trick, though. And no one ever told me, not really, even with all the little reminders about work-life balance and self-care,” Wyll says with a swish of his hand, as if swatting the university platitudes away.

“Having a fiance who can beat up your advisor?” Tav asks this jokingly, even as she understands what he’s getting at. 

“And,” Wyll continues with a small laugh, “who can also, you know, kiss it better.”

“Wyll Ravengard,” Tav leans in with a devious grin, “Am I to infer that your method is just fucking the pain away with your soon-to-be wife?” 

“Gods, Tav!” A sharp, surprised laugh cleaves out of Wyll’s chest and he sputters for a bit. “Th-That is not what I was implying!” 

A flustered look falls over him and he takes a short sip of his coffee to reset.

She knows. She knows he would never suggest such a thing. But she knows where the conversation is going and it is deeply discomfiting. It is much easier to play the part of the crass grad student with the scandalous past, much easier to pretend she’s too cool and unmoored for what he’s about to mention. 

“What I meant was,” Wyll continues, still flustered but very sincere, “I get home and seeing Karlach is like… getting a kiss on a scrape on my knee. The bad stuff is there still, but it fades.” 

Wyll’s thumbs glide along the top of his cup lid absentmindedly, “Do you know what I mean?”

Tav thinks the question over for a long time, long after telling Wyll that she gets it, long after he leaves for his next meeting and the cafe staff start to clean up at 5pm. She’s on a shuttle bus, rolling smoothly towards the stop near her building, when she settles on a definitive answer.

No: she doesn’t really know. She’s never gone home, not even as a child, and felt like there was someone there, waiting to take the pain of the day away, the sting of falling over on her hands and knees over and over again.

But it doesn’t have to stay that way, something frail and hopeful inside of her says. Maybe she can have that too—someone who not only can put her back together, but wants to.

Tav doesn’t know how true the idea feels to her, but she surprises herself by wishing that, if not now, it will eventually be the case. 

She doesn’t know if Gale can be that person. She’s not sure if their arrangement can ever give life to a dynamic like that. She told him that she wanted him to really like her, as a person, if it was a possibility. But she hasn’t been as honest since. 

Already, Tav feels herself growing weary at the effort it takes to be the person she knows he wants. It’s a lot like herself, but less troubled. Smarter. More confident. More self-assured. Less broken. Unbroken. A person who could theoretically accept his invitation to come over for the night because she can sleep through it without waking up frantically, gasping for air and shaking off invisible hands.

It’s her, but better. A better Tav that doesn’t need to be put back together in the first place.

Tav walks slowly from the shuttle bus stop to her place, stepping on the cracks that run through the sidewalk in front of her. She makes it to her building, holds the door open for her neighbor and checks the mail, sorting between her and Astarion’s envelopes in the elevator. She unlocks her front door and wishes for just a moment that things are a little less real and that there is a wonderful, Gale-related surprise waiting for her. But there isn’t. Instead, the place is kind of a mess and she wants to be pissed off about it, but she doesn’t have the time. 

In a little more than an hour, she will open her front door to Gale again, and yearn for the way he’ll look at Better Tav: with sweetly heated eyes and like she’s the most perfect thing he’s ever seen. 

But for now, Regular Tav must prepare. She must run the dishwasher and put the laundry away and vacuum the rug and find time to shave her legs.

She must soothe the sting of her own knee. 

—

They have finished dinner and grading their students’ assignments and are lying comfortably on her bed when Gale asks if she’s okay. 

“You’ve been a bit quieter tonight than I’ve come to expect on a Friday. Is there something on your mind?” 

She’s laying on her side with her head on his stomach, facing away from him as his fingers play with her hair and caress her arm. He’s propped up on her “borderline excessive” number of pillows, probably still looking as if he’s melted into the cushions. She’d felt the intense urge to kiss him earlier, to press him into the softness beneath their bodies, alongside a need to avert her gaze at the sight of him more comfortable on her bed than she ever has been. So she turned away from his eyes. 

It is mostly dark in her room, save for her lamp in the corner that washes them in a dim, hazy glow. The air is still around them and the sounds from the streets below filter in easily through her cracked window. 

She wants to tell him everything. About Orin. About Enver. About her. She wants to tell him everything she’s done and that’s been done to her. 

But she can’t. She knows that if she tells him everything, it will be the beginning of the end. He may look at her afterwards, may reassure her that he doesn’t think of her any differently, but he won’t be able to see Better Tav ever again. He will only see the dirtier, angrier, more pathetic thing left in her place. 

And then, slowly but surely, he will lose interest. He will stop liking her. And it won’t be his fault, it’ll just be what is. 

So she won’t do it. 

Slowly, Tav moves the hand laying between her cheek and Gale’s stomach lower, towards the buckle of his belt. When she lifts her head and turns her eyes towards his face, she sees a quietly surprised Gale looking back at her. Soft mouth, soft eyebrows. He looks delicious.

She will do this instead. 

“May I?” 

Her hand is resting on the buckle now, waiting for his permission. 

“Tav,” Gale says breathlessly, “you don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” she replies truthfully, “but I want to.” 

“I wasn’t trying to start something, you know,” Gale continues, trying to stay focused on her face. “You’ve just seemed more in your head than I’m used to and I wanted to make sure—“ 

“Gale,” she interrupts, “I was thinking about this… I’d like to touch you.” 

And it’s not all true. No. But she does want to. The motivations may not be so simple, but she wants to be clear about how much she adores him, how much she would be happy to do for him—as Regular Tav and as Better Tav—as long as it would make him feel good. 

“Please?” she asks, and this makes him laugh quietly and bury his face in his hands for a moment.

He drops his hands back onto the bed and looks at her disbelievingly, “I don’t know if anyone’s ever, ever said please to me before in this context.”

“And yet,” she tilts her head and manages a smirk, “You have neither confirmed nor denied whether I can take your dick out of your pants.” 

“Tav!” Gale laughs at her vulgarity, seeming so flustered at the situation that the desire to touch him only intensifies.

His laughing slows down and in between embarrassed little huffs, he asks again, “Are you sure you’re alright? Truly? You can always unburden yourself with me, you know.”

The pads of her fingers tap against the buckle of his belt and she nods her head, maintaining eye contact with him in an attempt to prove she’s fine. 

He says a breathless okay and nods and she smoothly slips his belt off with one hand, still looking at him. She sits up on her bed, quickly unbuttoning his pants and helping Gale shimmy them off into the darkness of the floor below them. 

The room is dim, but she can clearly see the prominent bulge in Gale’s briefs. He’s at least partially hard already. 

Tav drags her fingers lightly over the length of him through the fabric. Gale’s breathing hitches for a moment; his eyes dart between her body and her face and her fingertips applying barely any pressure at all.

Wanting to feel more of him, she grasps his cock lightly through his underwear and she feels it grow harder under little pressure, instantly responsive to her touch. 

“Eager, are we?” she teases him as his hips jerk a bit. She drags her hand down to his balls and cups him there too. 

“Says the one who asked to please give me a handjob,” Gale somehow looks smug and mortified as he says this. She almost wishes there was more light so she could fully see the flush on his face, the one her mind knows is there. But then he’d see hers too. 

“I did say please, it’s true,” Tav nods as she pulls back Gale’s underwear, “But I have no problem admitting I’ve been waiting to do this.”

Gale takes in a shuddering breath as she says this, shivering a bit. 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Tav says, practically salivating. The thickness of him makes her want to put him in her mouth, makes the core of her throb with want. Despite how her complicated reasons for doing this linger, she can’t help but want him in a very simple way.

Gale’s breathing intensifies as the skin of her palm touches him and her thumb moves to smear his pre-cum along the head of his cock. Tav leans forward to push up the hem of his sweater and presses open mouthed kisses to the skin of his stomach as her hand gives him a fluttering squeeze. 

“Tav,” Gale groans her name, all stretched out on the ‘a’ and she feels a bit heady at how desperate he is, literally and metaphorically in the palm of her hand.  

She experiments with pressure, small pulsing grips at the base of the head of his cock. His precum dribbles out of him and she uses it to slick up his length, stroking him from root to tip. She sets a slow, steady pace that makes him pant and she is drunk on the incredible power of being able to do this to Gale of all people. Charming, verbose, awkward, opinionated Gale who swallows the sun for breakfast every morning.

“You know,” Tav hears herself speak in a low, unfamiliar voice, “I was hoping it would be a bit more than a handjob.” 

Gale’s eyes snap open and she squeezes him with a bit of pressure at the end of a stroke. She wants to swallow the small call to the gods he makes under his breath. 

“May I put my mouth on you? Please?” Tav says this a breath away from the head of his cock and Gale shivers before giving her a short, helpless nod, clearly not trusting himself to speak. 

Gale helps her take his briefs completely off and she shifts to kneeling between his legs. She wants to take off her sweater, but decides against it, opting to not start something that she can’t finish. 

She leans an arm over one of his thighs to comfortably lay her hand on his stomach and grasps his length in her other hand. She starts with wet kisses all over the sides of him before sucking on the fat head of his cock with light pressure between her lips. 

Gale’s thighs begin to shake lightly beneath her and sees his heavy lidded eyes watching her. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth and he’s breathing heavily through his nose.

Beautiful.

She takes her time running her tongue up and down the sides of Gale’s cock, reveling in his light herbal scent and the enticing spread of his legs. She sucks the head of him to her lips again and runs her left hand down the inside of his right thigh. His moans seem to surprise him and the sight of him caught off guard by his own pleasure makes her finally take him fully into her mouth. 

“Gods above, Tav—“ a loud moan cuts off whatever he was going to say next as she hollows her cheeks as she sucks. She takes Gale deeper into her mouth and her saliva coats her chin as the flat of her tongue rubs against him. When she pulls away, he practically whines. 

“You know, Gale,” she says after she pulls away for air, rubbing her wet lips over him, “I never took you for such a devout man.” 

“Ah, surely—gods, Tav—surely you must know,” Gale struggles to get it out as she manages to get more of his cock in her mouth before her throat pushes back, “That you hold heaven in your mouth. That you are nothing short of divine.”

Tav feels herself moan and her thighs squeeze together as she moves back down to suck his length sloppily. Gale throws his head back into her pillows with a drawn out “fuuuck.”

Ah, there it is. She’s been waiting to get Gale to the point where he would be reduced to the expletive-laden tongue of a mere mortal, which he so often seems more than. The satisfaction feeds into her pleasure and she again feels tempted to slip her hands into her pants and make herself cum with him; considering how turned on she is, she can probably make that happen. 

But she won’t. And then she looks up at Gale and he is still looking at her, absolutely mesmerized and fucking wrecked and saying things she can’t hear under his breath. She gets swept up in how transparent his pleasure is, how obvious it all is, and feels overcome by a desire to make him lose himself completely. 

Tav pushes her mouth as far down as she can go, her nose lightly tickling the dark curls at his base, and feels her lips stretch lewdly around his girth. She wiggles her head even further until she really can’t anymore and she hums a little laugh that makes him gasp and buck his hips roughly. She isn’t fully expecting it and pulls back for air. 

Long threads of spit and precum keep her connected to his cock. She looks at him with bleary eyes, hoping he can see her plain admiration despite his (so transparent, so obvious) concern about choking her.

“Gods, Tav, I’m so so sorry,” Gale rambles worriedly, “We should stop.” 

She presses down on his stomach to keep him in place before grasping one of his hands. She kisses his knuckles, making them shiny, and then guides his palm to the back of her head. 

“Fuck my mouth,” it’s a hopeful statement spoken in a slightly hoarse voice. 

“Tavelle,” Gale blinks and then swallows and tries to catch his breath with closed eyes.

She licks him from root to tip before swallowing his head again and bobbing down around him.

He speaks again, sounding dark but strangled as her mouth continues rhythmically, “It’s taking every ounce of restraint I have to not finish immediately. But I fear your words may take me there anyway if you don’t mind them.” 

This makes a pang of pleasure hit her lower stomach.

“Gale,” she rasps, as she caresses his balls and gets a choked groan, “I want you to fuck my mouth until you cum. Please.” 

With frantic energy, Gale slips his fingers into her curls and secures his grip in a fist before guiding her head back down.

He’s nervous. Maybe, she thinks, he never did this with Mystra. And then she feels a sick glee at realizing that yes, this is probably something he hasn’t had in at least a long while and thus she is marking him in a special way, reminding him of a kind of lust he can experience. 

Before her lips touch him again, she gives him a reassuring smile through tear-blurred eyes.

“Take what you want, Gale. I’m at your mercy,” she says this almost-lovingly and his eyes close for a second to steady himself. 

“Tav, please,” his head falls back to the pillows for a moment before he looks back at her, pressing small kisses to the head of his cock as his fist in her hair keeps her from moving any lower, “I want this to last. Your words, I was being serious.” 

And he still is, clearly plagued by all kinds of desires to draw this out as long as he can, as if this was his singular opportunity to live the scenario. 

“I know,” she says, lips fluttering over him, “But we can make it last some other time. For now, I want you to cum.” 

Bingo. Gale looks dumbfounded and hopeful and drunk as he looks down at her for a moment. And then he nods speechlessly before moving her mouth onto him once more. 

Gale doesn’t rush. She needs a bit of time to adjust to the lack of control and he seems to realize this, keeping the pace not too frenzied and the depth not too deep until he feels her hand relax on his stomach again. At this, he begins to push the bounds a bit, moving her a bit lower, holding her down for a bit longer, going a bit faster. It’s nice, Tav thinks, how much he’s enjoying it. It’s nice… but he’s clearly holding back. And that just won’t do. 

He pulls her mouth up at one point, to give her some air, and she smiles at him as she catches her breath.

“How are you?” She asks warmly.

He huffs at her for second, shaking his head before rubbing a thumb over her lips with his free hand.

”Fantastic,” he says sincerely. 

“Good,” Tav nods and the fist in her hair moves with it, “So… how about you actually fuck my mouth now?”

He looks at her for a long moment before breathing out heavily, eyes traveling the expanse of her face, “Are you sure?” 

She nods. “Yeah. I’d like it a lot.” 

She moves her head to take his thumb into her mouth and lavishes it with her tongue. The way his eyes flutter when she sucks makes her thighs tense again and with the way she’s half laying between his legs now, Gale notices. And this seems to get to him more than anything else, this tiny but telling sign of how much she clearly wants him.

He pushes his thumb further into her mouth and presses down on her tongue. She closes her eyes as he moves his thumb in and out of her mouth for a bit and she can feel his dick flex a bit in her hand as she strokes him.

He groans quietly and then asks her gently if she’s ready. She nods. 

This time, he lowers her head halfway onto his cock and then stops. Keeping her steady, he starts to thrust up into her mouth.

It’s a filthy little grind, an undulating roll that makes her tingle all over at the sight.  His moans build and he tries to swallow them and he fails over and over. She can’t help but slide a hand to grip one of his hips and enjoy the softness of his skin. One day, someday soon, she will mark him there with her teeth.

She makes a small wish to never forget the sounds Gale makes as he thrusts. Not for as long as she lives. Or after. She wants to walk the Fugue Plane with nothing but the sounds of him saying her name and calling to the gods and his choked little expletives. His moans feel luxurious, drawn out and loud, and they sink right under her skin like warmth.

“Why do you feel so fucking good?” Gale says in a heated, strained whisper, disbelieving and appalled and reveling in her. 

He thrusts more roughly. She drools around his cock, moaning involuntarily at how he looks as he chases his climax, eyebrows furrowed in taut pleasure. He’s the hottest thing she’s ever seen. She’s sure of it. 

He shudders and he speeds up.

“Fuck! Fuck, Tav,” Gale shakes his head, as if in torture, as if trying to refuse her, “I’msoclose.”

The words tumble out quickly and Tav lowers her head to meet each rise of Gale’s hips. Sloppy, wet sounds fill her bedroom. And this is what makes her finally bring a hand down to the front of her shorts and push her palm against her mound for relief.

She moans and it’s not long before Gale’s hips begin to stutter. 

“Tav, I’m—“

His eyes slide shut before he can finish. As he tries to pull her head away, she pushes it back down, swallowing as much as she can of him as he cums. The rest spills out of the sides of her mouth.

She waits until he’s stopped twitching in her mouth and has started to soften to release him with a gentle pop. He groans when it happens and she tamps down her desire once again, overwhelmed with an impulse to kiss his limp, trembling body until he feels born anew. 

She catches her breath and wipes his spend away on her sleeve and lets him pull her up against his chest gently.

Their faces are almost touching. She doesn’t know how he feels about post-oral kissing so she gives him a small peck on the cheek, but he holds her head with both hands and pulls her in for a deep kiss. The way he sucks her tongue makes her toes curl in her socks, and he licks his lips as they part. 

“You’re amazing.” 

He’s not the first person to say it in this context, but it feels like the truth coming from him. And she feels something inside her slip a bit, something that feels vital and protective, as she’s snared by his brown eyes. 

She turns her gaze to his shoulder with some difficulty. 

“I’d say you’re easily amazed,” Tav attempts to temper his awe of her with a bit of bragging, “but I’ve never had any complaints.” 

He rolls his eyes with, maybe, some awareness of what she’s doing. And moves her back to his eyes with gentle fingers on her cheek. 

“Would you,” the heat in his gaze returns, “allow me to reciprocate? Once I catch my breath, that is.”

“Oh! Um. Gale, that’s not…” She trails off and suddenly feels very uncomfortable with their proximity, pushing away from his chest to kneel back between his legs again. 

She doesn’t want to look at him and notice however he’s looking at her. She lowers her head towards his bent knee as it leans against her arm and kisses him gently there before responding. 

“Maybe next time.” 

He is understanding, but she knows that it disappoints him a bit. They’ve clearly just done something he hasn’t experienced in a while, it makes sense that his emotions are a bit raw and that her rejection feels like… well, rejection.

She almost explains, tries to come up with sentences that will communicate her reservations in a way that he will accept without reassuring her or explaining how thoroughly wrong she is. Ultimately, though, she can't think of a combination of words that can accomplish the job, that can convey to him well enough that her desire is a useless, disappointing thing that will ruin them.

If she indulges it too much, it will push her off of a cliff into an abyss where the only saving can be done in the warm pocket of his love. It is waiting to do so. She feels it. It is too eager to love him. It is too eager to be his last. It is not to be indulged—that’s what got them into this situation in the first place. She told him that he’d kissed her while he was drunk because she wanted him to do it again. She could’ve just not said anything, ignored the twittering horny love-starved little bird in her ear and saved them from this torture. But she didn’t.

And there is no way to explain any portion of that without unearthing it all, things that can’t be buried again, and she can’t do that, can’t listen to him as he tries to assure her that she is okay and that all of this is natural and that he wants to watch her break and fall into him. She can’t start the trip towards their end. 

So she doesn’t explain and she’s grateful when Gale doesn’t pry. They lay with each other for a few more hours and she even manages to forget, at times, what seems to watch over the entirety of their interactions. But when he eventually leaves, an “until next time” murmured against her lips, she can’t help but feel like she’s ruined it all anyway. 

Chapter Text

Friday, 3pm. 

There it is, on his online calendar. A few days from now, he’ll meet with his department chair and the Director of Undergraduate Studies regarding his teaching evaluation. 

The Director—one Ardhuval Raiserek—had informed him over a short Sunday evening voicemail that they would be observing his 200-level class on Monday afternoon. Gale imagines now that he’d been twirling his ginger mustache the entire time like some cartoon villain, smirking evilly as he explained that an “unprecedented mix-up must’ve happened” with the observation scheduling emails they sent three weeks ago. 

Raiserek and his department chair, Halbazzer Drin, took up the furthest back corner of his classroom and pretended as if they were invisible, all while being extremely visible and very distracting to his students. Raiserek sat straight-backed with his red ponytail draped over his shoulder and his hands clasped primly in his lap, letting an enchanted pen take notes on Gale’s performance before leaving promptly and loudly at the end of his class’s scheduled time. Drin, a small, gruff man with just a tuft of white hair remaining on his head, had coughed through the whole thing, but hung around as the classroom emptied to let Gale know they’d schedule a feedback meeting via email. 

And they actually did so this time. 

Friday. 3pm.

Gale feels positively about how his class went. He has a good rapport with most of his students, but his 200-level section has an especially good energy to it. It’s ended up being smaller than previous years (as enrollment is typically lower for newer, less predictable professors), and he’d needed to adjust his syllabus again after receiving the final numbers, but it was working in everyone’s favor. He was able to justify reviewing 35 final projects (to himself; versus 65) so the students are conducting in-depth research on spells of their choosing for the semester instead of taking periodic exams. 

And they are into it, like actually into it; he thinks some of them may even attempt their own original modifications. It’s almost unheard of for a 200-level Wizardry course, and their efforts will probably be unsuccessful, but his students are itching to do more advanced work. Who is he to stop them outside of the realms of ethical conflicts and imminent harm? 

His 200-level students also like to ask him questions about magical research happenings at Waterdeep. Research—original research, with data collection and methodological considerations and analysis—can be quite an opaque process. And undergraduates are expected to worship at the altar of produced, established knowledge without knowing very much at all about the manufacturing process. This annoyed him as an undergraduate, and apparently still does, so he answers their questions and tries to demystify things, even just marginally. 

They always seem to ask better questions in turn. Besides, indulging their curiosities about his former institution seems to be the only time besides therapy when he can delve into those memories safely and to little personal injury (even as he remembers the research he’s supposed to be continuing, yet hasn’t touched in over a year). 

But Gale is still nervous. It’s one thing to be liked and another to be an effective teacher. It’s his first semester and he feels he is still very much finding that balance and now he has to anticipate hearing someone else’s opinions on the matter. 

He’s not averse to feedback or criticism (okay, maybe just a little). But teaching is the only thing in his life that feels straightforward at the moment. If he’d told Gale from just one year ago that this was the case, that man would designate it as nonsense. Teaching, after all, was never the plan—never Mystra’s plan. Even when he’d tried to incorporate pedagogical training into his graduate study timeline, she’d simply crossed those lines out in red ink and had Elminister tell him to make his edits. 

The teaching seminars and workshops he’d filled his schedule with at the beginning of the year had not been nearly enough preparation for the current semester. Working in the classroom requires more on-the-fly decisionmaking skills, in particular, than he ever anticipated. But he doesn’t care. He likes teaching. He likes his students. He is finally enjoying himself at work again. And by Ahghairon’s lost nose, he just wants this one thing to remain wholly good. 

The sound of a page turning distracts him from his musings, bringing him back to the presence of something more complicated. 

Tav is curled up on the couch in his office, reading a pricey edited collection she found on his shelf. She has a knee bent in front of her, where the heavy book leans, and the legs of her black overalls ride up on her ankles, exposing the skin above her short orange socks.

She’d made herself right at home, really. Her beat up, off-white sneakers lay beside her backpack on the floor. Her damp parka is on a hook behind his open door. Her laptop and phone are both plugged in behind him, charging on the small table by his rain splattered window. 

Tav had come to see him at his office, which was something they agreed to generally avoid doing. She’d been waiting outside his door when he returned from his visit to the library. She apologized as he put his key in the lock, almost as if she’d expected to be turned away. But there was never a real chance of that happening. 

There isn’t really an issue with her being seen in his office; his students frequently come by looking for him, after all, to talk about more and less relevant things. (He knows an awful lot of student inter-friend group gossip now.)

The real problem is the way her presence here reminds him of being in Mystra’s office all those years ago. He hasn’t quite told her that, but she guessed on that first night in her apartment, as they hashed out the logistical details of their situation, that spending time alone in his office could make things feel “a tiny bit dirtier than they are striving towards.” 

And that was close enough to the truth, really. So they’d agreed to maintain that line.  

But he’d been so glad to see her waiting for him, had wanted to see her again as soon as he left her last night. She’d walked him all the way to the elevator and he kissed her goodbye about five times before actually leaving, holding the sliding elevator open with his side as it attempted to force itself closed. 

They had broken new ground in their relationship a little over a week ago, when she made him see stars with her mouth, and he hasn’t wanted to be apart from her since. They’ve spent every night since that Friday together so far and he’ll come over again tonight and stay as long as he can, until she mentions the roommate that will always return soon. 

(He’d sent Raiserek’s Sunday call to voicemail while laying in her bed, holding her as they argued about abductive analytical approaches. And he’d do it again if given the chance.)

It’s a bit juvenile, he supposes, to feel so much more attached just because she coaxed him over a cliff into bliss. 

But it’s more than that. There is something important, he knows, that is unfolding between them. And it is only becoming more and more difficult to temper his feelings and his dreams, to not let himself imagine a future where they come home to each other and can fall asleep in each other’s arms without worrying about the exposing light of day. 

Last night, she’d been all over him at hello. She kissed him heatedly with roaming hands, right in the open doorway, and as soon as she hung his jacket in the coat closet, he was pushed gently into the armchair in her living room. She asked for permission to touch him while getting on her knees and he voiced a jumble of yeses, already on fire. He came not long after, feeling everything in every single part of his body. 

The afterglow. The relief of uncoiling in her steady hands. And the overwhelming tide of devotion she summons, like his own personal moon, every time she touches him. Pure adoration. 

Afterwards, he’d pulled her into his lap and she straddled him, kissing him with remnants of his spend on her tongue. And they stayed that way for a long while, his trousers and underwear still around his ankles, only parting when the dinner he ordered arrived slightly earlier than estimated (which she only started letting him do because he insisted while reminding her that he makes about three times her student salary). 

He has yet to return the favor, in a manner of speaking. He’s tried, of course, but after the third time of her becoming uncomfortable and avoidant and closed off—the literal opposites of how she seems while touching him—he decided to wait before asking again, if only not to deter her from approaching him at a later time.

It is clearer to him now that Tav truly contains multitudes. She is doting and distant. Honest, yet withholding. She seems to want to spend as much time with him as possible, but she won’t let him get too close. Except for when she’s kneeling in front of him and catapulting him to Elysium, of course. And despite how clearly her desire seems to respond to his, she does not let him feed her fire directly. 

It’d be fine, he thinks, if she just wasn’t interested. It would be moderately difficult for him to adjust, but it would be fine and they could talk about it and he’d do quite literally everything else she wanted. 

But Gale thinks she is interested. 

He recalls a few nights ago, when he kissed her as they unloaded the dishwasher. It grew heated, more quickly than anticipated, and in an unconsidered move, he’d pressed his hips against her, backing Tav up against the counter. She’d moaned softly in his mouth, and even reciprocated the gesture lightly, before pushing him away a bit and asking to touch him.

And that little moment had made all the others cohere. Because while it feels oh so nice and exciting to be desired, Gale is too adept at pattern recognition to let commonalities go unquestioned. And with the pattern clear, he can’t help but see it over and over and over again: Whenever he tries to initiate more intimate touch that may or may not focus on her, she leans into him at first… before shrinking away. As if she’s remembered herself. And then she turns the focus on him.

Whether it’s self-consciousness or something more serious, he’s unsure. But not knowing is starting to concern him.

She does not lose herself in him, with him. He knows the details of her days—meetings and classes and funny little interactions—but never what seems to burden her so deeply. And gods forbid he tries to do something purely in service of her, even something as plausibly innocent as rubbing her sore shoulders. She slips away and then gives him a kiss or a touch that scrambles his brain again. 

Tav makes infatuation easy. She’s caring and considerate, funny and creative. She’s smart, so much more critical and invested in her work than she lets on. She kisses him until he’s breathless and he doesn’t crave air. She tells him to have pleasant dreams and his body obeys, the words laying over him like a sweet mist as he falls asleep.

But, rational or not, he doesn’t want to stay infatuated—just infatuated. And as the days and nights pass, he only grows surer that there is potentially already more at stake than the loss of a passing fling. Or even a besmirched career or two. 

Gale likes Tav. So much. But nothing about anything they’re doing is straightforward or without pain. It’s not simple. 

It’s terrifying. 

“You’re thinking awfully loud,” Tav’s voice pulls him from his thoughts again as she turns another page and reads something that makes her nose scrunch. Whether the expression is criticizing or intrigued, he’s unsure.

“Loudly would be the correct term, actually,” he leans back in his desk chair, gaze trailing from her rolling eyes to her legs as she stretches them out on the sofa seat, “Surely someone so well-versed in words understands the distinction.”

“And yet, you understood well enough to correct me,” she retorts simply as she turns to another page.

“Words are for communicating, not policing, wizard,” she turns her head fully towards him and sticks her tongue out playfully. But something about his face makes her set the book down, closed and without a placeholder. 

She sits forward, closer to the edge of the couch, and glances at the open door before asking carefully, “Have anything you’d like to share with the class? I’m all ears.”

He knows she is. In a strange way, it’s part of the problem. Her ears. Her lips. Her hands. He can take, but he can’t give. But his office, with the door left wide open for propriety’s sake, is not the place to have that conversation. 

“I… just confirmed my teaching evaluation meeting. It’s scheduled for Friday at 3.” 

It is something he’s concerned about, technically. Therefore, he’s not quite lying to her. 

Tav nods, her soft lips forming an understanding oh.

“So what I’m hearing is that we should schedule something for Friday at 4.”

Tav’s tone is steady, perfectly collegial, even as her expression is purposeful. And this bothers him, even as he wants to kiss her for implying he should head straight to her afterwards.  

There wouldn’t and shouldn’t be an ounce of salaciousness in her voice, not while his door is open. Because she’s careful and smart and understands the importance of discretion. Discretion will get them through what they’re doing until something terrible or wonderful happens and he can’t be upset when she plays the role. She’s playing Three Dragon Ante with the hand she’s been given.

He continues to tell himself this every time, but it seems to help less and less. 

Rather than responding in an equally collegial manner, he lets his hand move in an imprecise gesture. His office door closes gently, locking with a soft click. 

“Gale?” He hears her say quietly, confused and still sitting on the couch. 

Too far away.  

“Would you come here, please?” He asks softly towards the floor, still halfway stuck in his own thoughts. It is only when he sees her orange-socked feet in front of him that he looks up at her concerned gaze.

“Is everything alright?” 

She begins to reach out for him, but hesitates halfway. Even with the door closed, they are still in his office, still on campus. But while he understands her current awkwardness, he cannot accommodate it right now. He is being driven by the need to resist what looms over them, in whatever small ways available to him. So he pulls her hovering hands into his own.

“It’s fine,” he says, softly, “It could be better, however.” 

The curves of her eyebrow and her frown tell him she doesn’t believe he’s fine. But she doesn’t call him on it, likely sensing that he’s building to something. 

“What can I do?” 

Her eyes are sincere as she searches his face from above. So concerned. So eager to make it all better. Tav cannot help but seek to mend; it is another one of the many things he has come to learn that makes him want to whisk her away to a timeless plane of existence and turn her into a single-worshiper deity. 

(Reign it in, Gale, says something cautious, increasingly summoned by the ardor of his thoughts.)

“Well, if you’re offering… there is something I rather need your perspective on,” he says this with a careful tone and innocent tilt of his head, like he’s not about to try and do something distinctly unwise in its indulgence.

Tav, seeming uncomfortable with his face so close to her belly button, takes a small step away to lean on the edge of his deck and gives him her tense, undivided attention.

“Tell me.” 

A bit nervously, Gale asks, “How would you feel about me… kissing you here?” 

Gale watches as her eyes widen in surprise and feels her fingers twitch in his hands. He rubs her knuckles with his thumbs.

“Like… here as in your office?” She asks with raised eyebrows that disappear into the frames of her glasses. He nods.

“It would probably tempt something less than great…”

She trails off for a moment before continuing, earnest and decisive, “…But I would follow your lead. It’s your domain, and all that. Besides, I don’t think there’s anywhere that could really make me refuse you.” 

She says it easily, like it isn’t one of the most swoonworthy things anyone has ever said to him. 

Ridiculous. 

He laughs softly and shakes his head before pressing small kisses into the backs of his hands.

Eventually, at the pleased but confused look on her face, he asks: “You really don’t realize it, do you?”

She tilts her head at him in a question, cheeks dusted with warmth. 

“The things you say and how they affect me,” Gale clarifies, “It’s like you’re trying to make me… impossibly fond of you.” 

This makes her laugh softly, relieved and more breath than anything else, and when he stands to take her into his arms, she wraps hers around his waist. 

“I’m not… totally unaware,” she admits, still laughing lightly into his shoulder, “But I also just don’t know another way to put it, I guess… Is it too much?” 

He hums as he looks down at her curly hair, glittering with shiny strands of premature graying. How pretty. “I think that has more to do with how it's received than the actual contents. And if we’re talking about me…” 

“Then?” She looks up at him from his chest, expectantly.

“Then,” he continues, lowering his forehead to hers, “I’d have you by my side, whispering into my ear, all day long if I could.” 

Her cheeks burn redder and she tries to bury her face into his sweater, but his head stops her. She whispers fiercely, “Are you trying to make me ‘impossibly fond’ of you, now?” 

He grins at that and pulls back. Regardless of whether he was, he certainly is now.

“It’s just a factual statement,” he says as she hides her face in his sweater, “...but is it working?” 

“Mhm, yup,” she says as her head moves in embarrassed little nods against his chest, “It is definitely working.”

“Is that so?” She nods again.

“Excellent. Let’s see what else may work.” 

He feels her hands around his waist fist into the back of his sweater and he smirks to himself. “How about… I almost came back to you after leaving last night.” 

He shifts slightly, letting himself push a bit more into her as she leans on his desk. 

“Really?” She pulls back from his chest again to look at him with a small, pleased smile. 

“Oh yes. I was so very close to darkening your doorway again…” he lowers his head, pressing a kiss on her cheek that drags to her jaw. 

She hums little laughs at the kisses he lays across half of her face until they fade before her breathing, growing heavier as he lays firm kisses on the corners of her mouth. 

“…But I went home, like a proper gentleman, and dreamed of you instead.” 

He feels the fingers fisting the back of his sweater tighten and he kisses her then, claiming her gasp as his own. His hands cradle her jaw as their tongues slide together, hot and tasting faintly of the tea they shared briefly from his thermos. He would do this forever, he thinks. He wants to do it forever. With her, forever. 

His teeth graze her lower lip and when he pulls back slightly, her lips chase his. 

He breathes a little laugh at her, dodging her lips, and asks teasingly, “Hold on now. Don’t you want to know what I thought of, in particular?” 

He smiles at her, eyes crinkling, and she laughs with raised eyebrows.

“I’m sure it was something especially sweet and chaste,” she jokes quietly, “like holding hands while petting a cat together.”

He laughs this time and shakes his head with a put upon expression as if he’s been caught.

“It seems I will have to disappoint you this time, my dear,” he leans towards her mouth again, smiling as he speaks against her lips, “I’m afraid you may be less fond of me if you knew what preoccupied my sleeping hours, but I shall not lie.”

Her eyelids sink and he feels the fingers at his back tense. 

“Tell me,” her words caress his lips. 

“I thought of you,” he says while looking into her shiny, dark eyes, “with your legs around my head, while I devoured you like my last meal. And while it wasn’t my plan initially,” he confesses softly, “I’m thinking about it again, happening now. Right here. You, spread out on my desk, on top of my grading. And me, with my tongue in your sweet cunt.”

“Oh fuck…,” she whispers, all wide blinking eyes and parted, swollen lips. 

He'd been honest. He hadn’t actually meant to go so far when he started this, his crossing of a carefully drawn, incredibly explicit boundary for the necessary benefit of their relationship. He had sincerely just meant to kiss her with her permission. But like most things where Tav is concerned, Gale has been swept away by something more desperate and honest than his measured intentions. 

After a beat of silence, save for their laboring breathing, he asks: “Is it too much?”

Insistently, lest he has the urge to doubt her, she shakes her head no and pulls his mouth to hers. 

Moaning quietly around his tongue and pawing behind herself blindly with her free hand, Tav pushes some of his things out of the way and sits in the freed space on top of his desk. He follows closely, at home in the space between her thighs, and feels himself harden in that warm apex as they kiss. 

She undoes the snaps that hold up her overalls and lets the fabric fall down. Then she takes his hand and slips it into her clothes until it rests over the front of her underwear. 

His breath hitches as he finally, finally feels her slick dampness over fabric. 

It’s divine and he’s barely even started. And so much lovelier than he could have ever fantasized. The slippery arousal on his fingers. The knowledge that he’d brought her to such a state with his words and his touch. If he wasn’t already near-constantly consumed with thoughts of her, this would’ve done the job, surely. 

He presses firmly with the pads of his fingers and feels her moan softly into his mouth again. He trails his lips down her jaw before suckling the skin of her neck, suddenly full of the ill-reasoned impulse to mark her. His fingers drag from the top of her underwear to as low as he can reach before cupping her mound in his hand firmly. With massage-like pressure, he stimulates her with a rhythmic palm.

She makes a strangled noise and he immediately stills. 

“Are you alright?” He asks against her ear, concerned at the ambiguous noise. 

“Gale, I…” she trails off at the chaste kiss he presses to her cheek, “I need—I know, I’ve been weird about… just—please. Ineedthis.”  

She can’t finish her sentences and it all tumbles out in a fractured whisper. She's embarrassed. And very turned on.

“Then I shall give it to you, my sweet girl,” he shushes her and brushes her cheek with the hand not in her overalls. A sharp moan emerges, quickly stifled by her own hand. (He files this away, for a later time that is not in his office.)

“There is nothing I want more than to make you feel good.”

He whispers it without thinking and then realizes it’s totally true, at least at that moment. The sudden pang of fondness in his throat takes him by surprise and he kisses the back of the hand that smothers her sounds. 

He cups her soft mound more firmly. He rubs the pads of his fingers into the soaked fabric of her panties, and watches her watering eyes slide shut.

Gale glances briefly at the clock on his wall before slipping his hand underneath the band of her panties and meeting her soft, slick skin. He doesn’t have all day, but his next meeting isn’t for another hour. If he doesn’t massively mess this up, he’s sure he can make her cum at least twice before then. 

His middle finger slips easily, eagerly along her slit and her stomach twitches against his arm as he flutters over her clit. Gale almost groans too openly at the salacious wetness of her and he has to bite his lip. 

She’s sitting on his desk in his office, at the mercy of his hand, and he feels no fear. Just an all-consuming desire to be the one she pleads to. 

Gale moves the hand on her cheek to lift her left knee gently and help her scoot further onto his desk. When her foot is on the edge of the wood, and she is sitting up, now spread open for him, he slips his middle and ring fingers between her folds to tap lightly at her wet entrance. 

He feels the ensuing sounds—the lewd little squelches—at the base of his spine, at the burn of his neck. 

“Would you like my fingers inside of you, my sweet girl?” he whispers, lips to her ear. He feels Tav nod eagerly, her hand still over her mouth, and he spares a brief but thankful thought to the gods for the incredible blessing that’s been bestowed unto him. 

The angle is uncomfortable for his hand, but his eyes slide shut at the feel and sound of his middle finger working into her cunt. He can feel her wetness suck his finger in eagerly and he wants to taste her from his hand, but he doesn’t dare stop, not when Tav’s chest is heaving and her head is thrown back, exposing the welts he’s planted on her neck, sure to bloom tomorrow. 

He adds his ring finger and is rewarded with her clenching around him. Her bent knee bumps against his arm, attempting to squeeze her legs together, and he stops it with his hip. The hand she’s using to hold herself up squeezes into a fist and his fingers are caressed again by her fluttering walls.

He bends his fingers inside of her, rubbing a purposeful spot inside of her, and slides his thumb to her clit. Tav’s elbow nudges his laptop closed as her hand slips beneath her and she falls further back onto his desk. The cramping in his hand is completely worth it, the way her eyes flutter and her sweater rides up beneath the movement of his arm, exposing her soft belly and the flare of her hips. 

Tav tenses up suddenly and pushes on his chest forcefully. She eases herself back up on her hand quickly and with difficulty. If not for how her head whips to look behind her, he would think he had actually managed to mess things up. 

But no. He can hear it now. There is traffic, louder than the passing kind, right outside of his door. 

“—met Dekarios yet? ” It sounds like… Ramazith. 

Fuck. 

Gale quickly removes his hand from Tav’s slick folds and pulls her off of his desk to stand once again. She sways and he steadies her as her trembling hands struggle with the latches on her overalls. He redoes them himself, half of his available fingers still damp from her wetness. 

“Ah, no, not yet. I… came by once,” a second voice replies, “but he wasn’t in.” 

Gale recognizes the voice distantly as the one he’d heard while Tav wrote him a note and slipped it under his door. What was the voice’s name? 

“Rolan,” she whispers fearfully. 

Right. Rolan: her crotchety, yet dedicated friend who is also a student in his department.

Tav seems to try and straighten the things on his desk, perhaps to fill in the spot where she’d sat moments ago with papers and pens in a somewhat natural arrangement, but her still-shaking hands are only hovering over the wood, not touching anything too fully. 

Gale turns her around to face him again and he gives her a reassuring look, but her eyes are already screaming with panic that surprises him.

He smoothes her curly hair and shifts the beige sweater under her overalls back into place as best he can, pulling the neckline a bit higher to partially conceal a darker red splotch on the side of her throat. He straightens her crooked, oversized glasses and looks her over, lamenting at the lack of immediate remedies for her swollen lips and flushed face. 

Still. They can do this, he thinks, but it will all depend on—

A three beat knock touches his door and Gale hears Ramazith call out to him. 

“Dekarios? Are you in?” 

“One moment!” Gale calls back, and then says in a slightly-louder-than-normal volume to the shaking woman in his arms, “Tav, would you get that, please?”  

Almost as if it was a normal request, she nods at him with a distant face and walks quickly to the door on shaky legs. He sits down, unsure of what else to do given the obscene tent in his trousers, and hastily wipes his still-damp hand on the side of his sweater. 

Tav straightens a tad and then opens the door, letting Ramazith and Rolan in from the hallway. 

“Tav Ancunín, Interdisciplinary Magics!” Ramazith says in delighted pleasantness, “Lovely to see you again!”

Ramazith’s head misses the top of the doorframe by only a few inches as he walks in, Rolan following close behind. Now that Gale can see him, the younger man is vaguely familiar. He’d been standing by Tav during the cocktail hour after Elminster’s seminar. Of course, he’d only barely noticed Rolan in his eagerness to reach Tav… 

(Just how had he not realized he liked her then? The thought comes to him, unbidden, and he sends it away. There is quite enough already happening at the moment.) 

The young wizard looks from him to Tav, some kind of analysis happening behind his glowing eyes. 

“Dr. Flamesinger, hello again,” Tav greets the tall man politely and then smiles weakly at Rolan, who just arches an eyebrow at her. 

“Oh Tav, please,” the esteemed wizard implores, “Just Ramazith. Dr. Flamesinger is my father… Well, assuming my father had a doctorate. I know practically nothing of the man besides that he’s dead.”

He turns casually towards Gale. 

“Dekarios!” Gale extends his arm as far as he can to shake Ramazith’s hand without standing up, concealing his grimace at which hand he’s using, “How are you faring so far in your first semester on the tenure track, hm?”

“Mostly fine. Well,” Gale struggles only slightly in stringing a casual sentence together, “I was finally into the swing of things and then one of my classes was observed, but I think I’ll be out of the proverbial mouse trap soon. And yourself?” 

Commiserating about administrative practices: a surefire way to successfully get through almost any conversation with an academic. 

“Mm, I do not miss observations. But I’m sure you did splendidly,” Ramazith offers confidently before continuing, “I’m afraid not much has changed on my end since we last spoke. I’ve been mostly into my research. You know how it all goes—a tome here, a shiny bauble there.” 

Gale likes to think he actually does know quite a bit about how it all goes. And because of that, he knows Ramazith is underselling the enormity of his research portfolio. The man oversees an entire center he started with magical artifacts he retrieved himself from the deep sea. Mystra had once called Ramazith “more adventurer than scholar.” While she’d meant it pejoratively, Gale thinks  Ramazith would agree with that assessment. Of course, Gale also imagines that would be the full extent of their consensus on that matter and any other.

Ramazith turns and gestures to Rolan, “Before I forget, allow me to introduce you to my doctoral advisee, Rolan Skuldask. He’s brilliant. You two should be acquainted.” 

Rolan looks away from Tav to him, seeming a bit embarrassed at his advisor’s kind words. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Dekarios,” the tiefling says, politely. 

“Likewise,” he rethinks the rest of the words on his tongue before saying them anyway, “Tav has only ever sung your praises.” 

Tav scoffs from behind the young wizard, her arms crossed over her chest, while Rolan gives her a teasing look.

“And just Gale is fine, Rolan.” 

The tiefling gives him a stilted nod before his eyes snap back to Tav, unreadable. 

“Now that we’re all acquainted,” Ramazith waves his hand around the room in a conductor-like fashion, “I was hoping to invite you to my tower this Friday for a gathering of minds, so to speak.”

“I hold a get-together every Spring: open bar, caterers, music, dancing—all those delights. It’s turned into quite the occasion, if a bit more formal than I once intended. But it would be my sincerest pleasure if you were in attendance!” 

Ramazith leans a hand against the top of Gale’s desk and turns to Tav briefly, “And you are welcome as well, Tav. You’d be doing me a favor, really, by keeping Rolan from scowling near the coat closet all night.”

Tav trades another look with Rolan, who rolls his eyes lightly at his advisor’s joke, before settling her gaze on Gale again.

Gale doesn’t see much of an option for his attendance. He already heard of Ramazith’s party during a recent meeting. It is highly anticipated and, as a new faculty member, he is expected to at least show face at official or quasi-departmental gatherings. He hadn't expected the man to extend an invitation personally, which basically eliminated his chances of not going, but he would’ve likely gone regardless.

And he wants to see Tav there—obviously. Everywhere, always. But she does not have to go, crotchety Rolan or not, and whether it’s a good idea for them to be around each other in such a setting is another matter. 

And not even a little straightforward, of course. 

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Gale responds, “It’ll be the perfect palate cleanser after my teaching evaluations that day.” 

“Ah. Then I will ensure that all is well with the bartenders. It’s best to process feedback over whiskey, as I always say,” Ramazith’s eyes twinkle, pleased at Gale’s impending attendance and his own joke. 

“Well, we should be off,” the older wizard sags his shoulders a bit in playful resignation. “Rolan and I have a lab meeting to get to.”

Ramazith tells Tav he hopes to see her on Friday as the two men take their leave. Rolan closes the door behind him with a final, opaque glance at Tav.

Before their footsteps fade, she lowers herself shakily onto the couch behind her. 

Gale moves around from behind his desk and notices that her trembling is only intensifying. She tugs down on the neckline of her sweater, as if suffocated. 

“Tav,” he calls softly as he sits next to her, “it’s alright. Everything is okay.”

She shakes her head as her breathing quickens and protests briefly as he takes her hands into his before relenting, too weakened by the chaotic thrumming of her heart to resist. 

“It’s not.” She shakes her head again and tries to push the words through her burdened throat. “It’s not okay.”

Gale laces their fingers together. He feels her fingers squeeze his as best she can, still weak. He tries to resist the panic that builds in him at her distress, their sudden reversal of roles, and the tears that fall into their joined fingers. He almost thinks he’s the one crying until Tav’s sobs softly permeate the quiet of his office. 

She is overcome by something he readily identifies, but cannot easily name. And before now, he thought he was the only one struggling with it, the only one always volleying between terror and uncertainty and ambiguity and something else that was certain they were made to fall apart in the messiest way possible. 

While he's typically welcomed the warm embrace of their shared understanding, Gale does not revel in its squeeze. Not this time. Because this, the bloody, sharp-toothed maw of the known unknown, is not something he would ever wish for Tav to feel. 

He leans back on the couch and pulls her into his side, pressing kisses into her hair. It feels like a long time before her breathing evens out and her tears dry. Spent, she rests her cheek on his shoulder and stares dazedly into the fabric of his sweater.

Too soon, he has to go to his next meeting. When he asks her to stay and wait for him, she declines, inscrutable and without additional explanation. He doesn’t ask for more. They leave his office at the same time and walk in opposite directions: him, towards the conference room down the hall, and her, towards the elevators.

And for the first time in over a week, they spend their evenings apart. 

Chapter Text

Ramazith’s Tower is further north than campus, well into Baldur’s Gate’s Upper City. The ornate, pagoda-style eyesore (or architectural marvel, depending on the looker) looms over the surrounding temples and manors with nine tall floors.

Tonight, its entrance is beset by dozens of magical lanterns and valet staff who send and retrieve attendees’ cars from satellite lots reachable by teleportation sigils. Upon entering the elaborately decorated foyer, attendants conduct a similar procedure with guests’ coats, sending them off to the large closet on the seventh floor. From there, the invited parties take the charmed elevator to any of the last three floors, all prepared for revelry with well-stocked bars and roaming platters of hors d’oeuvres and champagne glasses. 

The conical tower has tall rounded windows on every side, beset by bookshelves and arcane display cases with valuable artifacts from Ramazith’s personal collection. The soaring ceilings anchor elaborate chandeliers with dripping crystal glass, refracting light from glowing yellow orbs that float above. BGU faculty, administration, and students, as well as academics from affiliated institutions, mingle across waxed floors and luxurious furniture, beside crackling fireplaces and on soaring balconies, while musicians play song after song, somehow not clashing with the melodies filtering from other floors. 

Tav pretends to observe two Wizardry grad students competing with increasingly complex configurations of Dancing Lights as she watches Gale from across the circular room. He looks dreamy in the well-fitting dark burgundy suit he’d picked for the evening, paired with a light button-up. He’s telling a story she is too far to hear, but that has the people around him laughing raucously into their glasses, eating right out of the palm of his agile hand. 

She’d eat right out of his hand, too. 

It is a relief to see him so pleased, delighting in positive attention with his dimples on display. She’d called him after his evaluation meeting that afternoon and he’d been concise and evasive over the phone, unwilling to give her even a summary of how it went. He seemed so thoroughly displeased with how it had gone that he didn’t want to discuss it at all, not even on a surface-level. 

“Are you seriously going to stare at him all night?” Rolan groans after a long sip of the red wine in his glass. 

“You know, I could say the same about you with Alfira,” Tav hears him scoff beside her, “But I’ll let it slide this time.”

“No need,” Rolan pulls himself from the table he’d been leaning against and moves to stand in front of Tav, blocking her view of Gale’s passionate storytelling, “I plan to go and speak with her right now.”

This surprises her. 

“You’re seriously going to talk to Alfira?”

The woman in question chats up the hired band not too far away, her long red skirt and fuschia hair swishing as she speaks animatedly. Rolan had developed a crush on her (“the ridiculous woman”) over the course of writing together in a dissertation proposal accountability group. Apparently, he had also developed enough nerve to approach her in a downright social context. 

“Yes,” Rolan repeats unnecessarily slowly, “I seriously am. Meaning you will need to find something else to do that isn’t pretending to socialize with me while making googly eyes at him. Either talk to him or someone else or don’t, but stop staring.”

“Is it really that obvious?” Tav asks with a grimace, knowing the answer and hoping she’s wrong.

“Yes, it is really that obvious. The angle you’re standing at is just unnatural.”

After Ramazith and Rolan’s visit to Gale’s office, Rolan came to her apartment that evening and wholly refused her attempts to act as if she’d been there for purely or even partly academic reasons. Astarion had arrived home during that interrogation, at a much earlier time than she’d anticipated, and casually confirmed that Gale had been at their place every night for over a week. She came completely clean then, about how her nights had become her and Gale’s nights, and the close call they had earlier that day and how she was already so deep in it that she was so much more fucked than she thought she could be at this point. 

Rolan lost it—he’d yelled a bit too pointedly at her while questioning what she was planning to do if anyone found out and Astarion had put a hand on his shoulder, urging “everyone” to “calm the fuck down.” They sat in silence for a bit, with Astarion flitting to Tav’s room and back for her weed pouch and rolling tray, and by the time Rolan apologized, Astarion had rolled a long joint for them to share.

They had a long talk about it all—Gale and her and Mystra and Lorroakan until they eventually got to Enver. They’d finished two and a half pizzas and an order of wings for dinner by the time Rolan worked up to asking for the real story and she sat on the floor of the living room, on her favorite cushion, while explaining what she’d never tried to explain so fully, all at once: How she’d immediately struggled under Sarevok’s advisement. How Enver had positioned himself as her protector and advocate. The sharp, dramatic fever pitch of their relationship. The things they did in his office, on ‘research trips’, on the bed he probably still shares with Orin. The things she eventually did in order to keep him. How Enver had discarded her anyway. And, of course, how she’d reacted in the aftermath, leading right to her leave from school. 

Sometimes, a story that feels big and complicated is actually very easy to explain. This was not that kind of story. They stayed up late that night, burning through an expensive amount of medical grade weed, as Rolan came up with new, more specific questions with every answer. Astarion had even asked for clarification on a few points, despite having lived with her throughout most of the more crucial events and taking care of her after she returned from rehab. 

If they hadn’t burned through most of her weed, she wouldn’t have been able to get through any of it—despite leaving out the absolute worst of it still. But panic could only claw at her from a safe, pitiable distance at the time. And while she’s been paying for opening the metaphorical can of worms with worse sleep than usual, she actually kind of feels better after telling them.

However, she’s also gained something terrifying, a new burden of awareness that has made the past few days of mostly silence and Gale’s current inscrutability entirely too uncomfortable. 

She loves him. She loves Gale. 

She’s in love with him. 

Astarion had cracked a joke sometime into their discussion about the steamy trysts she was at least having (“ugh, I wish I’d slept with one of my professors. Drama does wonders for sex.”) and she’d needed to explain that it had not been the torrid affair he was imagining. And, in fact, besides making Gale’s brain melt via blowjob, she’d hardly let him touch her. When Rolan, surprisingly, asked why, she’d responded without thinking. 

“Because, at that point, I won’t be able to just pretend like I have normal, stage-appropriate feelings for him anymore.” 

And it had only unraveled from there.

It’s pathetic, she knows, to be in love with the first person she’s had any kind of non-platonic intimacy with in years, and after so little time together. But as Astarion said, once the three of them had worked up to the realization: “Being pathetic doesn’t make it less true, darling.” And what could she and Rolan do but agree with him? 

So here she is: wearing something she chose with him in mind and newly standing alone, while still staring at him from across the room. 

Pathetic. And in love. 

After a bracing breath, she turns away from Gale and walks out onto the open balcony, where couples and groups can speak more easily with distance from the music and chatter inside. She walks to an emptier spot on the left and leans on the stone baluster to look over the city. 

Why is she still here? If Rolan is preoccupied, there’s no real reason for her to stay. But of course, she knows why, just like she knows that, even if it’s an awful idea, she will probably end up trying to get him alone in some dark, unsupervised corner if it’s at all possible.

A group walks out onto the balcony and settles not far away from her, chattering about some upcoming special issue in the Annals of the Arcane journal. Some person from some school is serving as editor but is also flat-out desk rejecting every single submission without sending anything out for peer review and isn’t that odd? 

Tav is not interested enough to eavesdrop on something that actually is pretty fucking odd and she takes that as a sign that she should leave behind any aspirations of trapping Gale in a corner and just go home. 

She waits for the conversation to build again so she can walk past without any undue glances and just when she thinks she’s in the clear, she bumps right fucking into him. 

Why did she expect anything else? 

—

Gale had been on his way to someone in particular when she’d bumped into him, someone gossiping about Annals of the Arcane, and Tav had been unable to avoid getting roped into introductions. He had mercifully handled the bulk of it, explaining she is a candidate in Interdisciplinary Magics working with alt qual techniques, and she was swiftly accepted into the diverse circle of academics she’d tried to avoid. 

She stands next to Gale now, who is much quieter than he had been during her earlier staring. She sighs softly, wishing for a drink to look into.

“Tav, who’s advising you again?” A junior faculty member in her department (named…Coralis?) asks her. Coralis (probably) squints her green eyes behind her round, red glasses. 

“Jaheira, Halsin, and Vajra,” she replies rotely. “They’ve been great. I can only hope I’m half as good of an advisor as them someday.”

That part is sincere, even with all the question marks surrounding her future academic career. Besides, speaking well of her advisors has rarely ever backfired (just the one time, at that conference in Amn… Vajra has quite the penchant for pissing old academics who are stuck in their ways), so why not praise them? 

Coralis* nods, her question not seeming entirely gone, and a postdoc Tav has seen once or twice before pipes in. 

“Is it true that Halsin camps whenever he leaves town for conferences?” 

Tav snorts. It’s not the full truth, but it’s not too far from it. 

“Okay, he does book hotel rooms, especially when he’s traveling for a group presentation,” she clarifies, “…but he also packs a tent. And, occasionally, he uses it.”

She will not mention that occasionally means “sometimes half of the nights he’s away for”, nor will she share that Halsin always truly prefers to sleep in the closest forest while in wild shape. But while she’d thought that the postdoc had perhaps been trying to make fun of her advisor, the woman only sighs dreamily.

“Wow,” there are practically stars in her eyes, “he’s so cool.” 

“My my, Anna,” a faculty member from Wizardry says teasingly, “Swoon any harder and they’ll transfer you to Druidic Studies.”

Anna sputters, embarrassed, and the faculty member (“Hallwood,” he’d said while giving her a strange look) continues after a shallow taste of his whiskey. “Druids are… interesting. Of course I don’t think I’ve ever heard of any self-respecting wizard camping in the wilderness with a perfectly fine facility close by. But perhaps that has more to do with the company I keep.” 

Of course Hallwood is a dick. Just as she’s about to say something unkind, a smooth voice from beside her responds.

“I think it has more to do with how frail we wizards are. Camping sounds lovely, but I’m almost sure I caused myself a back spasm the other day from picking up a barely oversized tome,” Gale says this so charmingly, in such a go on, laugh at my pain kind of way, that it dispels the rising awkward tension. 

As everyone laughs in response, he looks at her briefly and gives her a slight smile before taking a small sip of wine. 

Her stomach does a backflip. Gale is always beautiful, but with the glow of a hovering light hitting the grays by his temple just so, he is nothing short of ethereal. 

Tav thinks a small prayer (almost to Mystra and then quickly to Helm) for Gale’s protection and wholeness. It is her first true call to the divine since sixth grade. And then Tav asks Him to help Gale someday see himself the way she sees him. The latter is probably out of the Vigilant One’s purview, but she throws it in anyway—just in case.

The conversation turns away from Halsin and she is grateful. People start to flitter away, remembering pre-promised greetings and toasts, and Tav thinks she can probably stand to hang around long enough that everyone will leave and then she can finally pull Gale away, maybe to the coat closet downstairs. She leans against the baluster behind her and settles in, preparing to wait.  

Anna leaves, followed by another postdoc and professor in Sorcery. There are only 5 of them left when Coralis* seems to realize what had eluded her earlier. 

“Gortash.” 

She says it suddenly, while another Wizardry professor is talking about a high-ranking position that just opened at the Center for Arcane Antiquities. Tav watches Coralis watch her as the woman tries to form a sentence around Enver’s name.

Coralis straightens her round glasses and smooths her short auburn hair down as she speaks, “I remember now… You used to work with Enver Gortash.” 

It has the lilt of a question, but Coralis isn’t actually asking. The bend of the woman’s thin lips holds something like an apology and more than a little pity for Tav.

“That’s right.” Hallwood’s golden eyes shine with recognition, “I think I can recall that as well.” He looks at her and it is nothing like Coralis’s expression. The quirk of his lips, the quick scan he gives her. 

She doesn’t know which is worse.

“No!” Tav says quickly, too eagerly, before correcting herself. “I mean—yes. Of course. But we don’t work together anymore. My… my interests just went in a different direction, you know? My current advisors are a much better fit.” 

She can feel the burning start behind her eyes and nose. She needs to get the fuck out of here. 

“Of course, dear. I’m glad you’re… following your interests. It’s the key to sticking with the work, as they say,” Coralis says this awkwardly, not quite looking at her anymore.

“Yes yes, absolutely,” Hallwood takes a half-step forward and hands Tav a thin, off-white rectangle from a pocket in his robes, “And if you ever develop a need for any additional research consulting or advising, my number is on the back.” 

Without daring to look at Gale, she takes the card, excuses herself less-than-gracefully, and walks back inside. 

—

Despite following almost immediately after she left, Gale struggles to find Tav. He doesn’t see her on the eighth floor, in any corner or on any couch. He spots Rolan in deep conversation with a pink-haired woman and is tempted to ask him whether he’s seen Tav before immediately understanding that’s a terrible idea. 

He takes the stairs to the seventh floor, carefully avoiding a dance floor that has opened in the center of the open room. His eyes scan the perimeter (because he knows she wouldn’t be dancing even on a good night) but he does not see her anywhere. He doesn’t consider checking the ninth floor (because he knows there is no way she’d willingly stay after what just transpired) and so he goes to the coat closet in preparation for the trip to her apartment. 

Gale sighs to himself as he weaves between the denser crowds of attendees standing around the lively dancefloor. Sure enough, there is Ramazith, right at the center of it all, a tall beacon of grace spinning a University Dean wearing a silky black dress and having the (annual) time of his life.

The sight reminds him of what Tav mentioned at their breakfast weeks ago. And then he remembers that he’s been distancing himself from her. And then he remembers why. 

He reaches the closet and closes the door behind him, sighing in relief as the noise of the increasingly wild party is muffled. Gale fishes his ticket out of his wallet. It glows with soft pink light at his touch and he sees a matching glimmer emerge from a garment bag hanging several clothing racks away. 

He rounds the corner to walk further into the row of racks and that is where he finds her, of course:  sitting against the wall, her legs stretched out in front of her, with a pink, puffy face.  

“Hi.” She sniffs, but doesn’t seem to be crying, not anymore. She’s actually smiling up at him, like he’s just made her entire night. 

“Are you alright?” He says, uselessly. But how else is he going to begin? 

“For the most part.” She shrugs. “I’m glad you’re here though. Somehow right on time, as always,” she smiles at her lap before looking back up at him.

“I’ve missed you all day,” she tilts her head, “Well, for days, really. But especially today.” 

Impossibly fond. 

He is at a loss for how to respond for a moment. There is an acidic feeling in his stomach, like he drank too much wine, and he wants to sit down but the only place is on the floor with her. 

“I was looking for you,” he decides to start with, “I figured you left after those assholes’ behavior.”

“Wow. Vulgarity,” she interrupts with raised eyebrows and a small smirk, “Not really used to it on you, but I think I like it.”

“As I was saying,” he continues, smothering the tilting of his lips, “I thought you left, so I came to get my things. I suppose I should’ve guessed you would hide in here, though.” 

“Is that so?” Tav asks, bemused, “Am I so predictable?”

”Oh, absolutely not. You’re a veritable potpourri of chance, my dear,” he teases, “I just happen to be observant and quite the analytical mind, is all.” 

She laughs openly at his overwrought self-admiration and then quiets with a half-hearted eye roll. 

“And yet you couldn’t guess I’d be here,” she teases, before moving on, “Regardless, you found me. And now I get to talk to you, which is all I really came for. So, I guess I still win, even with the assholes.” 

She isn’t upset with him, but he still winces at the reminder of his distance. “I apologize for not making time to speak before this. I just…” 

He trails off, unsure of how to say what he needs to say without saying all of it. Because he can’t say all of it right now—not here and not when she’s feeling the way he thinks she’s feeling. 

“It’s okay,” she says, understandingly. ”I know, the evaluations meeting was a lot. And so was Tuesday…” 

Gale looks down at his shoes, the acidic feeling rising to the back of his throat. 

“How do you feel about it? The meeting, I mean.” she asks quietly, before softening the inquiry. “Just one word would be enough, really. We don’t need to get into details.” 

He considers her question and thinks of many words, some basic and others highly specific. One works best without overcomplicating the conversation. 

“I feel… tired.”

She swallows and nods. “I think I get it.”

Gale sees she’s on the cusp of beginning to explain something, so he waits. And after a moment, she begins, playing with her fingers in her lap.

“You know, my first evaluation, from when I first taught alone instead of just TAing—it was awful. They scrutinized every single thing, from the speed I spoke at to what I was wearing to the graphics I used in my slides. They didn’t get my learning outcomes at all. I almost cried during and I definitely cried after.”

She frowns more deeply before shaking her head. 

“In retrospect, the criticism wasn’t that bad, even with the nitpicking. But it still felt awful. Because I was on display, right? And the literal purpose of the whole thing was to pick me apart and to tell me all the bad or unprofessional shit I was doing.” 

She huffs a sharp breath and her eyes roll to the low ceiling of the large closet, “And it’s just so rich coming from people who I know are just not good at teaching. Either from literally being a student in their classes or from other students in their classes… I digress.”

She takes a steadying breath, “Sorry. My point is: fuck them. Genuinely. Just—fuck them. I’ve only heard good things from your students. Some of them are a little too good, if you know what I mean, but Arabella says you’re one of the only faculty in Wizardry that actually seems to care about students. And fuck, my department isn’t much better!” Her arms wave around her, as if framing a pathetic display.

“Most of the people in it only ever deal with students because they have to, because that’s what’s in their contract. But you’re not like that.” Tav swallows and stands up from her seat on the floor, but doesn’t walk any closer.

“You asked me how I felt about BGU once. And I never actually got to tell you, with how dinner worked out…” She gives him a brief, awkward smile before sighing, continuing.

“But this fucking school is only good for ripping people apart. That’s how I feel about it. And that’s how I feel about the academy at large. It is what it is. Admins are shitty and self-involved. Researchers don’t really care about anything besides getting grants so they don’t have to teach. And most professors suck or are adjuncting and have literally no job security.”

“But there’s some who don’t suck. And, finally at my point,” she swallows, “you’re one of them. You should be teaching, Gale. And I know you really want to. So I am ending my dramatic and ranting plea with a request that you not let anything get in the way of doing the work you want to do. Because you’re good at it. And, more importantly, you care. And I know you’re only going to get better.” 

Gale feels his heart practically burst in his chest. He cannot do anything about the shit-eating grin that comes over his face and she only rolls her eyes again before smiling right back at him. 

He spares a glance towards the door to the closet and then turns back to Tav. She’s a walking heart attack tonight, with her revealing speeches and that off-the-shoulder top she chose, her full chest on display like a pillow made for his face. 

“…That was quite the monologue,” Gale steps towards her, looking excessively flattered.

“I know, it was a bit much. But it’s only because I think you’re really great.” 

Letting himself regret it sometime later, Gale presses Tav into the wall behind her and kisses her gently. 

She is wrong. 

He did not have the conversation today that she thinks he had. When Raiserek and Drin spoke to him earlier, they’d given him an evaluation more positive than he could have ever anticipated. They said he was well-prepared with a thoughtful lesson plan, that his students were engaged far beyond those in other sections of the same course. They thought he connected their less directly relevant questions back to course material well and that the collegial, collaborative tone of the class was exemplary. They spent far more time picking his brain about his pedagogical choices than providing any kind of criticism whatsoever.

It was an outcome better than he could have ever dreamed. And yet, he’d left the meeting with a cheerful goodbye covering the burn that still wrecked his stomach now. 

Along with their compliments, Raiserek and Drin had thanked him for coming to BGU. 

“Our department has struggled in student course evaluations for a long time,” Raiserek admitted, a practically mortified hand rubbing his forehead.

“I’m sure you know, Dekarios, that wizards can be quite… particular. It’s not always conducive to a satisfying classroom experience.”

Drin had nodded, echoing the sentiment in his gruff voice, “We’ve been in dire need of some fresh blood in this department for a long time. So we’re glad to have you and I can only hope you’re not planning on going anywhere soon.”

Drin picked up his mug as he finished and Raiserek lifted his thermos in agreement.

“Here here.” 

But while Drin and Raiserek sang his praises, all he could think about was how many times so far he’d almost cut his time at BGU short. 

Every single moment with Tav—on campus and otherwise—risks it. Directly and indirectly. And just days ago, he’d initiated something so far beyond risky, in his departmental office of all places, without sparing hardly any thoughts to the consequences. 

No, all he could think of was Tav and that he wanted her and that he was tired of not being able to have her whenever and wherever and however he wanted. And that is what being around her does to him, it makes him short-sighted and greedy and reckless and impulsive. It makes him somehow forget—after a year and a half of intensive therapy and living with his mother and moving his entire life to a new city because of it—that he is inching towards recreating the mistake, however imperfectly, that forced him to rebuild everything at 35.

Perhaps that’s the most melodramatic way of understanding the situation, but it feels truer than any other analysis of it.  

All he has to do is stop chasing after one person, in a sea of millions, and yet here he is, kissing her in a coat closet instead. 

It’s not as if Tav is best served by any of it either. The way she broke down after Ramazith and Rolan left his office…

He caused that. Gale can only blame himself. He is the faculty member and he has the power. She is the grad student and is supposed to be able to trust that her seniors will prevent her from doing reckless, career-jeopardizing things. Or, at the very least, make it harder for her to do them. 

This thought makes him pull away as their kiss deepens. 

The stifled volume of the party around them reaches a new high and Tav hugs him around the waist, slipping her soft hands under his suit jacket. 

“Wanna get out of here?” She asks as she strokes his back through his shirt. 

“Yes,” he sighs, unwilling to do the difficult thing at that moment. “Should I meet you at yours?” 

“I’m pretty sure my roommate is home,” she shakes her head and pecks him briefly, sadly.

And then Gale does something very ill-advised. 

“Come over to mine,” he invites her, before he sifts the idea through layers of sense and rationality. 

She raises her eyebrows and asks if he’s sure. And he says yes, absolutely, that he would like to be alone with her and finally have a worthwhile conversation that night. 

Gale leaves and Tav follows a few minutes after, taking a cab to the sunny-yellow townhouse three blocks away from campus. 

Another day, Gale thinks. He will leave the difficult thing for another day. 

Chapter Text

He’d waited in the foyer for her arrival while an Unseen Servant straightened up the messes he made earlier—the bed he’d tossed and turned in, the remnants of the omelet he ruined, the half-dozen outfits he tried on before leaving for Ramazith’s gathering. She arrived just as the last knife fell into the butcher block and teased him for waiting at the door before kissing him with a contented sigh.

Despite his plans to offer her a drink, she tugged him by the hand up to his bedroom. And this reminded him that she knew where it was, that she’d tucked him into bed when he was too drunk to do it himself. 

Gale lingers on the not-quite memory as they lay together in a contemplative silence. He strokes Tav’s hair softly and feels the warmth of her cheek on his chest through his button up. The tension leaves his body with a long sigh. 

“You can ask, you know.” 

Tav’s voice is relaxed, but he feels her stiffen against him. 

“Ask about what, in particular?” 

Tav pulls away to lay on her side, facing him. He does the same.

“I didn’t tell you who my… person was,” she sighs into the pillow cradling her head, “But I know you put the pieces together after earlier.”

She’s right. It had all clicked into place with Hallwood’s leer. And her swift departure all but confirmed it beyond doubt. 

Gale does not know much of anything about Enver Gortash. When he has a long moment alone, he will learn everything there is to publicly know about the man. And these details will guide his gathering of the real knowledge: motivations, commitments, weaknesses.

But Gale does not think he should indulge his curiosity before then, and especially not with Tav. 

(Unlike most magical academics, Gale has never claimed the mantles of transmutation or conjuration specialist. And while he has always found great joy in their beauty and artfulness, it still takes thought and effort and a delicate touch for him to create illusions to his particular standards. 

He has never had to try to destroy—to evoke. He can make something out of nothing as easily as breathing and then use it to kill. It is… an odd affinity to have, when he lives his life in “civilized” society. But times like these, when there is someone precious to protect, remind him of his ease in destruction, bestowed on him simply for being alive.)

“I did realize who he was to you,” Gale says carefully, pushing his intel gathering plans aside. “But there’s nothing you need to explain, especially not to me of all people.”

He wholeheartedly believes this. And when Tav looks at his face, she believes him too. If no one else, she surely knows, he would be the one to understand. 

“I’ve asked you about her,” she elaborates, “And you told me what you could. I just think some additional information, if you want it, is more than fair in this case.”

Tav has asked for fewer details on his relationship with Mystra than one would anticipate. She inquired about how long they were together (“12 years or so”), if they ever spoke about marriage (“once or twice, but she was never very interested”), and whether he had any particular triggers she should know about (he hadn’t been able to answer this one). Besides these cautious questions, she has not pried.

It’s entirely plausible that she’s heard plenty via academic gossip and achieved a clear enough picture without needing too much input from him.  But Gale suspects this is not the case; rather, he believes that Tav is letting the blanks sit, unfilled in, because she’d rather not know than hurt him by making him think about it. And while it's very considerate—and so very Tav—to take that approach, he finds that he is surprisingly willing to dig it all up for her, if she would only ask.

Regardless, he does not believe everything needs to be an equal exchange—least of all the sharing of a traumatic history.

He reaches out to touch her arm and she takes his hand instead, kissing his knuckles. 

“I’ll admit, I’m not entirely disinterested. But I only need to know more if something feels pertinent to share… and if you want to share it,” Gale explains, moving their joined hands to lay on the bed between them. “I would always be happy to listen to you. Fairness is not quite my concern.” 

“Ever thoughtful, aren’t you?” She shakes her head lightly, rubbing her check against the pillow under her.

“I try. But my efforts pale beside yours.”

At her scrunched eyebrows, he continues: “You went to a party tonight just to see me. Just to make sure I was alright. Don’t think it escaped my notice. Rolan was not nearly as reserved or in need of supervision as you or Ramazith made him out to be.”

“That’s because he has a crush on a girl,” she whispers, giddy and conspiratorial, before continuing, “It was just a party though. It’s not like it was a dungeon. Or Limbo.” 

He does not take the bait to banter with her about the (very advanced and beyond his years!) portal he opened while at Blackstaff. She’s trying to distract his sincerity, he knows. 

“With my current knowledge, I’m fairly sure a dungeon or even Limbo would’ve been less painful for you,” she looks away from his purposeful gaze. “So understand that I noticed and am grateful for your care.” 

Tav’s avoidant expression melts into something warm and bashful and she takes his hand that lays between them. She kisses his knuckles again and tells him that it was her pleasure. 

She sits up and he does too, gently guiding her to lean against him and his cushioned headboard. Beats of silence pass undisturbed before she relaxes against him fully. 

He lets his head dip towards her neck, lays gentle kisses in the way that makes her squirm. It doesn’t take much, just a few light touches and some breath for her to tilt her head and bare the skin to him in a wordless request for him to continue. And at this point, he decides he can let it go unmentioned no longer. 

“I am also very grateful for this shirt you chose to wear tonight,” he says this with all the gentlemanly spirit he can muster—which, admittedly, is not very much at the moment. 

“My shirt?” Tav says a bit too innocently, he notes.

“Oh yes, your shirt,” he looks her over unabashedly then. “It accentuates your natural beauty quite well. Just seeing you in it would be enough to transform my worst night.”

The shirt in question is a creamy white thing that exposes her shoulders. It looks something like a corset, with flexible boning in the front and lacing in the back, and it presents her breasts spectacularly. Her chest and upper arms are concealed by silky draping that dips lusciously at her cleavage. 

“Is that so?” she catches his eye as he ogles her and then smirks when it does not deter him in the slightest, “And if I told you I chose it for you?”

It makes his heart skip a beat, even as it abashes him thoroughly. “Am I truly so transparent?” 

“Absolutely not, my darling. But I can be very observant and analytical, much like someone else I know,” He openly laughs at this, red-faced, “and I have absolutely picked up on your thing for my tits.” 

“Tav!” She gives him a cheeky smile at his sudden shyness.

“What?” She asks, eyes sparkling. “I’m not wrong!” 

He rubs a hand over his burning face, still laughing as he tries to be serious, “To be clear, I have a thing for you.” 

“You do?” she asks teasingly, wiggling her eyebrows.

He huffs a laugh into her mouth as she gives him a short kiss, “Yes, I do—which you know. It’s not just about your… assets.”

“Thinking about my ass now, are you?”

She dissolves into a fit of silly laughter at the beyond flustered look on his face. He watches her glee, giggling and squirming and laying back against his chest, as a sobering thought creeps forward: Enjoy this while it lasts. 

It’s unnecessary. He hasn’t forgotten.

“Hey. You okay?”

Gale breathes out and he feels his throat tighten suddenly. He swallows and nods, “Yes, I am. Can I tell you something sincere?”

“Of course,” she waits patiently, looking up at him. 

It is not a good idea to say what he’s about to say. It’s a terrible idea, in fact. But if everything has to fall apart, he will have one fewer regret if she knows, beyond any doubt, that she means something to him—that she is special and, regardless of how he has to save them from themselves, she will always be special. 

“I never anticipated I would ever meet someone as incredible as you when I left Waterdeep. I like all of you. Everything you do. I like you so much, it…”

It’s going to ruin us. 

He struggles to think of another way to finish it, but can’t. He wants to say more, but isn’t sure what. And he laments that what he has uttered is the least poetic, least precise thing he’s ever said. He’s described balmy summer days in more romantic, useful terms. 

“I think I know what you mean…” she seems to deliberate about continuing for a moment, a shy smile stretching her lips, “And I feel the same way. I spent so long just… watching you tell your funny little stories from across the party tonight. I just… want to be in your orbit. All the time, I think.”

“You were watching me?” And this makes him feel something so shiny and warm and strangled that it takes his breath away. Even when he’s not trying, she still wants to see him, still thinks he’s worth looking at.

This knowledge is almost painful. 

“I was,” she grimaces a bit. “Is that weird?” 

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head, “No. It’s… incredibly sweet, like you always are.” 

It’s an intense moment. They’re sharing breaths on his bed, looking at each other’s faces from just centimeters away. Her eyes dart from his eyes to his lips to her own hands laying on his shoulders. 

“Gale, I…”

It feels like she wants to say something important, something that will propel them to something newer, more intense. More complicated. He is fearful and also excited and also dreading the implications of what she might say and his excitement about it. But just as it seems to settle on her tongue, she says something he isn’t anticipating.

“Will you take my shirt off?” 

“Are you trying to kill me?” The response leaves his mouth immediately and despite his immediate and embarrassed apology, she laughs with her head thrown back. 

“Are you sure?” He asks her once she’s mostly quieted down, with a smile he doesn’t bother trying to hide. 

“Very,” she nods with barely concealed excitement. “I want you to touch me.”

“I would like that.” It’s an understatement of massive proportions. 

“Me too.” 

–-

She does want Gale to touch her—probably more than she wants anything in the world at that moment. But they are not in the pressurized container of his office. They are in his bedroom in his home. They are on his expensive plum bed set. There is no one who may pass by in the hallway outside his door and see something that could end his rebuilding future. There is nothing to force her to take whatever she can, right now, in the moment, as fast as she can, without thinking too hard about it. 

“It’s not usually in me to be possessive… but I don’t think I want a single more person to have the privilege of seeing you in this,” Gale says this between suckling kisses to the tops of her breasts. The exposed skin of her breasts is already peppered in moist, red welts, but Gale is far from done.

And it feels nice, very nice, but she is only half there. She is sharing a body with Better Tav right now, who is being sexy and desirable and saying all the right things and making all the right sounds, while the rest of her is trying to hold onto the rising fervor of a few moments ago, when she asked him to undress her. 

“I’ll leave in one of your shirts then,” she hears herself say as Gale pulls her fully against his chest as he sits up on his knees. She’s straddling one of his thighs now as he holds her close and she desperately just wants to feel everything.

His agile fingers pluck the bow tied at the base of her back and his mouth moves to her neck, undoubtedly to mark her there as well. He takes his time unlacing the shirt fully and lavishing the skin of her pulse with his tongue and once he’s finished, the body of her shirt and its ribbon lay in separate places on the floor.

Gale groans at the sight of her breasts heaving in her too-tight strapless bra. And though she’s been waiting for it all night, the moment does not quite feel fully in her grasp, falling through her fingers like loose sand. 

“I think you are trying to kill me,” he says into her chest as he kisses and drags his tongue where the black fabrics pinches tightly, cutting into her soft skin.

It’s still a bit intoxicating though, the singular force of his attention. She knows she’s panting, that there is sensation building under his careful hands. If only she could reach it more fully. 

Panting with her, he unhooks her bra and finally takes it off, running his fingers lightly over the full swell of her breasts, marked with light pink lines. He caresses her nipples lightly before groping her breasts with both hands. They don’t fit his hold; she spills over his fingers and he massages her, watching the jiggle of soft skin with fascination and lust. 

Still holding her in overfull hands, Gale squeezes and they moan with different forms of gratification. Gale snares her with a deep kiss that surprises her in its stomach-twitching heat.

“You really must let me rub your shoulders sometime, Tav,” he says against her mouth.

“You carry the burden of such divine delights all day long.”

He bends his head down to take a nipple into his mouth and she arches into him, moaning into the ceiling of his bedroom. His eyelashes flutter as he alternates between sucking and flicking and she stares to burn the sight of him into her brain. He looks drunk and his hair is a mess from the raking of her fingers and her tit is in his mouth—it can’t be real because it’s so good but it is and this acknowledgement lets her close her eyes and feel just a bit more. 

She feels his mouth leave her breasts to give her a deep, wet kiss again. Still groping her chest, he asks for her to lay on her back. Despite the fact that her body moves immediately, it takes Tav a second to process the request whispered against her lips. She pulls away to lay back onto his bed, propped up slightly with a few pillows under her head and torso.

He watches her heavy breasts spill towards her sides before leaning down to lick the path between. He kisses and sucks at the skin of her sternum, and when she presses her chest up into his mouth, she feels him chuckle against her skin. 

Gale pulls back to look at her face and he kisses the tip of her nose, “Do you remember what I wanted to do in my office the other day?”

Her brain is a fragmented thing right now. But it returns to her. 

“You, spread out on my desk, on top of my grading. And me, with my tongue in your sweet cunt.”

How could she forget? As if she hadn’t gotten herself off for the past two nights at the memory of him saying it. Not even a fantasy of it actually playing out, just the recollection of the soft confession that slingshotted her hesitance right out of his office window. 

“Tav,” Gale repeats patiently, a smile on his face, “do you remember?” He’s almost laying flush against her reclining body, between her bent knees, and she shivers at the feel of his button-up across her nipples.

She nods after a moment, her core throbbing as she clings tightly to that moment on his desk. 

“Would you let me taste you?” 

“Are you sure?” She needs him to be sure. Because she isn’t. 

“I want nothing more,” he moves a few curls away from her face gingerly. “As long as you’re amenable to it?”

“I…,” she doesn’t want to lie to Gale. But she also doesn’t know the truth. And of course Better Tav has fucked off completely, melted down in the acid of a scary question.

She thinks it would be most accurate to say she wants this to be simpler. She wants her broken body to cooperate and she wants to be a different person who can do intimate things with the most beautiful person she’s ever seen without having to act it out like its a play and she’s an actor and this is just a job. 

(Mercifully, her brain pulls back from this line of thought and shuts the door it came from. Not now.)

“Tav? Are you alright?” Gale pulls back from kissing her face, but does not remove himself from her body. She tries to push the burning that builds behind her eyes and her nose back to the godsdamned fire it came from, but then it’s too late. Gale knows.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he asks gently, busying himself with tugging the spiral ends of her hair. 

“Just… don’t take this personally. I’m very, very attracted to you, to be very clear. You’re like… well, you’re everything,” Gale smiles fondly at her hair, but does not force eye contact and she is grateful. 

“I tend to sort of… float? I guess,” she breathes a frustrated sigh and looks at the beige ceiling of his room, “That doesn’t make any sense. Sorry… I don’t think I can finish with other people like this. Generally. If I’m not the one doing something, I’m usually too distracted by other stuff in my head to really feel most of what’s going on.” 

Every word is at the bottom of a tooth. And it is agony, but she has to rip them out so he can understand. She loves him. And she can’t let him think there’s something wrong with him. It’s her. She’s the fucked up one. She’s the one who can’t accept the gift he’s trying to give her. And he needs to know it. 

“I’m sure you’re very… talented,” Gale chuckles at this and she feels no small amount of relief at the sound, “It’s just a thing that my brain does and I don’t know how to make it stop, it just does it. I’d be happy to focus on you, I don’t want to end our night just because I get all… spacey.” 

“If you truly wanted to focus on me, I would say yes. Always, believe me,” Gale says this slowly, reassuringly, “But I don’t really mind if you can’t finish. I mean, I would like to make you feel pleasure, that’s the point...”

“But you don’t have to have an orgasm. And if you just can’t finish from my efforts, that doesn’t mean our time together is wasted,” he looks at her now as he says it, “And if you’re struggling to stay grounded with me, in the moment, then let me try to keep your attention.” 

He thinks for a few moments about a potential course of action as he lays over her still and this—the thoughtful face of Problem-Solving Gale, of all things—makes her skin tingle. 

“Is there anything in the past that’s helped to keep your mind from drifting?” Gale asks from above, still pondering. 

“Yes,” she swallows and explains, “Not perfectly, but yeah. It’s just not anything I think I want to do again, not right now at least.” 

Pain. The powerlessness of punishment. Brutality. A kiss from a monster. 

“Then I suppose we’ll learn together as we go,” Gale smiles down at her again, “If you’d still like to try, that is?” 

“I would,” and she does… but, “But if it starts to feel like work, let me know and we can stop.” 

Gale promises he will, despite how he so clearly wants to take her words apart and isolate the underlying messages. It is a not-small act of mercy and consideration on his end to leave it be. 

He lets his weight fall on her body a bit more fully and slips a hand behind her head to hold her as he kisses her. It feels so much like his kisses after she makes him cum with her mouth, the slow, indulgent strokes of his tongue and the way he breathes into her. Her sucks her tongue lightly and nips at her bottom lip as he pulls away and she feels dizzy. 

“Is it okay if I start?,” he murmurs to her, “I have been dreaming about this, after all.” 

She nods quickly, somehow drunker and more wired, and Gale goes to work undoing the button and zipper of her pants. He slips her slacks and her underwear off all at once and takes a sharp intake of breath as he sits back on his knees between her legs and looks her over.

He still has all his clothes on (minus the suit jacket) and she has none of hers now. And yet she feels oddly comfortable. Pliant. There is something about it that feels safe. She doesn’t try to squeeze her legs shut when Gale spreads her knees and takes his sweet time looking at the swollen, wet center of her. 

“Gods above. Aren’t you just delectable?” 

She clenches tightly at this, involuntarily at his marveling. Gale lowers himself onto his stomach, pressing kisses into her mons pubis and her inner thighs. She can’t help the sounds that leave her—choking and moaning and panting all at once. The contrast between his soft lips and his beard is titillating and the anticipation turns to tension as she feels Gale’s breath against the slickness of her. 

He pauses to rub soothing hands over her thighs and stomach. 

“Try to relax for me. It will all feel much better if you let yourself loosen a bit, my sweet girl,” he looks up at her from between her legs. “And if you feel like tensing up, just pull my hair.” 

There is something about the pet name that strikes especially deep and it is borderline embarrassing. Her face starts to burn until he comes back up briefly to give her another kiss and check in with her. 

“Do you like it when I call you my sweet girl?” 

She nods quickly, not trusting herself to speak without bursting into tears, and Gale groans as he kisses her again. 

“Good. Because you are. So sweet. So kind. And all mine.”

The full weight of her body falls onto the mattress as Gale praises her softly, moving back down her body. She grabs what remains of the bun he’d pulled half his hair into as he spreads the lips of her cunt open with his thumbs. 

“You’re incredible,” she hears, before he licks from her hole to her clit with the flat of his tongue. 

Her brain, while still fragmented, is fizzing. Gods, it feels so good. Gale hums into her wetness, nuzzling her cunt with his face and working his tongue against her aching hole. The sight paired with the feel is almost too much but she can’t look away. 

Her mind fails to carry her away from the moment as it has so many times in the past and she welcomes the warming pocket of pleasure, heating under Gale’s careful attention. 

He holds her folds open as he kisses every space of slick flesh and grips her by the meat of her thigh, pushing it up towards her stomach to spread her further. He sinks his tongue into her throbbing hole, thrusting shallowly, and then his moist thumb comes to slide across her clit. 

“Oh gods fucking hells—“ 

It feels so good she can only say nonsense and Gale laughs darkly against her, his tongue and his fingers continuing their steady torture. She feels heat climb up from her spine to her face, the back of her neck. Her hands pull his hair, move him deeper into her cunt and she feels her hips shift, grinding on Gale’s tongue in a search for deeper depths. 

He pulls back slightly and she whines without shame, making him laugh and groan.

“I think someone’s enjoying themselves,” Gale teases and then his tongue is back inside of her, flattening as much as he can manage. He takes his time, moaning gratuitously into her hole as he thrusts with his face and then pulling back only slightly for air, never quite leaving her slickness. 

He works her into a frenzy, fucking her with his tongue until she’s chasing the pleasure more intentionally, pulling his hair into her and grinding against his not-enough tongue. 

Gale pulls away from her more fully to pant. He runs his slippery fingers up and down, from her clit to her hole, and the sound is ridiculous. 

“Does my sweet girl like it when I devour her cunt?”

The words slam into her and her hips jerk as Gale punctuates the question with his tongue gently lapping at her clit. 

She nods frantically and the hand gripping her thigh holds her in place as she tries to press up into Gale’s mouth. He won’t let her chase him now and she has no choice but to take the leisurely licks against her clit as her entrance clenches over and over around nothing.

Gale only looks more and more pleased as it goes on. He’s glowing—a slight sheen of sweat covers his forehead and his face is flushed and she thinks he’s never looked better than right now, lavishing her clit with his tongue. She’s practically vibrating, in a way she hasn’t felt probably ever, and the fucker knows it, is practically basking in her complete and utter surrender. 

Gods, why is he so hot?  

“Would you like a finger?”

“Yesplease,“ She can’t stop herself from answering emphatically and as soon as he offers, someone shameless and lust-hazed now residing in her body. 

“So polite,” Gale teases. He gives her clit a sweet kiss that she feels in her throat before lowering his mouth and sucking, giving her some of the pressure she’d been chasing. She grabs his hair with renewed tension, babbling and keening for as long as he indulges her… until he pulls away again. 

She whimpers briefly before a finger slides in slowly with a downright indecent noise. Her watery eyes slide closed again. 

“Oh–oh.”

“What a gift,” Gale breathes out, marveling at where his finger moves in and out of her. “The way you suck me in… Your perfect cunt wants my finger so badly.”

He moves his finger with a steady pace and then moves his head back down to her clit, licking and sucking like a dessert on a hot day. She clenches more and more around his finger and starts to meet his sliding finger with her hips.

“Does my sweet girl want more?” He’s almost too pleased as he asks, but she’s in no position to knock him down a peg. 

“Please Gale. Please give me more,” she’s practically sniffling and crying as she answers. The helplessness is like a warm hug and she lets herself fall into it completely. 

“Shh, you needy, precious thing. I’ll give you another one,” he says as his thumb returns to circle her clit again, “since you answered so nicely.”

He soothes her with the merciful width of another finger sliding into her with the first. The sound of his hand working into her is downright sinful. 

“What a perfect, messy little hole my sweet girl has.” He practically coos at her and it provokes a wave of pleasure that makes her legs move to snap shut. But he pushes them back down with a pleased smile.

He begins to piston his fingers quickly and firmly. It takes her breath away, really, how he presses up against the tender spot along her upper wall. The sounds of his lustful panting laying over the messy, wet squelching of her cunt as he fingerfucks her. 

Gale replaces the thumb on her clit with his mouth and his lewd noises of pleasure blend with his obscene sucking. He moves his now-free palm to press intentionally on her soft mound, caressing the soft curls there, and the air seizes up in her chest. 

She feels a whine rise up in her throat instead of the words I think I’m actually going to cum all over your hand, but Gale understands.

“Let it happen, my sweet girl,” Gale says hungrily, almost growling as he adds a third finger to his relentless ministrations. He groans in satisfaction around her clit once again, relishing the tightening squeeze of her cunt around his hand.  

He reassures her again, muffled by his mouth on her, and she feels her head shake no frantically. Because she can’t and it’s too much and it feels good but she can’t get there—

And then Gale moves up her body to speak into her ear as his fingers fuck her forcefully. He tells her she’s so perfect and that he’s wanted this for so long and to give him something else to dream about, something that he can reference when he’s wondering how her perfect cunt would feel cumming around his cock. He tells her that he would keep her here all day long, moaning and simpering and crying at the edge of her pleasure if she wanted it but no, he thinks she wants to cum and he’s going to give it to her.

There is a desperate stream of clenches around his fingers before she feels herself barrel past a point of no return. Her orgasm rips through her and her back arches and she hears him praise her through the loud guttural moan that leaves her mouth. The there it is and such a good girl and so proud of you soothe her like a cool, gentle wind. 

His fingers slow their pace, but he follows her squirming, clenching legs. He doesn’t stop until she’s done riding out the lingering spasms on his hand. He kisses her cheek and her mouth and her chest and her stomach as she stills.

She breathes deeply and she wonders to herself just how the fuck did that happen, but apparently she says it aloud too. Gale laughs at the question as he spreads her open again, admiring the way the wetness of her pleasure extends to her thighs.

“Want to try for one more?” He licks the length of her again with the flat of his tongue, savoring her taste as if he didn’t just eat her alive and her hips jolt at the wet stimulation.

“...Not that you need to have another orgasm, but I would very much like to do some version of this for at least a while longer.”

Her hips move at the feel of his tongue and she looks down at him, bewildered and turned on and definitely more in love than she already was. 

She’s barely tempted to begin with her oh no, that was amazing, but I couldn’t ask you to do it again. Because yes, in fact, she does want to try for one more, as many more as Gale is willing to coax from her. He already has her heart. Why not her body?

Instead, she asks, “What about you?” 

It is weak. Hardly resistance at all. And he knows it, which pleases him deeply and transparently.

Gale grins at her, massaging the softness of her thighs once again as he pulls away from his tasting. He is trembling ever so slightly, barely restrained hunger thrumming under his skin. 

“Tav,” he looks at her fondly, speaks honestly, “watching you come apart again will finish me, I assure you.”

And it is somehow hotter than anything she’s ever heard, even more than the previously hottest things which she only heard a few moments ago, which shoved her right off a skyscraper into cumming harder than she has in years. The thought of Gale finishing all because he manages to make her cum again? 

She nods at him eagerly (because she doesn’t trust herself to say “yes, please, take me” without asking him to marry her also) and his eyes practically twinkle with delight. 

He asks whether she has any reservations about some “minor magic usage” with a mischievous, glistening mouth. And when she says “no, but I think some more details would help,” he shows her exactly what he means (with a buzzing finger… and then three). 

Her first climax paves the way for the second and they both finish this time. Gale curves two vibrating fingers inside her and slides the third beside her clit and she rides his hand until she falls off the cliff again. 

Gale groans a lilting “you’re so good to me” as he tumbles with her, his fingers still buzzing in her folds and the show of concentration makes her pull him into a sloppy kiss. She wants to grind her wetness all over the spasming tent in his trousers, but feels too boneless for it. So she rubs him with her palm over his moistening pants and they ride out the waves of pleasure from their orgasms. She bites his neck to keep herself from saying the three little words that still insist on being heard and she sags into him fully once more, relieved, when his moan fills the air of the room in response. 

After Gale brings her to bliss twice more, it is well into the late hours shared by Friday and Saturday. When she can take no more, she helps him finally undress with shaky hands and Gale gets her water and they clean up before falling asleep in each other’s arms for the first time. 

Tav wakes up not long before 7am and slips away into the early Saturday morning, leaving behind a note and the lingering stickiness of a morning kiss on Gale’s head. 

She takes a cab from campus, wearing her slacks and an old sweatshirt she found in Gale’s drawer. It is surely far too big for him, but it is perfect on her and she takes this as a good omen of what is to come. 

When she gets home, the apartment is empty. Astarion is at work. She floats to her room and lays in bed after dropping her pants on the floor. 

As she closes her eyes, heavy with sleep, her final thought is that maybe this is what it feels like—to let someone kiss it all better.

Chapter Text

Gale cleans up the cluttered desk in his home office, slipping each printed page littering the surface into an unlabeled manila folder. The only light in the room is from his laptop, covered in endless browser windows and tabs, bathing him in an eerie white glow. He sits back in his chair to close them one by one. Someone on the street below walks their barking dog and a loud cluster of car horns blares suddenly just down the block. But he is no more unsettled than he already was.

He’d spent all weekend sick. When he first woke up on Saturday, he was delirious enough to think he’d dreamed the night before. It was only after he saw her note beside his glasses on the nightstand that he realized: 

Tav had slept in his bed. And after he’d spent a considerable portion of their post-party night between her legs, bringing her to multiple toe-curling climaxes that made him spill in his pants (which, for the record, was not something he thought anyone could ever find appealing and yet she had). 

Then he’d felt nauseous as he sat up too quickly and almost slipped on the silky shirt on his floor while running to the bathroom. He practically threw up two steps from his toilet and spent a long time afterwards laying his head on the cool green floor tiling.

After crawling back into bed, he texted her without considering his words fully. 

Saturday, 12:32pm: “I think I’m dying.”

She called him not even two minutes later in hardly disguised panic, but realized quickly that his life was not actually in danger. Then she offered to come over and take care of him. But it was the kind of thing that would mean prolonged proximity to his townhouse in the middle of the day and he reminded her as much. With a sigh, she accepted his rationale and made him promise to get plenty of rest and drink fluids. 

An hour later, a delivery person dropped off one large container of soup, a side container of rice, a liter bottle of ginger tea, and another note, recorded on the receipt: “Try to eat if you can. Thinking of you. ” 

And while he did not eat on Saturday, sleeping most of the day away and barely finishing the bottle of tea in his rare moments of consciousness, he’d thoroughly enjoyed the reheated soup and rice on Sunday. 

She’d fussed over him on the phone while he ate, undeterred by the necessary distance or the potential grossness of his soup noises. It was not out of character, not in the slightest, but Gale still wondered whether it was partially influenced by the same urgency that came to him after she first made him see stars with her mouth: the needy, hungry, aware blanket of attachment that made him even less willing to be apart from her. He felt closer to her too, after it all. 

And how could he not? She’d been so honest, even as it pained her. She’d trusted him to hold the complications with careful hands. And he had, becoming completely possessed by the task of making her lose herself in him. 

His disappointment that she was not there when he woke up could hardly be tempered by the reality of their situation nor the increasingly insistent reminder that he needs to end it soon. Not after what they’d done together. 

Regardless, he enjoyed her attention thoroughly. They picked a movie to watch together—something that seemed promising, but ultimately took itself too seriously—and then tore it apart in tandem, right down to the glaring anachronisms. She stayed on the phone with him as she worked and entertained his endless and increasingly sleepy questions about her current chapter drafts and when he fell asleep at an early hour, she sent a text afterwards wishing him a “good night’s rest ”. 

When he rose on Monday, he felt completely recovered. And while he knew he had followed Tav’s basic and by-no-means-patented steps towards getting better, he also knew that he felt truly well because of her, specifically. Because of everything she is and was proving to be.

He made himself an especially good frittata for breakfast, left early to get work done on campus, and even managed some extra reading for his 200-level course. He got a blueberry muffin from the cafe that was extra moist and his coffee was just the right temperature to enjoy without burning himself on the first sip. He found a recently published anthology of Netherese scholarship that looked promising and managed to find a coupon for it on the publisher website. Class went as smoothly as it always did and a group of his students followed him from the lecture room to his office, asking increasingly specific questions about the theoretical considerations for extending durations of enchantments. 

It wasn’t until Hallwood showed up, right as Arabella left his office with a selection of books from his home library, that Gale realized he’d been having a pretty good day. 

How quickly things slip away.  

“Dekarios,” he’d said, “Do you have a moment?” 

And because Gale cannot stand the man, he lied. 

“I have a meeting in 10 minutes. How can I help you?” And he said it with a clear, pointed disinterest that pushed the bounds of collegiality, in his own opinion. 

It is not only that Caliban Hallwood is an arrogant, pompous ass that finds no value in the lives or opinions of non-wizards. It is that Caliban Hallwood is all those things as well as exactly the kind of man who would leer at and make his move on a grad student he thought he could take advantage of. 

And fine, Gale had been the one with Tav in his bed on Friday night. But Tav is… (different? he’d asked himself then. His?) 

“I’ll be brief,” Hallwood took a seat on his couch and crossed one leg over the other. He looked out of place in his self-importance, sitting on the warm umber sofa cushions, surrounded by the colorful spines of Gale’s books and the warm glow of the ornately shaded lamp in the corner. 

Gale likes his office. And he hated Hallwood for being in it, especially after he’d finally gotten the decorating right. 

“At Flamesinger’s party, you seemed well acquainted with that doctoral student from IM. Tavelle Ancunín.”

It froze him. He let the silence linger for too long and even noted it to himself as it happened. Someone with a simpler acquaintance would not have delayed in responding so long, would not be bracing themself quite so much for a conversation about just another student. 

But just as Gale opened his mouth to tell some made up story about helping Tav with something dissertation-related, Hallwood held up a hand.

“Now I’m not asking for any information in that regard. It’s none of my business if you’re bedding that one in your spare time or if you’re planning on it. It’s not like you’re an attached man anymore,” Hallwood said this all too casually while examining his fingernails, probably aware of and enjoying how it made Gale’s blood simmer. 

“And even if you still were, I really wouldn’t care,” his golden elfen eyes scanned the room, quirking an eyebrow at a knick knack on his shelf before looking back at Gale, “I just figured I’d do you the gentlemanly courtesy of warning you—in case you do happen to be angling for something extracurricular, that is.”

“Get to the point,” Gale stands from his seat at this point, leveling Hallwood with a direct stare for daring to speak of Tav as he was. His fingers twitched and he had to bite the sides of his tongue to avoid forming words he had not said in years—not since an incident where a hired rogue broke into Mystra’s lab to snag something in particular and found Gale instead, hunched over his desk at 2am and delaying his trip home. 

(But, something reminds him now, in the gray of his office, you didn’t kick Hallwood out. No—you wanted to know.) 

“The point: Ancunín is a poor choice for your first student fling. Enver Gortash, one of her former advisors, ended up in the hospital at her hands around four years ago.” 

It was so ridiculous when he first heard it, Gale almost laughed.

Almost.

But then he saw the incredible flatness of Hallwood’s face. There was no trace of a joke, not even a cruel one. And as Gale’s mind filled with static, all he could manage was: 

“What?” 

“If I recall correctly,” Hallwood looked towards the ceiling, rifling through his memory for the details, “those two became involved not long after her enrollment in the IM program. And then she beat him savagely in front of 3 witnesses—or was it 4…? I can’t remember. It hardly matters.”

Hallwood tosses his long silver hair behind his shoulders and moves on as Gale’s mind struggles to find purchase.

“The pictures of his face afterwards were… impactful. Not to mention the full list of injuries. But the really interesting part was that Gortash refused to press charges. And he insisted she not be dismissed from the program despite that being the most obviously applicable course of action. He practically demanded that she only be put on leave for her ‘mental health and wellbeing’,” Hallwood made a sound of amused disbelief as he recalled this and shook his head softly.  

“They were screwing, that was well established, but it must’ve been pretty good for how he absolutely would not swing the ax.”

“How do you…” Gale couldn’t finish, choking on the rest of the words, but Hallwood anticipated the end.

“I was still on the CoM Disciplinary Review Committee back then,” he explained casually.

“Hers was definitely the most interesting case I saw… besides, perhaps, Lorroakan. The advisee abuse part was less captivating, everyone already knew about that, but he was found to be embezzling a much higher number than I would’ve guessed.” 

Gale’s synapses were somehow on fire and unresponsive, screaming at him and refusing to respond. 

He struggled with the clashing of priorities within him. He should’ve pushed back then, should’ve defended Tav. He should’ve kicked Hallwood out of his office. If nothing else, he should’ve steered the conversation towards a firm and immediate end, making it clear that this was all incredibly inappropriate and that he never wanted to talk about any of it ever again. 

But he didn’t. He didn’t do any of those things. Because he wanted to know. And because he believed everything Hallwood had said, was sure that there was a nondescript file somewhere detailing everything the man had just told him. 

“…You shouldn’t be telling me this. Any of this,” Gale said weakly instead, unable to look away from the new brown area rug in front of his desk. 

“But I have. And now you know, so you have to decide whether to act or not act on it…,” at Gale’s rising objection to this, Hallwood only waved his hand again, “If you are involved, yes yes.” 

Hallwood’s flippancy brought some of Gale’s rage and skepticism back to him, but not much. 

“And I’m just supposed to believe she’s some kind of danger to others when you slipped her your card just a few days ago.” 

It was an indignant, last ditch effort to rebuke any of what Hallwood was telling him—and it failed swiftly and miserably. 

“Well I happen to be a fan of unruly women—and especially unruly sorceresses. Taming them is quite fun. Besides,” Hallwood raised his eyebrows and gestured towards him, “I said she was a poor choice for a first student fling.”

“You’re disgusting,” and even if Gale had possessed the wherewithal to reconsider saying it, he wouldn’t have. He’d never wanted to turn someone into a pile of ash so badly.

“And now you’re informed,” Hallwood said boredly, standing up and straightening his crimson robes, “Do get off your high horse sometimes, Dekarios. You’re an academic, not a monk.” 

Before Hallwood opened his door to leave, Gale asked—because he needed it to matter. 

“Why?” he could not keep his voice from trembling, not entirely, “Why tell me this?” 

“Because people like you and I need to watch out for each other,” Hallwood responds matter of factly, turning back towards Gale.

“Regardless of what you may think, you have much more in common with me than you do with probably anyone else at this school. Big fish in a smaller pond, at least compared to Waterdeep. And we should use it to our advantage. Maybe… apply for a grant together, sometime?”

“Get out,” he wishes now he’d said something more forceful than these words at a low, haunted volume. 

“Ah right. You have your ‘meeting’,” Hallwood opened the door to his office, “I’ll take my leave. You know where to find me, should you get the quarterstaff out of your ass.” 

Gale canceled the meeting he had scheduled for an hour later. He went straight home and walked all the way upstairs and sat in his office while the afternoon sun still poured through the long, arching windows.

Because Hallwood had been right on one point: now that he knows, he has to decide whether to act or not act on it. 

He’s still certain that every part of the story the other wizard shared was true. Hallwood came to him because he had the truth of the matter, couldn’t resist flaunting it and using it like a bargaining chip to buy good faith for collaboration. 

Of course he also had the ulterior motive of wanting to get Gale out of the way so he could pursue Tav if he so chose. And who knows what else the man was angling for. Even with his talk of helping each other, Hallwood is still ultimately after his own interests. 

Still, this doesn’t mean as much as Gale wished it did.

Because it's true. It’s all true. Tav assaulted Gortash (“my… person”) and hurt him enough that he needed intensive medical attention. So Gale still had to think about what he was going to do, if anything, about what he now knows. 

But more knowledge also raises more questions. And so Gale decided, after an hour of sitting silently in his sunlit study, that it was time to look up Enver Gortash. 

-

Enver Gortash

Positions: Thorm Family Foundation Associate Professor of Interdisciplinary Magics (BGU; on research leave since 4 years ago); Senior Strategic Political Consultant (The City of Baldur’s Gate)

Gortash is still on leave, as he had been since the incident with Tav. It was noted as research leave on the faculty website and nothing he could find indicated any period of publicized disciplinary leave despite his relationship with Tav being “well-established,” according to Hallwood. While on leave, Gortash had successfully maintained his Associate Professor status through whatever arrangement was made with the University and College of Magic and he will still be fully eligible for tenure when he returns to BGU. Of course, he would likely receive it; Gortash had an endowed professorship funded by a donation from The Thorm Family Foundation, possibly the results of his close relationship with defense magnate and former governor of Reithwin, Ketheric Thorm. 

-

Areas of scholarly interest: Bane, Lord of Darkness; Magical engineering and constructs (credited with creation of Steel Watcher prototype currently under appraisal for production by The City of Baldur’s Gate, Department of Municipal Safety) 

Most of Gortash’s scholarship is on Bane the Accursed, one of the Dead Three: a trio of deities presiding over death and its darker companions, once-mortals catapulted into power by a tired, jaded Jergal. Bane, specifically, is a god of tyranny, worshiped by wannabe, would-be, and actual conquers and dictators. While one’s object of study was typically not a declaration of allegiance, something petty and suspicious in Gale suspected Gortash had more than just an academic fascination with The Dark One. 

Gortash also has a secondary interest in magical weapons and mechanics—tools and machines made with magical materials and designs involving the careful consideration of several balanced factors, including physics and gyronotics. He’d designed some kind of magical construct with the appearance of oversized living armor and the City’s Department of Municipal Safety was actually considering integrating them into standard surveillance practice. It was a horrifying possibility that Gale sincerely hoped would not come to fruition, but if he knew anything from a lifetime in Waterdeep, it was that there was always money, and always fervor, for gadgets and systems to protect the wealthy and their property. 

-

Associates: Orin Anchev (wife); Sarevok Anchev (father-in-law); Ketheric Thorm (business associate); Varied wealthy and powerful families around Baldur’s Gate and the Sword Coast; Tav (formerly) 

Orin Anchev holds an Executive Director position in BGU’s Office of Institutional Acquisitions and Giving. She’s striking: pale skin, pale hair, pale eyes. And, judging from a photo of her at a University Gala, smiling while holding a plaque for institutional service, she is also fairly successful at her job of flattering people with an abundance of money and free time.

Gortash and Orin were married almost 10 years ago, according to an archived wedding announcement in The Baldur’s Mouth Gazette, in a lavish ceremony; one of the announcement’s photos depicts them standing on the deck of a large yacht, looking at each other while their elite guests raise delicate flutes of champagne in their honor. 

Gale wonders for a moment what Gortash and Tav’s situation meant for the man’s marriage. From what he could tell of their public social media profiles, they were still together. A warm, but professionally appropriate post from a few months ago had been dedicated to Orin for their wedding anniversary. But this could tell him little about the state of their relationship (past or present) besides the fact that Orin was vital to Gortash’s public image. 

Orin’s father, Sarevok Anchev, is a Professor of Interdisciplinary Magics and one of the IM department’s most senior faculty. There wasn’t much about him on the internet besides his scholarship on Bhaal, the Lord of Murder, but Gale found footage of him speaking at a Faerûnian Deity Studies Association conference a few years ago. He’s an imposing figure, tall and broad with glowing yellow eyes and one of the deepest voices Gale’s ever heard from a human. 

Most of what else he could find suggested Gortash’s honed abilities for gathering useful allies. He speaks frequently at academic and industrial gatherings, is photographed often with some of Baldur’s Gate’s most influential figures—politicians, elected and unelected decision-makers, noble patriarchs, heads of financial and cultural institutions. He’s well-connected and well-resourced, but for what? Is it for anything beyond the typical academic chase for notoriety? 

And then there was Tav. Gale made a compound search for Tav and Gortash’s names and couldn’t help but smile, however briefly, at one of the results. It was from an outdated BGU webpage with an image of her with the rest of her doctoral cohort. It looked like some kind of departmental workshop event. She’s probably 22 years old in it, wearing smaller glasses and a sleeveless button-up with a name tag stuck to the front. She’d drawn a simple smiling face beside her name. 

The image hurt his chest. And that is when Gale sat back in his chair, away from his laptop, and decided to stop looking. 

-

Gale sets the manila folder he’d been filling on the side of his desk and closes his laptop, letting the darkness of the night swallow him as he rubs his eyes. 

Despite Hallwood’s intention, he assumes, to make him fearful of Tav, Gale does not feel this way. 

He does not fear Tav. How could he ever fear her? He does not think her incapable of violence—he does not think anyone incapable of it—but even if she were prone to it, it would not be enough for him to fear for his own safety. He knows, just like he knows Hallwood is telling the truth, that she would never hurt him.

What he truly fears is what may come out of being with Tav. And, more specifically, he fears what she may feel driven to do. 

He does not know exactly why Tav hurt Gortash as she did. Apparently, that had not been the Disciplinary Review Committee’s focus, or else Hallwood would have probably mentioned it. But he does not think she needs a grand rationale. Gortash has done enough, left marks on Tav and her life that continue to outlive whatever damage she may have once caused him.

And even if the exchange of hurt was somehow even, as if it could ever be, Gale does not care. Perhaps it's a sign of his rapidly decaying moral fortitude, but he does not care in the slightest about Gortash’s pain—past, current, or future. Gale does not care if the man has scars, if there is some part of him that strains to breathe with every expansion of his lungs. Gale does not care if he has flashbacks to the moment when Tav descended on him in front of 3 (or 4) witnesses.

And he recognizes this for what it is: a living remnant of the most devoted version of himself, the one who loves and worships beyond wrongdoing and shame and callousness and raw hurt. And while he is terrified that Tav has conjured any sliver of that desperate being back into existence, his allegiance is already signed in blood from his quivering heart. 

Gale does not fear Tav. But he does fear that she may become consumed once again by a drive to hurt that is only borne from darkness. From secrecy—from bearing something silently and intensely and away from the light. Because, he believes strongly, if nothing else, that is what drove her to hurt Gortash. 

(He’d never hurt Mystra in such a manner, but he had certainly inflicted that same dark pain on himself. In real ways—visceral ways, always blamed on clumsiness or experimentation when questioned. Darkness always makes itself known.)

And he and Tav can only be what they are, what they have always been: two people, drawn to each other, in the dark. Their flimsy attempts to stand in the light together cannot change that. 

So what is he pushing her towards by staying? And what can he save her from by leaving? 

These questions have the unexpected effect of settling him. When he puts it that way, the course of action is clear. Simple. 

Gale gets up from his chair and leaves his office. He turns the light on in the hallway, makes his way to the second floor, and walks into his bedroom. 

There, on the nightstand, is the notepad he keeps close for sudden ideas or reminders-to-self. He opens it to the last used page and reads over the note Tav left him on Saturday morning. 

Gale,

Thank you for last night; it was so much more than I could’ve ever hoped for. You’re amazing. And I’m happy I met you. (Thank you for being bad at Parchment.)

Also, you were right—you do talk in your sleep. Nothing too embarrassing, just a few monologues about how wonderful and irresistible I am.

I miss you already. Hope you slept well. Let me know if you’d like to hang this weekend. 

Love,

Tav 

He tears out the note with all the care in the world, folds the flimsy yellow paper, and then places it gingerly in the drawer of his nightstand, right beside a folded, bright blue flier for a campus bake sale and a bundle of silky fabric. 

He knows, just like he knows that Tav would never hurt him, that this may be all he gets. The notes, the texts, the shirt she left behind: these may be all he has left of Tav—his Tav—after he rips them apart.

So he’ll keep it all close.

Chapter Text

She woke up that morning the way she usually did on Tuesdays. Her first alarm had gone off at 7:30 and she let herself sleep until the second, already set for 30 minutes later. At 8, she opened up her eyes and immediately picked up her phone. And as she delayed showering for her 10am lecture, she checked her email. 

But on that morning in particular, there was something wholly unprecedented near the top of her inbox. 

An email. From Gale.

Gale Dekarios 

FWD: IMER Call for Grants | The Next Era of Magical…

They’d agreed to not send each other emails using their BGU addresses. It was, in fact, one of the very first things they discussed all those weeks ago. The fewer associations they had on any university systems, the better. 

But he’d done it. Now, if she searched Gale Dekarios in her BGU inbox, the wonderful poetry would come up readily. 

Another previously Gale-less domain, breached. But while a small part of her rejoiced in the appearance of their names in proximity (sender, recipient), most of what she’d felt that morning was fear. 

She couldn’t put words to it, why the email made her heart race. But it raced regardless. Her stomach churned. And she was bracing for impact: in the shower, as she got dressed, as she made it to campus in an outfit she didn’t quite like, and as she began to teach.

But then he texted her during her lecture, which she had been stumbling through, to ask if she would be interested in accompanying him today to Ophal of all places. And in her excitement to see him, for the first time since slipping out of his sleeping arms days ago, she neglected to start putting the pieces together. 

The rest of her lecture was so much easier. When she looked in the bathroom mirror afterwards, she wondered why she’d been hating what she was wearing. She managed to make progress on a part of her fourth chapter that had been bugging her for a week. When she got home, Astarion was already there in the throes of his seasonal cleaning frenzy and everything smelled like roses. She got ready for dinner quickly and, forgetting she’d been avoiding her email, checked her inbox. 

And there it still was.

Pathetic. 

Her brain hasn’t put it together quite yet, but words are coming.

And she’s afraid again. 

“So what did you think?”

Gale asks her this after politely refusing the wine list proffered by their (lightly smirking) waiter. Maybe he remembers them. Gale surely isn’t the first person to overdo it on the clarry in this restaurant, but there is something memorable about him regardless, she knows. 

He hadn’t kissed her when she arrived like she wanted him too, like she was hoping he would. And she knows it was the right move; they are in public. The sun has yet to set.

But still. She dragged him out of here and kissed him on the sidewalk without any backlash so far, hadn’t she?  

“Miles away again?” 

“Hm? I’m sorry,” Tav shakes her head and focuses on him again, “I guess I was… What were you asking?”

Gale smiles at her, a bit more muted than she’s used to. 

What is bothering you? 

What is happening right now? 

“I was asking for your thoughts,” he takes a sip of his water, “on the call I forwarded.”

She has many thoughts, mostly questions. But none regarding the contents of the email, in particular. She hadn’t opened it. Even now it sat near the top of her inbox, bolded as an unread message. 

“I… didn’t get a chance to look at it,” she tries to explain in a way that doesn’t hurtle them towards their destination—wherever it may be. 

“You know how my Tuesdays can be.”

He does know, the logic slides to the front of her mind. He knows just how busy your Tuesdays are. So little time for reading your emails or texting or thinking too hard about last minute dinner invitations.  

“Of course,” he nods his head, understandingly, “Not to worry. It was a rapid call for grants from IMER…”

Gale proceeds to explain that the Institutes of Magical Education and Research recently published a funding opportunity specifically for researchers using alternative or underutilized magical research methods. At the most recent IMER annual conference and meeting, the Funding and Steering committees discussed grants for “research and researchers breaking disciplinary, methodological, and/or conceptual norms” alongside their other potential “future-oriented” institutional priorities. 

Now, they’re trialing further investments with a time-sensitive funding call; the window to apply is shorter than typical, but the level of the award is relatively high, intended to cover salaries and fancy equipment and travel and publication fees and project staff hiring. 

“They really seem to be milking the whole ‘For the Good of the Next Era of Magical Research’ thing, at least branding-wise…,” Gale trails off and then laughs without humor, “And it only took a measly century of meetings.” 

The Institutes of Magical Education and Research are an international, interplanar organization that funds most of the active magical research happening… well, in existence. But their preeminence should never be mistaken for accessibility. It is notoriously difficult to get IMER funding; only about 10% of applications every year are recommended for funding and about half of those are actually funded. For those who would rather not apply cycle after cycle for the slim chance of getting IMER funding, the other options are to appeal to smaller, less influential organizations with much more stringent guidelines for what/how much they fund… or to network among wealthy potential-bankrollers yourself. 

Enver had always preferred more personal arrangements. But many BGU faculty were successful in procuring IMER grants at various levels of prestige. Halsin once received a highly coveted Career Development Award, decades ago when he was more institutionally motivated (his words). Jaheira has also been funded a handful of times, for 2- and 3-year research projects. 

IMER is also the most visible arbiter of what is acceptable (and, therefore, unacceptable) magical research practice. IMER doesn’t really fund the kind of work she does and that makes it more difficult to do her work. And when you multiply that by enough researchers, enough training academics, the result is the suppression of certain areas of magical scholarship over others. 

For most of Gale’s career, he hasn’t had to worry about that. He was trained to use highly technical and specialized practices to produce highly valued research on magical artifacts that few people can replicate because most simply can’t. They don’t have the skills—magical or otherwise—or the resource-intensive training opportunities to develop them.

But things are different now, clearly. Gale is different. He wants different things.

“So… Do you think you’ll apply?” Tav carefully lifts a piece of sauced flatbread to her mouth, managing to bite without spilling. 

The more prestigious the institution, the more awardees and the bigger the awards. BGU does much better than most universities, but U of Waterdeep has held the record for highest institutional proportion of IMER awardees and total award monies for about forty years. And from their Department of Wizardry, Mystra Savras and Elminster Aumar hold two of the most highly awarded grant records in IMER history. They had more than paved the way for Gale to inherit that envious legacy with relative ease—for better or worse. 

“I may apply,” he answers, “But I still feel like a relative beginner at alternative methods…”

His plate is still empty, holding no amounts of the dishes they’d ordered to split. And she can’t see his hands. 

Tav chews carefully and wipes her fingers on her napkin, “You published two papers on your oral histories project. In very high-ranking journals. I don’t think any funding committee would classify you as a beginner.”

“Most applicants at the level of this particular award will have at least 4 or 5 relevant publications. And with most of my publication and project history being more mainstream… I think I would need a… collaborator,” Gale says, too slowly for her comfort. 

Tav swallows and does not take another bite. Maybe if she’s very still, the conversation will not go to where her brain has finally named (and where her body knew that morning).

“Seems well reasoned…” she tries to keep her voice steady. 

And maybe it’s not what she thinks it is. Maybe she’s wrong. 

He wouldn’t do it. 

No. He wouldn’t let her down like that. She knows him, knows enough to love him. Enough to know he would not do what her everything is screaming—

“Tav,” Gale says with a sigh, “I would like to apply with you.” 

Oh.  

He’s trying to look her in the eyes as he speaks, but she refuses him. 

“I understand that it would not be ideal given our… circumstances. But I think this could be a very good thing—for both of us.”

And there it is, as explicit as it could be for what and where they are. 

He’s blowing them up.

“You’re right… It’s not ideal,” she begins, staring at the whole fried fish on the platter in front of her, at the condensation on her glass—anything that isn’t him. 

…How did she manage to do this again? How did she fail, so fundamentally, again? How? How did she manage to evade internalizing the very simple lessons that Enver taught her? 

Tav thinks back to that moment on the bench, the night of Aumar’s seminar. She thinks about the things she told herself when she was beating herself up about it all—about trying to see Gale, about wanting him so badly that she’d sought him out at a university event. She remembers trying to give herself grace, cut herself some slack. That reverse-logic she’d employed to wrangle the kicking shame, so incandescent and consuming over feelings so far out of her control. 

It is okay, she’d told herself. It is okay to like, to crush. It is okay to want.

Somehow, she’d forgotten that it is not, in fact, okay. And it is not okay because she only knows how to want what she shouldn’t. 

And it’s not like she can give herself grace now, can she? Not after all she’s done with him. Not after all she’s done again. 

She’s earned this. Every last bit.  

Gale is still looking straight at her from across the table when she chances a brief glance. She’s sure she’s a pitiful picture—staring into random space, hands twitching on the cloth-covered table. 

“Just to clarify,” she asks quietly, “you are asking me for… this, while understanding that it would be the end. Is that right?”

The end of it. The end of them. 

“I am asking this,” Gale answers slowly, “with the knowledge that it doesn’t have to be a permanent end… but that it may end up that way regardless.”

“Explain.” She doesn’t understand. How could this be anything but the closest they can get to a breakup?

“IMER has very strict guidelines about associations between co-PIs. I know firsthand. Mystra…,” he purses his lips briefly on her name before continuing, “was able to get certain permissions to have me on her grants. But I can’t replicate that...”

“We would need to… step away from each other during the preparation process and also during the actual grant period. But we’d be free afterwards to do whatever makes sense for us… There is also always a chance that it doesn’t get awarded. And in that case, we could continue where we left off. If that would be amenable to you, of course.” 

Of course. That’s how: she just has to let him pick her up and put her down at will. 

“... But I also understand that your desire to continue things at all may be ruined by my request.”

He’s wrong. Her desire, in fact, is begging her to commit to this, to an indefinite amount of being flicked on and off. Say it's okay, it urges her, tell him you can wait before you lose him completely. 

But she can’t. And it’s not her logic that kicks in, but her memory. 

She’d chosen to be flexible before. Enver hadn’t stayed. 

“So… the miniscule chance of funding is worth it. It’s worth ruining it all.” This vocal speck of resistance emerges from somewhere else, a simmering pot of anger on a back burner. 

It’s embarrassing. Why can’t she just let it happen? Why can’t she just let things be simple? 

“You know as well as I do that my prior awards with IMER increases our chances significantly,” Gale retorts quickly, frustration emerging from beneath his flustered face. 

“And I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think it would be worth it for us. For you, Tav.” 

“Spare me that bit.” Isn’t it enough that she isn’t enough? Does he really need to convince her it’s in her best interests too? 

“No,” his eyebrows furrow seriously and he leans towards her despite the table between them. 

“No I will not. That call… it was written for you. You and the work you’re already doing. If you were to get funded by IMER at this level? Before graduating no less? No one could question you or your methods by the conventional metrics ever again. No one. You could have whatever job you wanted after defending.”

“I do not give a single fuck about that, Gale,” she leans forward too. Her voice is a too-late, pleading whisper. Please stop this. Please.

“Not in the slightest.”

“You should, Tav,” his eyes narrow slightly, practically chastising, “Because what else are you doing this for? Fun? Masochism? What else is the point if not a bit of stability at the end of the hellish tunnel?”

She’s doing it because it's the only thing she knows how to do. And once it's over, it'll be over and she’ll have no choice but to figure out what else she can do that justifies even half of the ways she’s destroyed herself for three stupid letters after her name. 

And while she hasn’t come to peace with all that yet, maybe she will by the time she defends. It’s the best she can hope for. But Gale could never understand that, could he? With his guaranteed job and his all-but-guaranteed grants and his guaranteed path to tenure.

She swallows and takes a breath. She’s not being fair. As if he hadn’t sacrificed so much more for those empty consolation prizes. As if he hadn’t given Mystra more than enough for it all. 

“Look at me, Tav.”

Against her better judgment, she does. 

Gale has the fiercest look on his face she’s ever seen. 

“And…,” he begins in a low voice once he has her attention, “Gortash would officially become the least interesting thing about you.” 

“No one would care anymore. And even if they did, they would not dare to bring him up to you in any context ever again.”

She’s silent and still for a long time. For most of it, she’s just disturbed at the fact that Gale has said Enver’s name, has mentioned him so emphatically when they hadn’t even spoken about him or any of it in any real depth. 

It becomes clear to her that Gale has been thinking about this. He’s been thinking about how to make this case to her, for who knows how long. Probably all weekend. Probably even before she fell into his bed on Friday. 

Maybe Coralis and Hallwood gave him exactly what he’d been looking for. 

At some point, their waiter eventually comes back to check on them, noticing that they’ve hardly eaten, and Gale assures him that no no, everything is lovely, thank you.

After they are alone again, she pokes her wound. 

“Why are you asking me this?” 

He seems taken off guard by it.

“I’ve already said,” he answers with furrowed eyebrows, “I don’t think I would be a convincing applicant on my own.”

“There’s nothing beyond that?” Her voice is a quivering, frail thing despite how hard she tries.

Please tell me why you don’t like me anymore.  

Pathetic. 

“Besides the fact that I haven’t touched my research in almost two years because almost all of it is entangled with… Waterdeep?” With Mystra. “Besides me wanting to move on? No. No, there isn’t.”

She’s frustrating and hurting him by questioning his motivations. And she’s angry at herself for doing it. But while she knows that this rationale is true, it is not whole. It is not everything. Pain is like cold water. And now that she’s hurting, she’s awake. 

She knows there is something else. He will not tell her what it is, but she knows it is there. 

Gale wants a way out. And this is the way he’s chosen. The reason is unknown to her, but the fact that there is a reason is enough. 

She’s in love with him. She’s a fool and she’s pathetic and she’s in love with him. And it’s not returned. She’s in love, alone. 

Whatever she thought they were building towards is just not enough.

…So why fight him on it? 

He doesn’t want her as much as he wants a grant. He doesn’t want her as much as he wants to finally extract himself from Mystra.

And even if it's not the entire story, how can she fault him for it? For any of it? How could she begrudge him the terminal separation she herself needed after everything imploded? 

And really. How can she be angry with him for distancing himself from a ticking time bomb? There are better people out there to love… 

Not that he loves her. 

“And it has to be me.” It’s a statement, not a question, for a reason. 

“You’re one of the most thoughtful people I’ve ever met. You may undervalue your expertise, but I don’t,” his eyes shine with what she would’ve called sincerity and admiration not even an hour ago. 

But how can she know now? And even if it is sincere, who cares? What does a genuine compliment about her usefulness do for the raw, bleeding hole under her shirt? 

Nothing. 

“There’s no one else I would want to do this with, really. It’s ironic and incredibly inconvenient,” he shakes his head to himself, “Our… time together has assured me of your brilliance in no shortage of ways. I know so much better than I would otherwise that anything we did together would be amazing.”

I already thought we were amazing. 

She lets her eyes roam around Ophal. The red walls and the gold accents and the beads that come down from the ceiling. The dark wood and the well-loved furniture and the spicy smell wafting in from the kitchen.

She’ll never come back here again. 

“Tav…” Gale starts and then lets the coming sentence drop, unspoken. 

They sit in silence once again. The noise level of the restaurant slowly rises around them as patrons are seated for dinner at a more typical hour. 

“Okay.” 

He looks surprised. 

“Really? You’ll really apply with me?” The notion that he didn’t think her agreement was probable, but that he asked anyway, is painful. 

Deeply fucking painful.

“Yeah. If this is something you want, I’ll help.” 

His expression softens. There is so much beauty and fondness in the gentle slope of his eyebrows, the glittering of his starry brown eyes. She savors it, says a silent goodbye to the expression. After this, he will not have a reason to look at her like that again. 

“Thank you.” It’s genuine, but of course it is. 

“Tav,” Gale starts, “about… us—“

“We don’t need to talk about it. Seriously. I’m sure it was hard enough to ask.” 

She can’t bear whatever he wants to tell her. If it meant nothing to him. If it meant something to him. If he’ll miss her. If he won’t miss her. If he’ll be counting the days until it's over. If he’s planning on seeing other people—it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want to hear any of it. She doesn’t want any more hurt, however deserved. She can’t hold any more. 

She stands up. Gale’s gaze follows, seeming as if he’s trying to frantically piece together another sentence. She looks away, rifling through her purse with too much focus, triple-, quadruple-checking for items she knows she isn’t forgetting. 

“I’m gonna go,” she throws some cash on the table without any clue of how much and speaks over his attempt to reject it.

“If you have any specific ideas about what you’d like to propose, email them to me and I’ll do some thinking on the methods piece. We can set up regular meetings once we have a project summary to expand on.”

And then she leaves. She does not run. She walks. It takes so much effort that she can’t register what Gale says on her way out and then she’s too far away to reasonably walk back to the table to ask him to repeat himself.

But how could it matter anyway? A few extra words? They don’t matter. Nothing does. Not the weeks they’d spent together. Not the love that threatened to choke her still. Not a thing. 

A few days pass. Gale eventually sends her a long email with a summary of his ideas. She teaches her classes and gathers readings that can be helpful for Gale to review. They write in a shared document on the BGU Drive system. She stops by his office once to confirm that he will be sending his edits on the project summary later that day and stays in the doorway as he answers. 

She does not compliment him on the cozy additions he’s made to his office. She does not send him texts before she goes to sleep or when she wakes up. She does not call him to hear the details of his day. She avoids the Tabernacle and the CoM cafe and the rooms he teaches in and the Wizardry department floors almost entirely. 

She cannot call it a breakup. They never talked about what they were. And if it had to be categorized, it only met the metrics for a fling—even as it was intensified by Gale’s propensity for making her feel like the only person in the world. Even as their secrecy made it seem like so much more.

Just a fling. Just some way for him to fill the time in an unfamiliar place. Just a request for friendship she’d taken too far. 

Just a fling. She repeats it to herself like a mantra—when she wakes up, when she tries to sleep, when she’s eating or working or reading and she begins to cry unexpectedly. When she’s in the shower. When she smells lavender. When she walks into libraries and wants to just give up, leave whatever she was looking for behind. When she’s just trying to live and can’t help but see him everywhere she fucking looks. 

Just a fling. She says it again. 

It doesn’t help.

Chapter Text

Most magical academics at smaller colleges or universities can only dream of snagging an IMER grant. This is in no small part due to the intensive nature of preparing an IMER grant application for submission. 

There are legally binding documents, pages and pages of forms, and special formatting guidelines for every small piece that makes up a larger application. Institutions like BGU and Waterdeep have entire offices with specialist staff solely dedicated to helping Principal Investigators (PIs) complete such grants. This is because many awards, especially from IMER, allow for allocation of funds that go directly towards the “maintenance” of universities. The idea is that researchers use university facilities to do grant-related activities, and applications are partially evaluated on the availability of suitable work space, so universities getting a cut of that money for used facilities is only fair. But the reality is that universities with the money to invest in an entire grants office always end up gaining much, much more than they are tasked with providing. 

Gale presently sits in BGU’s Institutional Grants Office. He’s waiting for their staff person to show up so they can open a grant file. It’s the first real step towards completing an IMER grant application; while they work on the application sections about the theories and techniques for their proposed project, their assigned IGO staff person will complete and pair the appropriate institutional forms with their files and keep them on track to meet various deadlines. 

BGU’s IGO looks much like U of Waterdeep’s: quiet, private offices surrounding a central work zone where lower-ranked employees print things and update completion guides and keep track of new funding mechanisms and take phone calls. It’s all very familiar—except there isn’t anyone awkwardly scrambling to bring him and his co-PI coffee. 

And, of course, his co-PI is completely different now. 

Tav sits beside him, fidgeting in the twin to his overstuffed guest chair. 

She’s uncomfortable and it goes beyond just the seat. She’d arrived at the waiting area outside of the IGO before him and as he came to stand beside her, he could not miss her stiff, pained posture or the strained smile she greeted him with.

It was not unlike how she’d been the past couple of weeks as they worked to prepare a full draft of their application. 

She sees him watching now and gives him a small pull of her lips that is supposed to be a smile before looking back at the unoccupied desk in front of them. 

Tav has only proven to be an outstanding collaborator in all the ways typically classifies such a thing. She’s pushed him to develop a deeper understanding of the theoretical frameworks they’re drawing on, exposed him to new reading and new language for what they’re proposing to do in their interviewing project. And he’s taught her things too—about Netheril and grant writing and the obscure pageantry of citational practices.

As he predicted, they work well together. They have different skillsets that work around each other seamlessly. He has experience and more technical know-how. And Tav is all analysis and synthesis; she cuts across things to find the heart of it all. Last week, she poured over his past grant applications and created a kind of schematic for herself, an outline of the kinds of arguments and boilerplate statements that go in certain places. She mapped out the opaque grammar of fundable research to a degree he’d never seen. And it inspired a visceral urge to kiss her head over and over, to cherish the beautiful crown to a sharp mind.

But that is no longer their reality. 

The way she seemed to evaporate at Ophal as he ended them… it haunts him still. He continues to relive that tense conversation behind the cordon of a cordial distance, in the thick silences that keep them to their respective places in his office. 

She hasn’t complained. She hasn’t exploded. She hasn’t called him late at night with a rapid fire series of questions about how and why he’d ended their relationship. She hasn’t even made a half-snarky, sarcastic comment in passing.  

She’s sad. And even as she impresses the hells out of him, it's only becoming more and more obvious that she didn’t want this, that she wanted to stay together and continue to fumble around in the dark until something larger came to pass.

He’s beginning to wish she would be angry with him instead, that she would fight him on it even just once. If only so he could be forced to truly defend his reasons for doing this. 

Writing a grant together is a flawed, possibly-only-temporary solution to their problem. They are not separated, and, in fact, are about to become linked in another university system. But Gale thought for hours on whether he could end things without an external reason and he concluded that he couldn’t. Ending things without a reasonable explanation basically eliminated any future where Tav would want to acknowledge him, let alone be with him after she graduates. 

And at least, while they’re not together, he can still do something for her—share his practically obscene grant award record with her and possibly help her start to erase Gortash from her story. Even though he ended things (for now), he can still use this time to prove to her why a future with them, standing in the sun, is worth the wait. 

He also gets to keep seeing her this way. Of course, there are now boundaries around their interactions that weren’t there before. As just a professor and student in different departments, they had to make up the lines as they went, frequently leading to them doing reckless, gray-area things. As (prospective) co-PIs, there is now form to their relationship; they meet to work together and when they are done working together at the end of each meeting, they go their separate ways. They don’t see each other at night. He does not try to devour her in his office. 

And if anyone sees them together, they have a real reason. Ramazith already popped up during one of their meetings earlier that week; upon hearing their plans, the older wizard wished them the best of luck and made his former grant application drafts available to them (“not that you need them, Dekarios!”).

Things are simpler. Collegial. Easy to explain. 

She is safer—from others and from him and from the burden of secrecy. That’s why he did all of this. But he hopes that sometime soon, she’ll be happier too. He really does.

“Dr. Dekarios!” 

The door behind them opens and closes quickly and a rushed woman walks around them hurriedly to stand behind the large wooden desk. 

“My sincerest apologies! Tolna Tome-Monger,” she stretches over the top of the desk to extend her hand and Gale stands to shake it, “I am a Vice Director here at the Institutional Grants Office and will be managing your grant file.”

“Gale is just fine, Vice Director Tome-Monger,” he turns to introduce Tav, who he catches at the end of an eyeroll. 

He can’t help but enjoy her annoyance. All Gale’s seen from her lately is professional politeness or sadness and he really hates both on her. 

“This is my collaborator, Tav Ancunín,” Tav nods politely, but does not stand or speak.

“Of course!,” the Vice Director says, slightly jolting, as if she hadn’t fully registered there was someone else in the room. Because she probably hadn’t. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ancunín.”

“I’d prefer Tav.”

“Well in that case, Tolna works for me. Now let’s discuss your application, shall we?” 

Tolna takes them through a process that’s familiar to him: she confirms the funding opportunity they’re applying for, documents their BGU record numbers from their university IDs, and has them fill out paperwork requesting demographic and contact information. 

Then she asks them for details on the project they're proposing specifically. She takes notes on relevant facilities, equipment, and ethics board paperwork that needs to be filed. As Tolna enters some of their information into her computer, Tav asks: 

“Is it typical for a Vice Director to oversee individual applications like this?”

He’s been wondering this as well. But he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer. 

“Hardly!” Tolna says with a laugh and a toss of her manicured hand, “No, once your name showed up, Dr.—Gale, on the requested meetings queue, our Senior Director insisted that a more experienced IGO officer handle your materials. You have quite the past funding record and we all want to ensure that your transition to grantseeking while at BGU is as smooth as possible.”

Tolna looks at him directly as she explains, despite Tav having been the one to ask the question. He wishes his periphery vision were more extensive, so he could see her reaction to it. But he only hears Tav’s light of course float by without any inflection or follow up. 

And while he knows that he hasn’t actually requested this kind of special treatment, while he understands that the university is simply making an investment in the interest of a future return, he’s embarrassed. 

And it’s as simple as that. 

“Now before we wrap things up for today, Tav,” Tolna turns to her, “As Gale’s co-applicant, you will be jumping head first into a competition pool that far exceeds your current experience. This level of IMER grant is really intended for mid- to late-career scholars, people with existing funding records somewhere, even if not with IMER.”

“Okay…” Tav sits up slowly in her seat, “So what can I do to not sink our chances?”

“You could not compromise our application, Tav,” he says forcefully, “If they would hold your student status against you, that is an error of judgment on their part. You are far more qualified than most of the people I can imagine applying, myself included.”

And maybe he’s laying it on a bit thick in the worst place possible, right in front of their grant officer, but he needs her to know. There is nothing wrong with her.  

But she doesn’t respond or look at him, not before Tolna speaks again. 

“Well, the way this typically works,” Tolna cuts in awkwardly, “is that over the course of completing your application package, we will need to anticipate the kinds of criticism that a grant review committee may try to use to undercut your application. While it’s not against any rules for you to apply before being granted your doctorate, a committee will likely have questions about your ability to graduate in a timely fashion with an active grant during your final dissertation year.”

“I… I don’t think there’s any way I could finish before the award period starts. I could try, but I don’t think I could pull it off,” Tav says this in a voice wavering between embarrassment and resignation.

But Gale isn’t sure how anyone could finish on that timeline. If they got funded, they would be working together starting early in the fall semester. She would somehow need to complete her dissertation by the end of the coming summer.

“You don’t need to do that,” Tolna bats Tav’s suggestion away, “And even if you did, the review committees will be critiquing your application during the summer. So you still wouldn’t be finished when they deliberate regardless. No, what you should do is…” 

Tolna tilts her head to one side and then the other. A course of action emerges.

“Bring in your advisors! Even just one person on your dissertation committee who can serve as a kind of supervisory project staff person. If there’s overlap between people on your project team and your committee, even just on paper, it will give the impression that you are being shepherded to timely completion of your degree regardless of your incredible ambitions.”

Tolna sits back in her chair, seeming pleased with herself. Gale glances at Tav and finds she is completely unreadable. 

“Will that be possible, do you think?” Tolna sits forward after a few beats of Tav’s silence.

“...You really think it’s necessary?” Tav asks quietly, rubbing a hand over the back of her neck. 

“It’s the only means I can think of to circumvent criticisms about your current status,” Tolna grimaces as she continues, “Honestly, this might’ve even been easier to justify if you were in the pre-dissertation phase. I’ve seen a real uptick in negative reviewer feedback about grant activities being distracting for trainees at vital program times, like the dissertation period.”

Tav sighs and nods, but does not respond otherwise. 

“I’ll leave you to work on that then. As for our next steps…

Tolna walks them through the upcoming internal and external deadlines they need to watch out for. While the funding call is technically open until July, BGU’s grants office has an internal deadline in June—meaning they need to finish their full grant by the end of the semester.

After they schedule meetings with Tolna for the remainer of the semester, Tav follows him out of the IGO. 

And just like that, they are now linked in the BGU grants database under a shared, pending grant application file. 

Gale pauses for a moment, intending to ask her about something he forgets immediately; he watches Tav roll her shoulders awkwardly and feels like his face is being forced to burrow into memories of their night in his bedroom. He walks ahead of her, hoping to hide his burning face, and leads them back to his office as they previously planned. 

He unlocks his office and she leaves the door open behind her, taking a careful seat on his couch with a quiet, sagging sigh. Then she takes out her laptop. 

“Would you be available for dinner towards the end of Spring Recess?” 

Her question makes him freeze. Dinner? It was normal to have dinner with colleagues, but—

“My advisors and I already planned to have dinner then. I figure you could meet them then and we can all talk about what Tolna mentioned.”

Oh. Gale chastises himself for the leaps and bounds he’d been about to make. Illogical, presumptuous heart. 

“That sounds perfect,” he breathes out, “I will be in Waterdeep visiting my mother during the break, but as long as it's after I return, that would be splendid.” 

She nods, not quite looking at him but smiling politely regardless. 

As she goes back to her laptop, surely to work on something of consequence, Gale stares at his email and thinks of his most recent therapy session with Isobel. 

He explained it all—Hallwood, Gortash, and Tav. He tried his best to explain as well as he could why he chose to officially make Tav his colleague, instead of his lover. He’d been looking for pushback or reassurance: pushback, which he’d gotten so little of from Tav, so that he could be forced to defend his choice further; or reassurance, so that he could feel justified in what he’d done. 

But Isobel provided neither. Instead, she asked him if there was anything he missed now that he’d ended their intimate relationship. And the question had practically bowled him over out of his seat. 

Because there is so much that he misses. 

Breaking up with Mystra was different. She smashed him onto their kitchen floor that day, broke him into a million pieces, pulled no punches. She said he was distracted and needy and lacking ambition and that she didn’t want to keep dragging him around. She didn’t find him attractive anymore. His presence irritated her. She told him, in no uncertain terms, that she expected him to go. To find somewhere else to be. 

There was nothing to salvage. Nothing to question. All he could do was pack a suitcase with some of his things, sit in his car, type an email to his department chair to request an immediate leave of absence, and drive slowly to his mother’s house in a fog. He almost got into an accident, but made it in one piece to the home he’d grown up in—his last home before moving in with Mystra. 

In the wake of it, Gale had nothing but the plan Mystra had dictated. He would leave U of Waterdeep. He would leave the colleagues (her colleagues) that comprised his entire social network outside of his (former) relationship. He would come back (to her) home while she was at work and he would remove every evidence of his presence that had accumulated in the last 12 years. And he would completely cease to be her problem. 

And he did. He did those things promptly and thoroughly and then he proceeded to regret his inability to be enough—for her and everything else—from the privacy of his childhood bedroom. And he did that for a year, until his former therapist and Tara convinced him that he was capable and fully deserving of moving on. 

But he would not describe any of what he did during that time as simply missing Mystra or their relationship. It’s not accurate. He never quite wished to have any of it back or to kiss her again or to relive any of those memories. He was not enough so he knew it would never be again, so he did not feel compelled to yearn for the return of those times. 

But now? With Tav? 

All he does is yearn. 

He wakes up and he misses her. He takes a shower and he misses her. He makes breakfast and he misses her. He goes to work and he misses her, even when he sees her, even when they spend several hours together in the same room, working on and talking about the same thing. 

He misses her laugh. He misses her sitting unceremoniously on his office couch, kicking her shoes off and throwing her phone at him to charge. He misses her snorting after finding a typo in a book or an article. He misses the smell of the cream she uses to moisturize her hair, the way the scent would calm him down when she got very close. He misses her messages in the morning, the wishes of pleasant dreams, the way his nights were a boat on calm waters with her blessing.

He misses putting his hands on her waist, relishing in the way he knows just what she looks like under her loose, comfortable clothes. He misses the small humming sound of contentment she made when she cozied into his side or when he stroked her hair or when his warm hands touched some cool part of her skin. He misses the warm sweetness of her mouth, her ready moan with the slide of his tongue. He misses, so so much, the feeling of her laying fully against him, the weight of her soft body pressing into his and the embodied admission that she wants to be held by him. 

But, most of all, he misses knowing that she is always trying, as much as she can, to let him know her just a little bit better. All the shorter, terser confessions about her feelings. All the stories that began as short ones and then got much longer when she indulged his curiosity. She couldn’t always manage it—trying to be an open book—but he knows she always tried to be a little more readable, to let him in. 

He wants it all back. Now. Constantly. He misses her. And the more he reckons with this, the more he wants to forget his plan for them and set everything on fire. 

“Gale?” 

Tav is standing now with her backpack slung over her shoulder, watching him worriedly.

“Yes, Tav?”

“I’m going to head out now,” she smiles apologetically—collegially, “I’d stay, but I really have a ton of grading to catch up on. Are we still good to work tomorrow?” 

“Ah, yes,” he swallows and nods, “Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

She turns, only a few steps away from the other side of the doorway, when he stands suddenly and calls out to her. 

“Tav.” 

She watches him expectantly, unreadable. 

He has so much to say. So many things that coalesce and degrade and repeat the process when he tries to put words to them. But it all becomes the same thing anyway.

I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss—

“Have a nice evening.” 

But he doesn’t say any of it. And when she leaves, he misses her once more. 

Chapter Text

The Fevras Exhibition Center is a University-affiliated art museum just a few blocks away from BGU’s main campus. Funded by a major donation from Lady Firellia Jannath in honor of her late husband, the FEC hosts a rotation of multimedia art installations from well-established creatives all over Faerûn, as well as from rising artists in the University’s various creative programs. 

Tav reads the plaque under the painting of Fevras, bathed in golden light, that decorates the Center’s foyer.

For Oscar: who could render the night sky more artfully than our heavenly masters.

Like most things these days, the words remind her of Gale. 

They laid on her bed one night, full from dinner, and talked about star signs. While it was not the oddest interest for a wizard to have, as wizards are nothing if not admirers of the celestial and divine, Gale’s enthusiastic passion for zodiac constellations was not something she’d anticipated. 

“I know some find it indulgent, but I think knowing something about the Star one is born under is worth it. At the very least, it’s a bit of fun. And if you’re a more romantic type—“

“Hm, I don’t think I’ve ever met one of those,” she’d prodded him in the shoulder playfully and he’d taken her finger in his fist.

“Then,” he continued with an amused smile, her finger still in his grip, “it’s something that connects us mortals to the gods—or darker entities, depending on your interpretation.”

“What’s yours?”

“My star sign?” She nodded, her face rubbing against his button-up covered chest, “I was born under the star of The Child. The Sign of The Key.”

He continued, “It’s said that those born to the Key are destined to question the unquestioned, to break age-old taboos and light the path to new knowledge, understanding, and power.”

She huffed, “How convenient.”

He chuckled and gave her a cheeky grin, “Isn’t it?” 

She rolled her eyes at him and then settled her head back onto his chest. 

“Would you like to know yours?” 

“Let me guess: the sign of the Fallen Banana Peel. Destined to slip in the course of walking to great injury and embarrassment.”

While she’d been joking (sorta, kinda) with reference to a particularly nasty tumble she had in the CoM lobby that morning, Gale actually sat up against her headboard in his eagerness to explain.

“Actually, if you were born a few days earlier, you would have emerged under the sign of The Skull, the star of The Watcher… which is regarded as a harbinger of misfortune. It’s typically interpreted as a more fatal kind of happenstance, either for the self or others, but I’m sure that would also include clumsiness… would it not?” He looked to the ceiling of her room, wondering at the question he asked himself before shaking his head to refocus.

“But no, you were born under the sign of The Jester. The star of The Nilbog,” he waves his hands is a showy fashion, as if trying to dazzle her.

“...The Nilbog?” 

He nodded at her enthusiastically.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” how could she deny him when he was so adorable and excited to share? “What’s that?”

“Well, a nilbog is a goblin possessed by a spirit of the trickster variety,” at the scrunch of her face, Gale hurried to explain further, "It’s not as bad as it sounds! Nilbogs are highly resistant to harm. Not to mention, very valued figures within goblinoid armies.”

At her unconvinced expression, he continued, “It’s just a metaphor for mischief, for independence and self-guidedness!”

“It kinda sounds like you’re calling me a troublesome little shit.”

“I would not use those terms to describe you,” Gale hardly managed to stifle a laugh at her displeasure, “But you do have a streak of rebelliousness within you, something that agrees with The Jester’s reputation.”

She’d rolled her eyes as he kissed her cheek with barely veiled amusement. 

“Now,” he took her hands and continued with his lesson, smiling, “while those born under other signs receive a hint of their fates, this is not the case for those born to The Jester.”

“And why is that?”

“Well,” he tilted his head thoughtfully, “I’ve always read it described as a natural extension of The Jester’s Omen of Chaos. You know: typical mischievous celestial antics…”

“So I have a sign, but no destiny… that’s kind of a rip-off.”

While she’d been intending to make Gale laugh, he was pensive instead.

“…Do you disagree?” she asked. 

“Not quite,” he said after a thoughtful moment, “Most of the fun in this is to have some kind of archetype through which to understand the self—either in or out of alignment with one’s sign. So I see why you’d feel that way…”

“But?,” she continued for him, as she knew he was building towards a point. 

“But,” he looked at her meaningfully then, “I disagree with the idea that an uncharacterized fate is necessarily a negative thing.”

He moved his hand to tuck her hair behind her ear.

“The way I view it is that you can be whatever you’d like, Tav. You can aspire to whatever moves you, free without the burden of some external expectation. And knowing what I know about you so far, I could not imagine a pre-selected fate that could accommodate… all that you are so easily.” 

Tav has never felt particularly free. Or special. In fact, she’s always felt beholden to numerous forces and expectations outside of what “moved” her in a way she finds very boring and typical for a person with no safety net of family wealth—no Plan B if Plan A’s task of go to grad school and succeed does not come to pass. But she hadn’t wanted to unpack that right then, nor had she wanted to dim Gale’s favorable interpretation of her celestial alignment. So she teased him instead. 

“Questioning a long standing interpretation? How very Key of you.” 

He found that funny. And then proceeded to tell her that her corresponding star creature was a goose, of all things, and that her birthstone was a pearl and that he thought these fit her well. 

It’s an innocuous memory, hardly of any consequence, and yet her insides churn uncomfortably as she turns away from the dedication plaque. 

She walks to the second floor of the FEC and finds Rolan standing awkwardly in front of a textile sculpture in a spine-like shape. 

“Ah, there you are,” Rolan drones as if he’s bored, but the quick steps he takes towards her gives away his relief at her arrival. 

“So you managed to pull yourself away from Dekarios after all,” he says, more than surprised and not-really-teasing.

The surprise is not unwarranted. While she no longer spends her nights with Gale, she spends more of her daytime hours with him than ever. She’d only been given a few days of avoiding him before her agreement to write the grant with him required them to work together regularly. But the past week has been… trying.

Gale sings her praises. He tells her she’s brilliant and incredible and sharp. He compliments her, endlessly.

“Your annotations are impeccable, Tav.”  

“You took my poor visual model and made it art, Tav.”

“I do so wish I had half of your adroitness with a pen… er, keyboard, Tav.”

And he doesn’t seem to care who’s around to hear it all. Tolna. Ramazith. The students that stop by his office. Or, as of earlier that week, Rolan. Her stalwart friend had dropped her off at Gale on his way to the departmental lounge and Gale said, right as they came to a stop in front of the cozy office’s doorway, that her paragraph synthesizing relevant alternative qualitative scholarship from the past 20 years was inspired. Rolan had only coughed awkwardly and walked away, leaving her to enter Gale’s office while he was still raving about one sentence in particular where she’d used just the right adjectives to describe contrasting perspectives on constructivist approaches. 

And fine, she’s uncomfortable with praise and has been for years now, at least in work-specific contexts. (Perhaps not in… other contexts that Gale had tapped into once or twice.) It is something that her current advisors have pointed out before. Just take the compliment, Tavelle, Jaheira has said to her more than once. 

But it’s different this time. Painful.  

Tav does not want to impress Gale. She doesn’t want to hear whether he thinks she’s smart or astute or competent. Maybe she would want that in some other timeline where they are only ever collaborators. She’d probably savor his glowing appraisals of her abilities in that context. But then again, he probably wouldn’t praise her so thoroughly without everything else they’ve done together in this timeline and that bothers her too, right along with the brokenness of her heart and everything else.  

As a result, when Rolan tried to rope her into going to some FEC art show that Alfira contributed to, she didn’t try to worm her way out of it—even though the days before Spring Recess only continue to dwindle and she and Gale have a fuckload of work to do if they want her advisors to be on board, let alone be ready to submit by the end of the semester. 

She simply deleted the calendar event with their scheduled work meeting and sent Gale an email saying that something came up and that she’d see him on Saturday, as they’d planned. Seeing him on the weekend isn’t ideal, but their deadlines don’t care. 

Tomorrow, she will deal with it all again—the tension and the exhaustion, and the sharp ache that emerges when Gale showers her with flattery. But tonight, her only job is to support her friend in supporting his not-quite-girlfriend’s artistic endeavors. 

“Try to look just a little less uncomfortable around all the creativity, Rolan.”

He rolls his eyes at her and then leads her to another space a few rooms away, where a short film featuring a sad family of clowns is being projected across three white walls. They find Alfira there, wearing a pink dress with her long hair newly dyed to a dark purple, surrounded by a small group of attendees. 

As soon as she sees Rolan, she excuses herself from the others and walks up to him with a fluster across her light blue cheeks. 

Alfira smiles at him, “I’m glad you came.”

Then she turns to Tav, with an excited look, “Both of you! Tav, I presume?”

Tav nods, “The very same. This is really cool, Alfira. You should be proud.” 

Alfira’s smile widens and her blush deepens, “That is very kind of you. My friend, Nadira, directed the film and gave me my acting debut,” she says, jokingly, “I did the music too. Playing around with distortion was pretty fun.” 

“You usually play the lute though, right?” Tav asks and Alfira nods, “Rolan mentioned that, alongside your other fine qualities.” 

“Tav!” Rolan’s face burns and he moves to elbow her, but she slides to Alfira’s side, who is smiling fondly at him in a way that hurts a bit to witness.

Alfira laughs and then asks if they’d like a tour of the rest of the exhibition pieces. They walk through the other rooms together and Alfira provides a brief introduction to each of the works; with many of the artists being her program mates and friends, and her working knowledge across artistic mediums, she knows details not written in the abridged museum labels. 

As they look at an array of miniature ceramics composing a garden maze, Tav watches Rolan casually move to hold Alfira’s hand. Alfira laces her fingers with his and tries to smother the smile rising to her face, likely to not scare Rolan off with too much enthusiasm. But Tav knows that she can’t possibly manage it now. Rolan is stiff and reticent and reluctant to warm up, but he’s also more loyal than basically anyone Tav has ever met. 

And he likes Alfira. Meaning she is stuck with him until she decides not to be. 

It’s nice to see her emotionally constipated friend do the things that not-quite, soon-to-be lovers do: the handholding and the door opening and the fingers at the small of her back and the comments said in a low volume for Alfira’s pointed ears only. 

Tav looks away, back to the miniatures, and tries not to wonder whether Gale would have ever done those things eventually, once they could exist in public together. 

When he ended things, Gale said that it didn’t have to be permanent. He also said that he knew simply asking her to co-write a grant with him could make her not want to continue whatever they had after the whole thing is over. It implied that he is open to a future where they pick up wherever they left off. It also implied that it's up to her whether or not that happens. So, technically, there is supposed to be a chance for them to eventually hold hands at the grocery store or while they stand in a gallery, just because. But while this possibility theoretically exists, it’s all but certain to never occur.  

Gale wants to carve out a name, a niche, for himself that has no nothing to do with Mystra. And he is, for whatever reason, under the impression that she can help make that happen. And whether or not he was looking for a reason to end things anyway, he jumped at the chance to make use of her, to end them so he could make use of her. 

She’s now dealing with Gale the Academic—Dr. Dekarios—rather than the Gale she’d come to know.

She’s needed some time to come to terms with this, but she has. Gale the Academic is an ambitious type; she’s read his CV, knows all the awards and unique achievements that he’s garnered in his career so far. Tav knows that Gale the Academic was probably the one at that table at Ophal, that he was the one who knew to invoke Enver’s name, who didn’t hesitate to prod her in her most tender wound in his quest to get her to agree. And just as she knows these things, she knows that Gale the Academic’s gesture towards a future for them is not real. 

The implication that they can pick up where they left off after it's all over is as genuine as his compliments. It’s a tool, just as she’s a tool. He is just doing whatever he thinks will keep her satisfied for as long as it’ll take for them to finish their grant application. Because he thinks she’s useful. 

And while she’s been trying not to think about it, she decides that Gale—the Gale she’d been getting to know—would hold the door open for her and whisper little jokes in her ear and find reasons to touch her in public. But she no longer has access to that specific Gale, so it doesn’t matter anyway. 

Gale the Academic is using her. And she’s letting him, even as her anger threatens the supremacy of her heartbreak with each passing day. After all, it's the only way she’ll get to see him at all now that (her? no.) Gale is done with her. 

Pathetic, sure, but that’s been established. 

And when it inevitably blows up in her face, just as it did with Enver, well… as they say, she’s made her bed.

“Are you ready to go or are you going to stare at these all night?”

Rolan’s voice pulls her away from her thoughts, the same thoughts she’d been having for a week. And she’s been bent over, ostensibly looking at the ceramics this entire time, so it is almost agony to stand up fully again. 

Without the remaining energy to think too hard, she follows Rolan down to the lobby and follows him out of the Center with pained movements. He leads her back towards the main campus, not bothering to ask about her silence. He knows enough. 

Soon, they walk through a long, nondescript hallway with white concrete walls in an older campus building, stopping at the heavy metal door at the end. It opens and a tall dragonborn man looks at Rolan’s BGU ID before waving them inside. 

They are now in the Grad Student Bar, which is loud and crowded on this typical Friday night. Tav hasn’t been here since her first year at BGU, but it looks as she remembers—there’s multi-colored festoon lights draping paths across the ceiling, the red brick walls are littered in posters and knick knacks and miscellaneous memorabilia, and there’s still not enough seating. 

Tav spots Alfira in a booth with two other people she vaguely recognizes from their tour through the exhibit and she points them out to Rolan. He leads them towards the booth and Tav is so relieved to finally be sitting that she practically misses her turn to introduce herself to the others.  

Over the next few hours, Tav learns just how thoroughly she is no longer adept at maneuvering group interactions like this. It’s in stark contrast to who she was when she first started grad school, when she last came to the GSB—her networking muscles were well-honed and she was funny and charming and sociable and the time she spent with Enver made her feel like she could talk her way into and out of anything, anyone’s favor or ire. But she’s spent the last two years just focusing on graduating, hardly speaking to anyone outside of her students and her advisors and Rolan and Astarion. And it’s safer, usually less complicated that way too, except for times like tonight. 

Tav sticks to laughing when everyone else laughs and responding to direct questions and making openings for Rolan to talk about himself around Alfira’s friends. And as everyone else gets drunker, she has to do less and less. Eventually, Rolan gives her a heads up that he is taking a cab home and, with Alfira’s hand in his, he leaves. Alfira’s friends eventually do the same and soon Tav is alone in a loud bar at midnight with no real reason to be there. She decides to step outside to light up the joint in her purse before she orders a cab; her back is still on fire and it won’t do to ignore that until she gets home. 

She weaves past patrons to get to a metal door next to the actual bar and slips through. It leads out to a courtyard at the back of the building with picnic tables. She avoids the couple canoodling in a dark corner and the friends playing a lively, drunken game of Three Dragon Ante and takes a seat on top of one of the tables. She sets her feet on the narrow attached bench, and takes a breath in the comparatively quiet, cigarette-scented night.

She isn’t out there for long when someone walks out and, surprisingly, comes to stand in front of her. 

“Are you Tavelle?” slim fingers with blunt green nails hold her BGU ID in front of her face, “You left this on the bar.” 

She got a round of drinks earlier. Thanking her ID’s savior, Tav asks if they’d like a few hits as payment. The stranger looks back towards the door leading to the bar for a moment and then nods, sitting beside Tav on the top of the picnic table and taking the neatly rolled joint when offered. 

She takes a puff and passes it back to Tav. 

“I’m Shadowheart,” she tosses her silver ponytail behind her shoulder and gives Tav a small smile. “I’d ask for your name but I already know it.”

“I actually prefer Tav,” she takes a hit and hands the joint back to Shadowheart after relighting it for her. “What division are you in?”

Shadowheart is a postdoc at the Center for Clerical Medicine and Healing Studies; while she’s technically affiliated with the College of Magic, the Center is housed at BGU’s Medical School campus, which explains why Tav’s never seen her. 

Tav would’ve remembered seeing Shadowheart. She’s striking—her long silver hair and her green-yellow eyes and the large celestial themed tattoo on her right hand are not so easily forgettable. She has unmistakable aura of radiant energy that shines in the darkness of the cool spring night. 

Tav swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. 

They sit and trade idle chatter until they burn through about half of the joint. Tav rolls her sore shoulders absentmindedly and she and Shadowheart trade an amused look when the couple in the courtyard with them begin to get very handsy with each other. 

“So,” Shadowheart stifles a laugh as she leans back on her hands, “do you make a habit of sitting alone outside of bars?”

“Not usually,” Tav replies, equally amused, “I was just getting ready to leave before you came out. I figured if I smoke now, I can pass out as soon as I get home.”

“Is it for sleep?” Shadowheart gestures to the joint currently in her fingers. 

“It’s… multipurpose. I have pains. And headaches. And I don’t sleep so easily. It’s helpful for that stuff, but I’m also in my dissertation phase, so.”

“Ah, I see…” Shadowheart smirks knowingly for a moment before continuing in a different tone, “I know I’m a total stranger—”

“Well not a total stranger. We are swapping a bit of spit right now,” Tav jokes, feigning a tonguing motion at the joint. 

Shadowheart snorts for a second, eyes lingering on her tongue, before continuing, “Be that as it may, I happen to have some healing magic know-how. I would be happy to cast on you… if you’d be into that.” 

Tav shifts uncomfortably before responding, “I swear I would be, and this is no insult to your skills, but it’s just that whatever I’ve got isn’t really responsive to magic. At least, not so far.”

Shadowheart quirks an eyebrow, “Seriously?”

Tav nods as she looks at the concrete ground of the courtyard, “Yup.”

“How long has it been?”

“Uh… the pain started towards the beginning of grad school. But the headaches and sleep stuff were around before that.”

“Is it like… curse-related?” The half-elf asks. 

“Not as far as I or any of the practitioners I’ve visited within BGU’s insurance network are aware of. I guess I’m just lucky like that.”

It’s a joke without humor, but Tav laughs at herself anyway. 

“That sounds… hard,” Shadowheart offers sympathetically before her tone turns teasing. “At least you have your good looks.”

Tav guffaws and pushes up her glasses. She looks back at Shadowheart, who is looking at the couple as the noises from their dark corner momentarily intensify. She turns her green-golden eyes back to Tav and they snicker again, unable to contain themselves this time. 

“Well if magic is no good, I’m pretty sure I have some herbs that could improve this, as good as it is,” Shadowheart offers. 

Tav raises her eyebrows, “Really?”

“Yeah,” Shadowheart nods and snuffs out the lit end with an invulnerable finger, “Do you have any more on you?”

Tav checks her bag, remembers the small tin she packs for emergencies in the side pocket. “Um yeah, I think I do.”

“Come on then, I’ll order a cab.”

Tav considers her offer. 

When was the last time she went home with a stranger? Besides one notable exception, before grad school, certainly. But she can’t find anything in her right now—not an ounce of self-preservation—that speaks loudly enough for her to just go home. It’s not as if sleep is really waiting for her in her own bed, regardless of how much she smokes. It’s not as if she’ll do anything but stress about seeing Gale in the morning while also yearning for the sight all the same. That’s what her nights are, what they have been since he ended things, if she’s being honest with herself. 

Tav follows Shadowheart past the couple’s dark corner, suddenly quiet, and through the opened gate leading out of the courtyard. And when the cab comes, she slips in without bothering to look at the address on the GPS. 

It can’t be worse than any other decision she’s made recently. 

–-

Shadowheart lives in a one-bedroom apartment over a flower shop not far from Tav’s neighborhood. When they get in, she doesn't flip the lights on and invites Tav to sit on the couch before beelining to the open kitchen not far away, rummaging through a few specific cabinets filled with several jars of carefully labeled contents. Tav settles onto the soft brown couch a bit nervously, strumming her fingers on her knees and examining the numerous frames leaning against the further wall of Shadowheart’s living room, waiting to be hung up with others. 

Shadowheart ultimately grabs three jars and brings them to the coffee table, setting them down as she sits beside Tav, close enough for the heat of their bodies to bleed into each other. 

“Okay,” Shadowheart starts, “I’ve got gillyweed and some sourgrass and a bit of red amanita mushroom. Now, there’s some preliminary research supporting the efficacies of these for pain relief, specifically nerve pain, when mixed with cannabis, but those studies mainly trial concentrate forms. Still, I figure they might still work and at the very least they won’t hurt. What do you think?” 

“I think… this is all very impressive and I hope it works.”

Shadowheart bumps into her for a second and nods, “Same. Otherwise I will be a disgrace to the Department of Clerical and Therapeutic Sciences at Moonhaven University. Go Mighty Masterworks, Go.”

Tav lets out a laugh at the ridiculousness of her alma mater’s mascot and Shadowheart eyes glimmer with amusement.  

“Ready to mix?”

Tav nods and fishes out the small tin with her travel stash, placing it on the table. She arranges the weed on the rolling paper carefully and then slides it to Shadowheart, who crushes small amounts of each jars’ contents over the top. Tav rolls the joint neatly and seals it and when she’s done, she hands it to Shadowheart. 

“Would you do the honors? It’s your creation, after all.”

Shadowheart lights it with Tav’s torch and takes a few small puffs. She looks at Tav as she breathes out, her eyes low through the haze of smoke, and something shifts. Her fingers brush against Tav’s as she hands the joint back to her and Tav takes a hit with an unsteady throat. 

They continue like this for what feels like a long time. Orange light pours in from the street lamps outside of Shadowheart’s uncurtained windows and a car passes by on the street below and suddenly Shadowheart is turning her face gently and blowing smoke into her mouth. 

It takes Tav by surprise, but her eyes still slide shut when Shadowheart closes the distance and kisses her. Her lips are soft and she smells a bit like flowers and industrial cleaners. Shadowheart’s tongue swipes her bottom lip and Tav opens her mouth, a detached moan leaving her throat.

She can’t really feel it. She knows Shadowheart is kissing her, knows her soft hands are caressing her face lightly. And maybe her body is responding, but she’s not registering any of it. Her head feels like it's been pumped full of helium and she feels nothing but the acknowledgement that she feels nothing. 

No, that’s not true. She also feels guilty. 

Shadowheart moves to straddle her lap and kisses Tav's neck with sensual delicateness. Her lips move towards Tav's hairline and her tongue traces the outside of Tav's ear before she suddenly stills. 

“Are you okay?”

She’s been caught. Tav closes her eyes in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

Shadowheart shifts back, settling back onto the couch beside her.

“Did you not know I was flirting with you? I don’t exactly go around offering to do magic on strangers, you know. I’m not that kind of cleric,” she leans in close again, saying the last part in a tone to lighten the mood. 

“I… I mean, no, I did. I did know.”

“I also assumed you were single,” Shadowheart offers, pulling back and turning to face Tav directly, “But I’m happy to back off if that’s not the case. Although I would personally be skeptical of any partner who would let you sit in the dark all by yourself.”

“I’m not with anyone,” Tav says quickly, “I’m just…” Pining over someone I’m not supposed to want in any kind of way and who also doesn’t want me. 

“You can also just not be interested me? I understand completely—”

“No,” Tav cuts her off, “You are very funny and smart and attractive… But… I’m still hung up on someone I used to…” Eat a lot of takeout and engage in mostly non-penetrative sexual encounters with.

“Ah, I see,” Shadowheart nods sagely, brushing a speck of wetness away from her mouth. “Did you just break up?”

“It wasn’t really a break up. But it did end,” Tav clarifies.

“A situationship kind of thing?”

“Something like that. I think.” 

Shadowheart nods again, sitting back onto her couch cushions and turning her gaze towards Tav, feigning casualness, “Since I’m already being nosy: why did it end?”

Tav struggles to phrase it in a way that isn’t full of bitterness or self-loathing or that doesn’t make her burst into tears in front of the hot not-stranger that wants to kiss her for some reason. It’s hard, but she ultimately settles on:

“He’s a professor.”

And it is probably the most irresponsible way to answer her question. But it says enough that Shadowheart looks at the ceiling of her apartment, now stunned and satisfied. 

“Well shit,” she eventually says.

“Yeah.”

Tav relights the joint they were sharing and inhales deeply. She passes it to Shadowheart who takes it gently. They sit in silence for a few passes.

“Well, we don’t have to hook up or anything. But do you want to stay? You seem like you could use a friend,” Shadowheart looks at her with something that is not quite pity.

Tav raises an eyebrow. “Do you make a habit of inviting strays for sleepovers?” 

“Not typically,” Shadowheart smiles and shrugs, just as confused as Tav is. “I don’t even really like people all that much. I actually ditched a not-really-blind date to sit outside with you.” 

“A not-really-blind date?” 

She rolls her electric eyes. “He’s another postdoc at the Center and a mutual friend invited us both out for a ‘friendly drink’ and then left before finishing their ale.”

“Wow.” 

“Yeah. But I like you enough, I suppose. To invite you to stay, I mean.”

And although she hardly knows Shadowheart, Tav recognizes this for the compliment that it is. She is reminded briefly of Rolan and the way his admiration is sometimes wrapped in disdain and Tav has a thought that maybe she’s managed to make her first new friend in years. 

–-

They don’t sleep, despite burning through the whole joint together. But they do get silly and transparent and flop around Shadowheart’s living room and have conversations that can only be had between 2am and sunrise. 

Shadowheart tells her that she dropped out of undergrad her first time around to join a cult to the goddess Shar. Ironically, she’d been recruited on campus just before her finals that semester. 

At one point during the story, she crawls away to the full bookcase a few feet away and grabs a scrapbook from the bottom, slapping it onto the coffee table in a series of clumsy movements. It’s full of pictures of her with dark black hair in a purple and black uniform also worn by her compatriots. There are shots of them all lined up in a row, beset by what seems like senior members, and Shadowheart is right near the middle, seeming impossibly young despite her currently youthful visage. 

“It broke my parents’ hearts. And honestly, I think that’s what I wanted,” Shadowheart says this nakedly and then winces as she realizes how it sounds. But Tav can’t judge. After all, she hasn’t spoken to her own mother in years. And even though she’s been increasingly having days where she wishes there was someone to take care of her, when she wants to believe that there could be someone bound to give a fuck about her across time and space, she never bothers trying to bridge that relationship. Not just because her mother has never been the attentive type, but also because a small, yet persistent part of her wants her absence to be felt. 

“What about now?” It’s a vague question, but her mouth is too dry to form too many words. 

“Well it wasn’t easy, but they eventually apologized for being awful parents. And then I forgave them. And then I left Shar and began training as a cleric of Selûne. It took a while, but we made up before they passed.”

“I’m sorry,” Tav says, her head lolling towards Shadowheart, who sits on the floor between the couch and the coffee table with her head in her hand, flipping back and forth between pictures. 

“Thanks.”

They sit in silence for a while and while Tav doesn’t doze, she feels her head fall back into the cushions completely and the tight knots of her body slowly unfurl into something loose. Unguarded. 

“You and the professor…,” Shadowheart asks, tongue chemically unburdened of the pressure of decorum, “Who ended it?”

“He did,” she says, unsticking her dry tongue from the roof of her mouth. 

“But you didn’t want it to end.”

“No,” she shakes her head, staring at the ceiling until static emerges from the light color. 

“That sucks.”

And for some reason, those two little words finally break the dam behind her eyes. 

For all the awkward effort Astarion and Rolan had spent trying to respond appropriately to her vague update about things being over and her and Gale going in a professional direction, they were quick to push her to move on from her mess (“It could’ve ended much, much worse, Tav.” “Yes, now don’t take several more years to find someone else, darling.”). But she couldn’t. She can’t.

It doesn’t hurt quite like it did with Enver. While that moment in time had broken her completely, left her with no desire to exist afterwards, it had also shattered her entire life and practically left her with no real reason to exist. Everything was terrible, not just her. The circumstances and magnitude of destruction can never really be replicated.

Now, after Gale, everything is fine. She’s not in any real danger of being booted from her program. She’ll probably have a doctorate in a year's time. She’s still showing up for everything, still teaching, still writing. She hasn’t let anything go to shit. But it’s still awful. She still feels like she’s been thrown into a pit of fire out of nowhere, for no reason. She still doesn’t even know how she fucked it all up and Gale didn’t have the godsdamned decency to just drop her over text and leave her alone to lick her wounds in peace. No, he had to make a fucking dinner and professional partnership out of the occasion. 

“Here.”

Shadowheart gives her a spoon and a cold, damp container of ice cream. And Tav doesn’t even really like ice cream like that, but she flips the lid off and drags a spoonful into her mouth anyway. Her tongue is too dry to really be able to identify the flavor, but she sits there and has a few more spoons until Shadowheart is satisfied and digs in with her own spoon. 

Eventually, they finish the ice cream and their highs wear off and the sun rises. Tav remembers to get Shadowheart’s number and then goes home and lets her aching body settle into the softness of her mattress. 

Nothing is fixed. She has to wake up in 3 hours if she’s going to shower before leaving to Gale’s. She’s still heartbroken. Maybe a bit angrier. Everything still hurts. Nothing has actually changed. 

Somehow, she manages to sleep anyway. She dreams she's the moon and she's in love with the sun and and as it ends, she falls down and down and down into the boundless, limitless blackness of space. But the sun follows after her, races past stars and planets and clusters of gases to reach her and when she wakes, the morning sun tinting the insides of her eyelids a soft red, it's like they finally get to kiss. 

Chapter Text

Gale is wearing a headlamp and waders, sitting beside Ramazith in a small boat on the Lake of Dragons, wondering just what in the Nine Hells he’s gotten himself into.  

Sometime after reading Tav’s email canceling their work session and before he could manage to truly spiral about the possibility that she was spending her Friday evening (in, perhaps, a more intimate setting) with someone else, Ramazith knocked on the open door to his office. Gale waved him in, ready for the older wizard’s typical exuberant greeting and instead was asked an unexpected question: 

“Have you ever been catfishing, Dekarios?” 

And while Gale had grown up in Waterdeep, and practically lived nowhere else before coming to Baldur’s Gate, he’s never been on any fishing expedition of any kind. He vaguely recalled his elementary (or was it high school?) classmates’ retellings of going out on the Sea of Swords on their family boats and catching one thing or another just for fun, but Gale spent much of those youthful years at the House of Wonder or with his head in a book. Much to Tara’s chagrin, he was practically averse to fresh air until grad school and never quite shook off his proclivity for being an “indoor cat,” as she often called him. 

He told Ramazith he’d never been fishing at all and the older wizard practically demanded he come out on the lake with him on Friday. Had Gale known “the lake” meant the Lake of Dragons that was several hundreds of miles from Baldur’s Gate’s coastal location or that they’d be using basically no magic of any kind to conduct the activity (besides using Ramazith’s teleportation sigil) or that they’d be using the most odorous bait he could possibly imagine or that they’d be doing this in the pitch black darkness, he probably would’ve put up just a bit more of a fight. 

It likely wouldn’t have changed the outcome, but still. 

“How are you doing, Dekarios?” Ramazith checks in with him quietly. They’ve been sitting in silence; whether it’s an effort to not scare off the catfish or to not attract something much more terrifying, Gale isn’t sure. 

“Er, I’m alright... How long does it typically take to catch something?” 

Ramazith briefly turns his head towards Gale, lighting up his face for a moment with the lamp on his headband. Gale wriggles his toes in his rubber boots anxiously as Ramazith reels his bait back in and casts in a different direction. 

“Not long, usually. It’s only been,” Ramazith checks the digital watch on his wrist, “about 15 minutes.”

How? How was that possible? Were they in some kind of smelly, alternate plane with different rules for the passage of time? 

And, of course, even in the stinky odor of their bait bucket and the occasional brush of flying insects, Tav comes to him. She would hate this, Gale thinks with a small grin. From the stories she told him as they curled up in her bed, she spent most of her youth indoors as well, reading or hiding from the sun or from other kids. She stole duct tape from her apartment’s maintenance man and used it to cover the glass of the window beside her bed one summer, just so she didn’t have to see her classmates playing in the gushing water of fire hydrants on particularly hot days. And while they both laughed when she told him, he can’t help but see how lonely they both were. He sighs quietly at this. 

“Not to worry, Dekarios,” Ramazith winks, managing to look charming even in all their fishing gear. “We’ll be rich in fish in no time!” 

And then, as if right on cue, Gale’s line tightens. 

It takes everything Gale has to reel in the first catfish. His arms burn and he feels sweat stick his hair to his forehead, but he manages it and collapses onto the floor of the boat in a clumsy pile of limbs. The catfish is larger than average and Ramazith even gives it a low whistle before saying a small gesture of gratitude to the fish and whacking it with a hammer on the back of the head. 

Ramazith puts the fish on ice in the cooler he’d brought along and claps Gale on the shoulder in something like congratulations and pride. After catching his breath, Gale finds that he may be ready to do it all over again. 

--

It takes another hour or so, but Ramazith eventually takes them back to the shore and to the travel sigil. They return to the basement of Ramazith’s tower with a cooler full of catfish and  after stripping off their waders and boots and dumping them in a metal sink, Gale follows the older man up to the second floor. 

Ramazith sets the cooler on his kitchen counter and gestures for Gale to take a seat in one of the stools. Gale’s first fish is the largest of the ones they caught and Ramazith takes it out of the cooler and brings it to the large sink nearby. He rinses it off thoroughly and then sets it back on the counter between the two of them, on a shallow metal tray beside a bowl of clean water, a pair of pliers, a knife, and a spoon. Slowly and carefully, he demonstrates the procedure for skinning and cleaning the fish; Ramazith takes care to point at each relevant part of the fish’s anatomy and emphasizes several times that a sharp knife is crucial. 

Gale does his best to commit it all to memory and when Ramazith gives him one of the smaller fish to work with, he finds it is not entirely unlike prepping any other fish he’s ever cooked with. The differences, of course, are some less familiar anatomy and also that he helped kill this one. The blood and the guts take on new meaning when he is the one directly responsible. But Ramazith praises his work regardless and he finds that, overall, he’s enjoying this deepened involvement with his soon-to-be meal. 

While Gale offers to help with cooking dinner, this is where Ramazith draws the line. He shoos Gale away, telling him to freshen up. Once Gale feels clean enough, he comes back to find that Ramazith has fileted and fried the catfish to perfectly golden brown pieces. The smell reminds him of Waterdhavian food carts and merchants selling mint limeade; a pang of homesickness hits him as he sets the table (after convincing Ramazith to let him help so the older wizard can change out of his sweaty clothes). 

They have a fantastic meal with little conversation, a testament to Gale’s exhaustion, and then retire to the sitting room. It’s late, well past midnight, but while Gale knows he has to prepare to work with Tav in the morning, he can’t make himself leave quite yet. 

Ramazith pours them glasses of red wine and Gale lights the fireplace with a cantrip. A few minutes pass with them discussing innocuous things—university happenings, idle gossip—before Gale asks what he’s been wanting to know for over a day now.

“Why did you invite me out?” and in his concern that Ramazith will think him ungrateful, Gale quickly explains, “Not that this isn’t lovely! I’m just a tad confused. Surely there are better fishing partners available to someone of your level of experience.” 

Ramazith chuckles into his glass of wine and sets it on the wooden table in front of them after finishing his sip. 

“You’re not what I expected you’d be, Dekarios,” Ramazith drapes a long arm along the back of the green velvet couch.

Gale winces, “Because I’m from Waterdeep?”

Ramazith shakes his head, “No. Because you’re grieving.”

Gale’s brow furrows, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“When I was around your age,” Ramazith explains, “I took a leave of absence from my first tenure-track position at a university in Amn. My leave was so long that I was let go.”

Gale’s eyebrows rise; he hadn’t been aware of Ramazith being at another university prior to BGU, let alone being dismissed.

“I was mourning,” Ramazith continues, “I’d lost my partner of many years, an incredible mage who I met while I was docked in Estagund—I worked as a sailor every summer from the age of 13 and I met her right after graduating high school.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Gale apologizes, recognizing a rare somberness coming from Ramazith. 

The older man smiles appreciatively. In the orange light of the fireplace, Ramazith is bathed in a warm glow that tones down the whiteness of his hair and beard. 

“Thank you. But while the loss was a pain I’d never felt before… the realizations I had with regard to our relationship trounced that ache entirely.”

Ramazith’s hazel eyes look at Gale meaningfully, “She was much, much older than me. We met when I was 18. She was past 200 years of age, an elven woman who had multiple degrees and had lived many lives already. And I had no direction and had not spared a true thought towards the future besides being the first person in my family to finish college. And she became my life. My lighthouse. My compass…,” Ramazith trails off for a moment, looking into his wine glass and taking another sip as an afterthought.

“Re-evaluating our relationship made me cruel, in many ways… I don’t mean to overstep. Or make you uncomfortable. But I see a lot of myself in you. Not with the cruelty, but at least, with regard to the grief you must be feeling.”

Oh. 

And it isn’t what Ramazith means and Gale knows it, but he protests weakly anyway, “She isn’t dead. My… Mystra isn’t dead. And she’s human.”

Ramazith replies evenly, “That’s right.” 

“And I…” he tries to think of something else to disrupt the parallels lingering between them, “I was practically done with my bachelors when we got together.” 

Realizing his mistake immediately, Gale closes his eyes and sighs. 

How many times had he practiced talking about his and Mystra’s timeline in the past? How many nights had he spent lying awake, preparing for different conversational scenarios where he may possibly let the truth slip?

Ramazith clasps his hands together on his legs and waits for Gale to compose himself. Gale swallows, suddenly feeling very tired of pretense. He sighs again.

“It doesn’t actually matter, I suppose,” he says quietly. 

Ramazith shrugs, “It matters if you think it does. Do you?”

Gale looks down at his lap, at the hangnail on his thumb that’s been bothering him all day. 

“No,” he says, still quiet, “I don’t think it does.” 

Ramazith nods. After a few beats of silence, he speaks again. 

“Laestra, my partner… she was very involved in my work. For years, I handled the expedition labor—deep sea diving for the most part, I’m a fairly strong swimmer—and she led the analysis and did the bulk of the research. She was an independent scholar, hadn’t wanted to get involved in university business. But she pushed me to run the tenure-track. And I went along, as I always did when it came to her. Of course, it helped that I’d always sort of wanted a stable job in a way. Maybe it’s the poor scamp who grew up in Durpa still living inside of me, I don’t know,” Ramazith looks at the table for a moment and then back to Gale.

“But after she passed, I could hardly return to any of it. Even though we had been splitting research duties for a long while by that point, I felt lost. Utterly incompetent... And aside from mourning her, I hated her. I hated how I felt like I was only suited for loving her and nothing else. I hated her so much I didn’t want to do anything that had her mark on it. And, as one does, I hated myself for hating her, for blaming her. We were in love. And that meant it was supposed to be something pure…”

Gale fiddles with the stem of his wine glass and tries not to choke around the ball of emotion in his throat. 

He finds himself nodding. In agreement? In acknowledgement? Both? Something else? He doesn’t know. 

“How…,” Gale struggles to voice his question, “How did you find your way back?”

“It’s nothing so special or triumphant,” Ramazith breathes a laugh through his nose, “I went back to work after 6 years, but I didn’t return to artifacts for three more years. Time passed and that helped considerably. I bought a submarine, which also helped…,” Ramazith laughs at himself for a moment.

“I moved here. Opened the Center. And I also met different people. Dated around, hoping to fall in love again. It still hasn’t happened and I don’t necessarily think I’m looking for that anymore… but I like myself now. And I know who I am.”

Gale thinks of the young woman who’d pulled Ramazith away from him and Tav at breakfast, of Ramazith spinning a dean in the center of the dancefloor at his party weeks ago. 

He thinks of Tav and the dozens of times he’s slipped into thinking about her as something more than just his lover and the entire days she’s managed to keep Mystra away from his thoughts entirely, the rapidly toppling dominance that his ex is retaining over his conscious mind and thoughts despite how his heart and his body still contort towards a past that will never return. 

And then he thinks of himself and how, somewhere along the way, he stopped thinking about himself as someone with a future. Even with a clear vision for the next five years, even with his tenure-track checklist, even with an active plan to try and protect some kind of happiness with Tav down the line, he hasn’t been treating any of the outcomes as real or probable. They are worth working towards, and he has been working towards them, but when he tries to think past the next year, tries to really envision himself with Tav or teaching ten years down the line, he can’t quite manage it. He can’t quite believe it. 

There is something inside of him, unspeaking and powerful, that is all too certain he’s going to crash and burn without Mystra there to tell him what to do, that he will ruin things with Tav regardless, and that he’ll find himself, yet again, having to tape back together some semblance of a life with too few pieces for a whole picture. And it’s been guiding him this whole time, unimpeded.

“I think… I may be getting in my own way,” he says, not entirely realizing he’s saying it aloud. 

Ramazith nods understandingly and waves his hand as he takes a generous drink of wine.

“I am very familiar with that song and dance,” Ramazith swallows and sets his glass back down, “Heed my hard-earned wisdom: if you find something, or someone, who gives you a sense of satiety in this life—do not question it. And do not let them go.”

Gale nods. It’s a bit trite, but that’s coincidental. Ramazith understands. He knows.  

“To be clear, I wasn’t planning on telling you all this when I invited you to the lake,” Ramazith says, laughing at himself again, “I was going to offer my mentorship. It’s never too late for an advisor, especially in your situation.”

Gale huffs a laugh at this, “Is that how mentorship is established now? Catfishing on the Lake of Dragons?”

Ramazith laughs again and points a knowing finger at Gale, hazel eyes squinting. “And yet, you had a good time! Besides, I can’t imagine that it’s worse than anything Aumar had you do.”

And because he did have a good time, is having a good time, and Ramazith cannot begin to understand how right he is about Elminster, all he can do is laugh. He laughs until his chest hurts some more, until Ramazith’s laughter builds and fades and builds again, and then they settle into a comfortable silence. 

Eventually, they finish that bottle of wine and another as they discuss their doctoral training and their experiences on the job market and all the things they’d compromised on during those sensitive stretches of years until they both fall asleep on the couch in front of the fireplace. Several hours later, just before sunrise, Gale wakes up at a particularly raucous snore from the other side of the cushions and he finds Ramazith with his head tilted back and his mouth wide open. 

Gale sits up silently and gathers his things before ordering a cab, leaving a long-winded note for Ramazith on the coffee table, written hastily in the minutes before his driver arrives. Like most things, the act makes him think of Tav. 

An hour later, he crawls into his bed after drawing his curtains closed, intent on sleeping for just a few more hours until he has to prepare himself for Tav’s arrival. He moves onto his side, facing the pillows where her head laid just a few weeks ago. He realizes he hasn’t slept on that side of the bed since she’d been there, that the notes and trinkets he still has of her are in the nightstand on that side, and he feels something light up in him, something particularly sick and tired of the current state of events. 

He has always been too prone to overthinking for true impulsivity, but Gale makes a decision before he drifts off to sleep that he hardly ruminates on at all. And while the thought of following through on it terrifies him, he decides to listen to Ramazith. 

The man is his new mentor, after all.

Chapter Text

Gale’s townhouse looks different in the light of day. The sunny yellow paint seems different—more muted or vibrant or something, but she can’t tell exactly what. The long flower bed along the front is abloom with blue and purple flowers rustling slightly from the cool spring wind and she notices for the first time that the front door is made of dark wood.   

It opens with smooth, even movement before her fist makes contact. As the light of the late Saturday morning pours in behind her, she expects to see him greet her, too brightly for how early it is. But he isn’t there. 

“In the kitchen!” She hears Gale call from further into the house and steps in fully. The door closes and locks behind her before she can do it herself and she stares at it for a moment, almost expecting something else to happen. Nothing does. 

Tav steps through the arched entranceway on her right and finds Gale in the middle of his kitchen, surrounded by movement.  

An Unseen Servant sets the table of the nearby breakfast nook while a pair of Mage Hands squeeze the juice from several oranges into a pitcher, straining out the pulp. Another translucent hand removes a baking sheet covered with thick waffles from the oven and sets it on the stove. Gale tends to two hot skillets in front of him, smells wafting into the air that make her mouth water.

When Gale finally flips the burners off, he turns around to smile at her, looking entirely too fond for what this is supposed to be.  

As she showered earlier that morning, she’d accepted that today would be difficult for her. She told herself that her understanding of their situation would likely be tested and prodded; when he’s too close, she forgets that it’s not the same Gale she once kissed in the foyer of this home, who once stood beside the front door in anticipation for her arrival. But she needs to remember this and so she’d taken the time to write in the fog of the mirror until the bathroom cooled down. 

It’s over. 

It’s not him.

It’s not real. 

Now she wonders if she only tempted something beyond her in the interest of preparation. 

“Good morning, Tav,” he says, fiddling with the spatula still in his hand and then wiping his hands self-consciously down the front of his purple, starry patterned apron.

“Hi,” she says, still stunned, “What’s all this?” 

She feels her backpack begin to lift off of her shoulders and she flinches, pulling it closer to her instinctively.

“Ah, sorry about that,” Gale apologizes like he’s gotten ahead of himself, “May I send your bag upstairs? To the study? I figured we shouldn’t work on empty stomachs, so I made us breakfast. Of course, I probably should have asked first—“

“Um, sure,” Tav starts to slide her bag down her shoulders, “and no, breakfast was a good idea... You didn’t have to do all this though. I could've picked up bagels or something, you know.” 

She feels the weight of her bag leave her. She rubs her right shoulder and Gale gestures for her to sit at the table where he’s just set down the final platters of food. 

“While I’m sure Baldur’s Bagels satisfies their patrons, breakfast is too important to leave up to chance,” Gale says with a small smile from across the room. 

And it doesn’t feel like he’s really talking about breakfast at all. But what can she do about it? She’s already here, already stuck in this weirdly domestic scene that Gale has orchestrated. As typical, she neither knows or has control over whatever is happening between the two of them. 

She walks over, keeping her eyes on the small vase of daisies towards the further end of the table. She slides into the cushioned booth and looks over everything: the perfect buttery waffles, the over easy eggs, the thickest cut bacon she’s ever seen, and the pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice. 

Gale slides into the other side of the booth and picks up her larger plate, setting a fluffy waffle on top of it. He swipes a yellow pat of soft butter onto its golden brown surface and then sets the plate back down in front of her, sliding a warm boat of syrup towards her. Then he takes her smaller plate on the side and serves her two symmetrical eggs alongside a few strips of meaty bacon. 

It’s the first time someone’s served her a plate outside of a restaurant in… a very long time. And she can’t remember anyone ever doing it so carefully. 

It makes it a little hard for her to breathe, too hard for her to start eating despite how much she wants to. She takes a moment to watch Gale serve his own plate and practically chokes when his tongue darts out to lick a bit of errant syrup off his thumb. 

What is even happening right now? 

“Your door…” she starts and tries not to lose her train of thought as Gale looks at her with his deep brown eyes, “It opened up to me?” 

“Ah,” Gale pours them each a glass of orange juice and explains with an air of satisfaction, “I finally set up the wards this morning. It’ll open to you when you come by now.” 

The question of why? comes quickly to the tip of her tongue, but she doesn’t ask it. There’s no real point. He will give her an explanation and it won’t really make sense to her, just like this breakfast doesn’t make any sense to her, and she’ll be just as confused as she is now, if not more. 

Instead, Tav busies herself with eating her food because it really does look more appetizing than anything she’s made herself eat over the past few weeks. She stifles sounds of pure enjoyment as she chews forkfuls with a little bit of everything on them and ignores the smile Gale has on his face whenever he looks her way.

Gale places another waffle gingerly onto his plate and then gestures a wordless question to her. She nods, relenting, and he grins as he serves her one too. This time, she holds her plate up for him so he can spread another pat of soft butter on the waffle’s center. She looks at him as she’s pouring warm syrup over it and practically overdoes it, entirely distracted by the way he’s looking at her. 

It’s not fair, really, the way his dark eyes actually speak, the things they say to her. 

If this is some kind of powerplay or something, she’s screwed. 

“How was your night?” she asks. Because while meal conversations feel intimate to her, but she needs him to look less… the way he’s looking. 

He begins to laugh. 

“If you can believe it, I was on the Lake of Dragons…”

Gale proceeds to tell her that Ramazith took him out to catfish at night on a lake hundreds of miles away and that they’d passed out on the wizard’s couch after dinner. She struggles to imagine it but then Gale shows her the lingering redness of a mark given to him by an unruly catfish, and she laughs.

It’s her first time laughing around him in weeks. 

—

Gale’s study on the third floor consists of three adjoining rooms with walls covered in full bookcases. He took her on a short tour through all three once they made it up there, explaining the details of his organizational system and eventually leading her to the final room with his large wooden desk, the skylight, and a small, but decorated fireplace.

While most of his home’s furnishings seem too fashionable to have been picked by him, this room feels like what she’d envisioned for him: a luxuriously cushioned desk chair, a stained glass lamp in the corner, dark green walls, and piles of books on the floor. His framed degrees hang side-by-side and there’s an armchair in the corner with a plush blanket. The floor has a large ornate rug with golden tassels along its perimeter and it all reminds her of his departmental office and how carefully he’d searched for its current adornments.

Gale insisted on giving her the desk (“a small gesture towards your comfort”) and she’d immediately honed in on the framed picture on top of it. He’s young, not even a teenager, and smiling with all of his teeth as he hugs a gray, orange, and white cat with wings to his chest. 

It must be Tara, she recalls: Gale’s best friend and tressym. Tav remembers being in awe of him, of Gale’s sheer magical ability at such a young age when he’d first told her about summoning Tara. For a fleeting moment, she wonders again if she could have ever developed such mastery with training or a skilled mentor. It’s unlikely, she thinks—Gale is special. And she is not. 

Tav moves to her prepared list of edits to make on their analysis grant section and pulls up their shared document, scrolling to the first paragraph that needs fixing. She tries not to think about how much they’ve seemed to finish, how close they are to actually having something kinda good to submit. 

She’s never done this before, but Tolna and Gale seem to think it’s going well. Maybe they’ll defeat the (improved, with Gale’s track record) odds and actually be co-PIs…

But then Tav thinks about doing this, of working closely with Gale for the next year, and her still-full stomach does an anxious flip. 

Her eyes slide towards Gale. He’s sitting in the armchair across the room from her, pouring through books he’d grabbed off shelves in the adjoining rooms, and looking every bit the scholar. He’s wearing his reading glasses and his thin sweater sleeves are pushed up to his elbows. Weeks ago, the sight would’ve emboldened her to crawl into his lap, nerves be damned, but the thought hurts and she looks away, back towards her edits. 

Over the next few hours, she tries her best to stay on task, but ultimately she doesn’t succeed. All she can think about is breakfast and the next year and Gale sitting just a few feet away until she decides to momentarily give up. She sighs and swivels around in his desk chair to look out the window behind her. 

The sky is orange now. The streetlamps will be on soon. 

She hears Gale shift and set down something from behind her. Then he walks towards the back of the chair, coming to a stop beside her and gazing outside of the window too. 

After a few beats of silence, he speaks. 

“I’m afraid I cannot remember a single sentence I’ve read in the last two hours.”

She looks up at him in surprise and he looks down at her bashfully, his hands on his hips, and it makes her look away again, back towards the sunset happening outside. 

“I’ve barely made a dent in our edits,” she admits. He chuckles beside her.

“And here I thought I was the only one lost in thought…”

They stay as they are for a while, not speaking. The streetlamps come on. And it’s hard. Being next to him like this is hard. Despite all the reasons she shouldn’t, she wants to hold his hand. 

“Tav?” She can hear that he’s looking at her.

“Yeah?” She doesn’t look at him.

“I want to thank you for doing this with me—”

“That’s not necessary,” she cuts him off. And it’s not because she doesn’t want to hear it. Maybe she doesn’t. But it’s mostly because she’s not sure she can take it. It’s been an odd day so far, a bit too much like days they’d had before he ended it all. She needs him to be less sincere, less… like himself. 

“Perhaps it’s not. But would you indulge me anyway?” he replies, patiently. 

And this makes her feel juvenile and petulant even though she knows he probably didn’t mean to make her feel that way. But it’s just not fair. None of it is even a little bit fair. He broke her heart and now he’s making her breakfast and speaking to her all gently like he has all the time in the world for her and her wretched feelings and it’s just not fucking fair. 

She nods because she feels like there isn’t really another choice. But she doesn’t speak because she can’t. And she doesn’t blink because she’s barely holding on to the tears gathering at the edges of her eyes and she can’t do this right now. 

But Gale continues, as she’s permitted.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted…” he trails off. Whether he’s lost his words or if he’s giving her an opening, she isn’t sure. Regardless, she doesn’t speak. 

“And somehow you’ve still managed to exceed my expectations in every way,” he huffs a small laugh, “But that is entirely my fault. I should’ve expected even more than I already had, knowing how incredible you are…”

“You don’t have to do all that,” her words come out all tired and sagging, like heavy rain drops. 

“Do what?” He sounds confused and this annoys her. 

“The flattery, Gale,” her tongue whips the words out harshly, “The compliments you insist on doling out every time I see you. They’re not necessary. I’m already here, working with you. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Usually, and even when Gale isn’t doing much of anything, she can feel the exuberant energy ping-ponging inside of him. Now, she feels him still completely. It’s like he’s not even breathing. 

“What do you mean by that?” He asks, carefully. And that makes her still for a moment too before responding. Because what else could she mean? A truck drives by, barreling through the tense silence with its engine and its headlights, temporarily casting them in a white glow.

“I mean,” she manages to grit out (there is pressure on her skull like she’s never felt), “You asked me for this. I said yes. No one’s forcing me to write a grant with you and I don’t need to be enticed into finishing. I’m perfectly capable of following through on my commitments without you throwing a parade in my honor every time I see you.” 

“That’s not…,” Gale begins with a mix of confusion and something else on his tongue before stopping. 

She can feel his eyes on her and she can only hope that with the relative dimness of the room around them and the way she’s looking down, he at least can’t see whatever her face looks like. Because she’s fucked up. She’s failed to hold her tears together, failed to keep the torture out of her voice. And she’d been trying so hard, too.  

“Tav, I’m sorry.” 

Shut up, she wants to say. Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut—

But then Gale moves around the chair to step in front of her and kneels. She thinks absentmindedly that his knees will hate him for it later. Still, he lowers himself fully and lays a hand on one of hers before she pulls it away.

It burns. 

“Tav,” he whispers, undeterred, “will you look at me?”

She shakes her head. No. No. No. No. No. No.

“Okay,” he accepts, “but will you listen?”

And to this, she does nothing. She sits still again, waiting. For what exactly, she’s not sure. But hope is a filthy traitor blossoming in her chest, pathetic and weak and desperate. 

“You are one of the most praiseworthy people I’ve ever met,” he says in a slow, clear voice, “And if I ever gave you the impression that my admiration of you was not sincere, I’m very sorry. I know I can be… effusive. Long winded,” he sighs, “and I’m aware it can be received as disingenuous—“

“No,” she interrupts him firmly, still looking away, “there’s nothing wrong with the way you talk, Gale.” 

She hadn’t meant to make him self-conscious. And his manner of speech has never been the problem. It’s the motivations behind it that have been her issue and yet here he is, insisting on the honesty of all the silly little things he’s applauded her for over the course of them working together. 

But even if it’s not meant to keep her satisfied with their situation, it still seems excessive. She is sure he hasn’t spoken to other colleagues in the way he speaks to her, about her (with, maybe, one particular exception). And then her mind moves to the thought that maybe he still likes her.

It knocks the wind out of her before she can snuff its light out. 

Stupid, hopeful heart. 

“Well, even so,” he says, “if I ever seem a bit too eager to sing your praises, it may also be because you make this all feel… new again. I haven’t been this excited about work in years… or about who I’m working with in much longer.”

She can hear that he’s flustered in the breathiness of his voice but she’s looking at him now, so she can see it as plain as anything too. He’s red and she can tell even in the dim light from the lamp in the corner, even with the sun fully setting long ago. 

The significance of what he’s just said is not lost on her—the Mystra of it all, included. Tav sighs.

She wants to be angry with him. She’s trying to be angry with him. But she can’t. She believes him, believes that he’s telling the truth as best as he knows it, and she sighs again. 

What in the Nine Hells is happening? 

“Do you want me to stop?” Gale asks.

Tav looks at Gale’s eyes that twinkle even in this lighting and at the concerned bend of his mouth.

“Do you really mean it?” She asks, heart humming in her chest. 

“I do,” he says simply, like that’s really all that’s necessary. And she supposes he isn’t wrong. It certainly makes her tingle all over. 

If he’s telling the truth, then maybe—

There is a sudden buzzing against the wood of his desk. It won’t stop. 

“Oh, um, it’s your phone,” he says, reaching past her to grab it. With a dazed movement, she takes it out of his offering hand and answers with a distracted “hello”. 

And then, her world shatters. 

Chapter Text

Balduran Memorial Center - Manorborn is not like most healthcare settings Gale has visited in his life so far. Waterdeep’s university-affiliated hospital system is a bit more upscale—a bit more magical—than others, he knows, but there are still scuffs at the bottoms of the doors and relatively ordinary restrooms that sometimes run out of paper towels. The Cancer Center, where his mother had undergone back-to-back surgeries and regularly scheduled maintenance therapies, is an exception to this; for about two years, he mostly sustained himself with the specialty beverages and snacks that were available in the waiting rooms for all visitors (much to Mystra’s, admittedly, restrained annoyance and Tara’s overt concern). It was an awful time all around, but he has maintained a fondness for artisanal apple ciders and honey-covered oat clusters. 

The medical center at Candlekeep was small and warm, but not fit for more intensive injuries, which seemed to be entirely the purview of healing magic practitioners. He landed in their care after being caught off guard by some mercenaries looking for Elminster in a bunkhouse on the outskirts of town; he’d been wandering around in a vague kind of distress, brought on by reading a history of the chosen of Mystra and feeling sick at the story of the goddess using Elue Shandur and Dornal Silverhand like breeding stock. Gale dispatched the hired killers, but not before they’d slashed the length of his right arm open in a quick, finessed movement. He barely managed to make it to the healing ward before passing out from the loss of blood.

He recalls St. Laupsenn’s Clinic in Waterdeep, where he’d spent three weeks with a bout of highly contagious and uncomfortable ruddy pox; it was nice enough and the healers were kind to him, but the sparse state of his room practically sent him into a spiral. There was also the Emergency Department in Luskan he’d ended up in with a concussion after breaking up a bar fight; his colleague had gotten sloshed after the conference presentations that day and mouthed off to a sword wielding man with inches on him in both directions. (As Gale reflects on these happenings, he thinks, not for the first time or the last, that he should probably try his hand at studying healing magic once more…)

Regardless, Manorborn is different. The dull and consistent cacophony of voices, rolling chairs and beds, elevator announcements, and equipment sounds that murmurs on and on in the background is quieter than he’s ever heard it. The vinyl tile in the hallways was still chosen for its cleanability and durability, but it looks much like the floor of a hotel lobby. And, somehow, the cafeteria is absolutely devoid of that odor that cafeterias tend to have, even in hospitals—something like industrially heated sink water and miscellaneous condiments. 

Gale tries to not be unsettled by the fact that the cashier station smells akin to a department store perfume counter. He gingerly takes the hot drinks he ordered and hastily makes his way back to the waiting room where he knows Tav is still sitting and staring forward at nothing in particular, poised to hear one name and one name only. 

They were in his study not long ago and he’d finally been moving towards voicing what he’d spent all morning practicing… and then she received the phone call from BMC-Manorborn’s Emergency Department, a voice on the other end blaring into the silence of his office.

Astarion, her roommate, had been taken there after a prolonged seizure at work and was still unconscious. While Gale perhaps expected her to spring into action at the news, it seemed to split her apart instead. She shot up from his desk chair as if to leave immediately, but kept an iron grip on the armrest, unwilling to let go. He stepped in then, told her he would drive her, and she didn’t even protest. She let him guide her into the passenger seat and buckle her in and drive them to the most affluent part of town, to the facility closest to Astarion’s job. 

He didn’t ask her if she wanted to get out of the car while he parked, unwilling to give her another thing to decide, and they walked so closely during the short distance from the parking lot to the Emergency Department that she bumped into him multiple times and he eventually put his arm around her to keep her steady. 

And now they’re here, waiting to hear Astarion’s name called by a nurse so they can either see him or get details on why they can’t.

Gale turns the corner into the waiting room, with its well-maintained water cooler and potted plants and array of modern furniture. It’s practically empty save for the nurses and a cluster of people in the corner furthest from the information desk, boredly checking their phones. 

Gale is surprised to find that Tav seems to be waiting for him, looking right in the direction that he’d left and he tries to give her a reassuring smile as he crosses onto the all-too-real-looking wood vinyl. 

She pulled her curls into a bun on the top of her head and taken her cardigan off, leaving her in her calf-length cotton dress and beat up sneakers. Despite the classic hospital chill around them, Tav is sweating. 

He comes to a stop and holds out a cup in a biodegradable sleeve. 

“I told them not to make it too hot,” he says, knowing she has a tendency to burn her tongue, and she seems surprised. Her hands shake a bit as she takes the drink out of his hand and thanks him in an anxious tone. 

They sit in silence for a few moments. Tav fiddles with the lid of the cup and he knows she is trying to say something. 

“You didn’t have to.” 

“It’s a hospital, Tav,” he replies with a dismissive wave, “It might be in the wealthiest neighborhood in the city, but the hot chocolate will probably still disappoint even if it doesn’t burn you.”

“No,” she sighs and shakes her head, “I mean, you didn’t have to bring me here.” 

“There is no conceivable set of circumstances under which I would let you contend with something like this alone. Surely, you must know that,” and maybe he sounds a bit condescending because he’s saying it like it’s obvious but is it not? How could it not be? 

But perhaps it isn’t, with the way Tav shifts uncomfortably in her chair and looks at the floor. 

“We’re just colleagues now,” her voice is even, but tense, “I don’t think chauffeuring me in the event of an emergency is necessarily within scope.”

Gale frowns. “You were much more to me before you were my collaborator.” 

He says this and Tav looks at him in the wake of it with something like trepidation. And it threatens to shatter him, really, the way such a simple truth seems to have taken her completely off guard, the immense wariness that lurks beneath the hope on her face.

Of course, what he leaves unspoken, unclarified, is that she still is so much more than just a collaborator to him. 

Soon. She will know soon, but not now. Not only are they in a hospital due to an emergency, but there is clearly something that’s been damaged between the two of them. And it needs fixing. Breakfast and their moment in his study had made that quite clear enough. But while Gale understands that he should probably be more apprehensive about the seemingly fragile state of her regard for him, he’s already decided to meet this moment as he’s managed all other challenges in his life: with a single-mindedness and dedication that would not fail him. 

“…And one good turn deserves another,” he continues, trying to lighten the conversation, if not the mood, “You chauffeured me first. And you’re not even drunk, so I’m sure I had a much easier go of it than you did.”

And while Tav doesn’t quite laugh, she breathes out something in amusement. 

Progress.

She takes a sip from her cup and hums sharply.

“Too hot?,” Gale asks with concern.

She shakes her head, “No, too good,” she holds the cup out to him, “Try that.” 

And for some reason he licks his lips before taking a sip, as if he’s kissing her by proxy, just to find that she’s right. 

“That’s delicious… It’s nonsensical, really,” Gale says flatly. 

Tav sighs and it bubbles into a laugh that dies quickly in a groan, “I hate hospitals.”

And Gale nods with a huff of a laugh because so does he.

A quiet, but purposeful set of footsteps draw nearer and nearer before stopping in front of them. 

“Are you here for,” the nurse double checks the clipboard in her hand, “Astarion Ancunín?” 

“Yes, can we see him?” Tav asks, fully alert again.

“We’re only allowing in immediate family members, given he’s fairly exhausted. What’s your relation?” The nurse responds.

“I’m his wife,” Tav says in a firm voice, “and this is his brother.” 

She gestures towards him without an ounce of hesitation and Gale is relieved the nurse only nods and leads them to the elevator without scrutinizing them further.

Because while it’s firmly within the realm of possibility that she just lied, he has just realized that Tav and Astarion have the same last name. 

He trails behind Tav’s quick footsteps towards Astarion’s room, now in the Neurology Department, and keeps his eyes trained on the back of her, watches the spirals of her hair sway with her walking. The nurse stops them just outside of Astarion’s door and she steps in briefly without them to inform him that his wife and brother are here to see him. Then she opens the door and waves them in before leaving, closing it behind her. 

“Why, hello wife,” a smooth and sore voice, “and hello… brother.”

Most people would not look very intimidating from a hospital bed. Astarion, a pale, lithe man of sharp features and white curls, is an exception. He is not menacing, rather Gale feels like his garnet eyes are reading him as easily as a signpost despite the obvious exhaustion on his face. 

“My my,” Astarions looks over the entire length of Gale’s body as he speaks, “aren’t genetics the most mysterious thing?” 

“Shut up,” Tav says this as she steps quickly to Astarion’s bedside and pulls him into the tightest hug she can manage without disturbing his connection to any monitors or drip bags. 

Gale stands awkwardly a few feet away and watches Astarion’s eyes close as he returns Tav’s embrace. She sobs against his hospital gowned shoulder and he rubs her back softly despite the teasing bite of his words. 

“Don’t cry, Mrs. Ancunín. You’re a hideous crier.” 

A muffled I hate you emerges from the embrace and Astarion laughs hoarsely. His wine red gaze lands back on Gale as his eyes open again and he maintains eye contact as he kisses Tav’s cheek and pulls her away.

“Now, would you mind introducing me to my brother?” 

Tav, having sat back onto the available ledge of Astarion’s bed, jolts and turns around to look at him, appearing guiltier than Gale’s ever seen her. 

“This is Gale. Gale, this is Astarion.” 

“So you’re Gale. As in: of Waterdeep, Gale,” Astarion says this with a coy smile, suddenly eyeing him even more closely than he had been moments ago. 

“I… I am.” It’s almost funny. Whereas being called of Waterdeep, Gale would have typically been his main concern, he does not care at all in this moment. He is too dumbfounded by the fact that he has just been introduced to Tav’s husband—her husband who already knows about him. 

“I should’ve known. There can only be so many dreamy, brown eyed men reeking of magic in a city like Baldur’s Gate, after all,” Astarion groans when Tav pokes him roughly in the side. 

He sasses her as she quickly and guiltily rubs the spot where she prodded him, “Do watch where you’re putting your fingers, darling. I’m quite literally infirmed.”

In another scenario, the knowledge that Tav had described him as dreamy would have flustered him like nothing else. But the messenger—Tav’s literal husband—overshadows the whole thing a bit too much.

Tav turns to look at Gale with something akin to I’m so sorry and it makes his insides burn.

And while he’s been comforting himself with the fact that they haven’t kissed or touched in any way that confirms their marital status, Gale realizes it’s entirely possible that she hasn’t kissed Astarion because he’s currently in the room, because Tav isn’t cruel. 

Astarion groans and rolls his eyes, “My goodness, wizard. Look a bit less tortured. Our marriage is one of convenience.” 

“Honestly, Tavelle,” the pale man turns to look at Tav, a bit incredulous, “did you seriously not warn the man before bringing him here?” 

Tav buries her head in her hands with a groan and Astarion rolls his eyes again before explaining. “How very dramatic of you. Now, while I happen to enjoy awkward social situations, I’m a bit too ill for this at the moment.”

“Long story short: I have a rare and congenital form of Calcification Virus, which requires daily and monthly medications and, occasionally, a hospital stay if I have a flare up. Tav’s university health insurance covers most of it. We got married so I could have coverage and not accrue debt larger than my student loans while trying to not be dead.”

Oh is all Gale can manage. 

“And in return, I keep her out of trouble and give her the grand pleasure of my fabulous company. I mean,” Astarion waves an elegant hand along his torso with some difficulty, as if to accentuate himself, “surely you understand she’s getting the better end of the deal.” 

“I’m going to smother you with a pillow,” Tav says, her voice muffled by her hands still cradling her face. 

Gale feels knots in his stomach unfurl one by one as he processes this information and it must show on his face because Astarion laughs so loud he coughs. Tav scrambles out of her embarrassment to pour him a glass of water from the pitcher beside the bed and Astarion looks smug even as he’s drinking. 

But Gale doesn’t care. Their marriage is a piece of paper. A series of partial insurance reimbursements. An act of selflessness and platonic commitment. It is not love. And he is so relieved that he doesn’t even bother to pretend that it’s because he was concerned about infidelity or betrayal. 

He is relieved. And he is relieved because he doesn’t want Tav to be in a marriage of love with anyone else. 

Anyone else…

Gale feels unburdened by the realization that follows, much more than he feels fearful, and so he finally lets himself take a seat in the armchair by Astarion’s room window. 

He looks at Tav’s profile, takes note of the flush of her face and the particular redness of her nose. She surprises him in the middle of his watching, pivoting her head to give him a small, apologetic smile before turning back to Astarion and asking for the details on what happened and what was going to happen.

Gale splits his mind as they speak. Half of him listens and the other plans. Tav will be visiting Astarion for at least the next few days and she will need a reliable form of transportation to Manorborn, likely alongside reminders and opportunities to eat and rest. He can handle those things, so he will. 

Gale plans dinner, deciding he’ll defrost the chicken thighs in the freezer once he brings her back to his home, and make enough so there will be leftovers for her. Then, he’ll take her home and put gas in his car on the way back. He’ll get to bed early so he can wake up early enough on Sunday to get some work done in the morning before he brings Tav back to Manorborn. 

A nurse eventually comes in to take Astarion for testing (“I’m quite the rarity you know—both in sickness and survival. I suppose I can’t help but be quite exceptional.”) and her white haired man waves at them with a drugged-up flourish as he’s wheeled out of the room.

As soon as the nurse closes the door behind her, Tav walks around to the other side of Astarion’s bed to sit in front of him. 

“I should’ve told you,” she says firmly, face still flushed from earlier, “I am so sorry.” 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he moves up to the edge of the chair’s seat and his knees almost brush hers.  

“I should’ve told you,” she shakes her head, “You would’ve understood.”

“I do understand. Perfectly well,” Gale says. Because he does.

“I know. And that’s why I should’ve told you,” Tav sighs, “I… I can’t imagine what you must’ve thought before Astarion cleared things up… I’m really sorry.” 

Gale holds his hand out to Tav and she looks at it. For a long moment, he thinks she doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but then she slowly places one of her hands in his waiting palm. He squeezes it gently and then lets their joined hands fall onto his knee. 

“I was very confused, but you still have nothing to apologize for. And even if you did… I would forgive you,” he wants to say more in this vein, but restrains himself. It’s still not the right place or time. 

“…I am curious about one thing, however,” Gale broaches.

“Whatever it is, I’ll answer,” she looks at him with a determined face. He wants to press her into the hospital bed until there’s no air between them. 

“You took his last name,” Gale says, careful to leave his current imaginings out of his tone. 

“Yeah…” she looks down at their hands and then back up at his face and sighs. 

She frowns as she explains, “Not long after I started grad school, I cut ties with my family. Well, my mom really. My siblings and I are still fine, I think… although we don’t speak very often. When we signed the paperwork, I started using his last name to… leave it all behind, I guess.”

Gale hums in understanding. 

The silence builds around them, but not in an unpleasant way. They are still holding hands, still sitting while facing each other in a nicer-than-he’s-ever-seen hospital room with cream colored furnishings. And then Tav speaks again.

“In my second year, I woke up one day and I couldn’t move… my body just kinda broke,” she looks at their hands as she speaks.

“Astarion took 3 buses from Beregost to come take care of me. We’ve been friends since undergrad. He was the only one I could call who I knew would actually help.”

“He was sick at the time. His condition wasn’t managed well and he was on leave from law school because of it… they didn’t want to accommodate him. We signed the marriage certificate not long after he got here and then he dropped out of school and stayed… Beregost is a city, but it doesn’t have many resources for someone with something rare. And it’s not like I didn’t need him…” 

“Anyway, that’s the full story. Kinda. Astarion doesn’t like to talk about it, but he took care of me when everything was awful. And after…,” she trails off and then doesn’t continue, waving off the end like smoke. 

And Gale wants to know. He wants to know almost as desperately as he wants to take her into his arms. But neither of these wants can be satisfied now.

“So what you’re saying is that he’s not nearly as self-obsessed as he seems,” Gale jokes lightly.

Tav laughs, more so out of surprise and relief than anything else and yet much looser than she’s seemed all day.

She shakes her head with a fond grin, “No, he is. He just happens to like me enough too.” 

“Well thank the gods for his good taste.” And they should. Because if Astarion had not been there, long before he met Tav, who knows if he’d be here right now, holding her hand… 

Gods he’s missed this. He’s missed her.  

Too soon, she pulls her hand away to call Astarion’s work and give them an update, turning away from him to grab her phone with a shy smile. Gale takes the moment to use the adjoining restroom. 

As he washes his hands and hears Tav’s muffled voice through the door, he goes over his plans.

For the next week or so, he will drive Tav from campus to Manorborn each afternoon while Astarion is admitted. He will do his best to prepare and pack dinner for them each morning so they can visit for as long as she’d like. He will attempt to help her with grading her students’ assignments and to continue making edits on their grant.

And then, after Astarion has recovered, after Gale has time to mend what he’s broken, on the first possible night he can prepare the right kind of gesture, he will tell her.

He will tell Tav that he loves her. 

Gale leaves the bathroom just as Tav finishes the call and they stand just a few feet away from each other, sharing an awkward-yet-warm look. Gale takes a deep breath and broaches the topic of driving her to Manorborn for her visits, of helping her get through however long this lasts. As expected, she does not readily agree, but when he pivots to posing it as a way of keeping them on track to meet their grant deadline, she relents. 

But he notes that agrees much more easily than he anticipated she would. And she doesn’t object to him making her dinner later that night, after visiting hours are over. 

Eventually, Astarion is wheeled back into the room and despite his obvious exhaustion, he resists sleeping. He begins to ask Gale questions—some personal, some not, about Waterdeep and his youth and his career—and, despite Tav’s protests, Gale answers every single one, inclusive of even his childhood fear (clowns, which still unsettle him despite his inherent respect for artists and performers). 

Much later that evening, as they drive back to his home in a comfortable silence, Tav has a sudden idea for how to simplify their visual model even further. She directs him to a nearby pizza place as she explains her thoughts and when they finally make it home, she goes straight to his study. He grabs plates and cups and napkins and a pitcher of lemonade from the kitchen and summons Mage Hands to carry the pizza behind him. When he reaches his office, he cannot restrain what he knows is a too-pleased grin at the sight of her sitting at his desk, sketching out boxes and connecting lines for the new model on one of his notepads.

Tav finishes the sketch as he serves her a slice of pizza and pours her a glass of lemonade and then sits on the deep window sill behind her to eat. He helps make improvements to her sketch and soon they have something they've perfected together. 

He does not defrost the chicken thighs in his freezer. He does not make it to bed early. They work past midnight and despite his insistence that she let him drive her home, she orders a cab with a shake of her head and a small smile and tells him to sleep well. 

And he does. 

It's much better than he planned.

Chapter Text

They are looking at each other in the harsh, shifting light of a movie they’re ignoring. Tav is on the floor, on her favorite cushion, and her eyes watch Gale’s mouth as the question leaves his lips. 

She remembers the week like this…

-

-

-

Monday

It is their third night in a row working past midnight. Gale sets down their mugs and then sits back in the wooden chair he’d brought to the side of the desk. 

They’re working on their laptops side-by-side, finalizing their significance section—every IMER grant application requires an explicit discussion of the wider implications of the proposed project. How will this benefit magical research? and What benefits will this bring to the magical researcher community? and answers to other questions in that vein, where applicants are expected to (in her opinion, overstate) the potential impact of their work. 

While she thinks her work has value, she also knows that merely because a piece of knowledge exists, doesn’t mean there will be applicable impact of that knowledge. For example, it’s been well established that poverty is bad for the development of magical aptitude for reasons that have social, interpersonal, and physiological pathways. 

But does the magical research community care about solving poverty? No. They’d rather keep researching it and trying to nail down to the decimal how spell surface area correlates with household income. 

Tav sighs. She’s thinking about things she has no control over again and she’d really like to stop. 

The point: she hates the “significance” section. So Gale’s been taking the lead on it and while its distracting to listen to him explain anything he has some proficiency in, hearing him speak about writing, the intricacies of wording “one’s valuable contributions to the advancement of magical knowledge”… it’s almost too much. 

She’s almost sure there is some alternate timeline where Gale gets his PhD in Common Literatures instead, like she thought about doing for most of undergrad. Maybe, in that timeline, that’s how they meet: just two grad students having esoteric debates with each other about poets and novelists until they fall in love and become librarians or something.  

“Tav?” 

“Hm?”

“You weren’t listening.”

“…I wasn’t. I’m sorry.” 

He chuckles. “Tell me? What were you thinking of?” 

“Have you ever considered… poetry?”

“‘Considered it?’ As a literary form or an activity or a profession?” 

“Just generally. All of the above or other.” 

He smiles. “Why do you ask?” 

“I don’t know. Call it a hunch or insight, I’m not sure. Have you?” 

“…I’m quite fond of it.” 

She grins. “I thought that would be the case… You never mentioned it.” …before, when that kind of thing could’ve led to all kinds of adorably romantic interludes.  

He gives her an embarrassed smile. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t have many opportunities to indulge in creative writing anymore. Perhaps, after I retire, I’ll return to it.”

“I think you should write a poem for our significance section.” 

It’s almost one in the morning. She can’t be held liable for not staying on task.

Gale laughs, just as tired and maybe as delirious and he stretches his arms above his head. His sweater rides up a tad and she can see a sliver of skin above the button of his slacks. 

She can hear herself breathe heavily into her mug. 

“I got it,” he says, suddenly serious, “My magnum opus. Are you ready?” 

She nods quickly, eagerly.

“Roses are red / Bees create honey / Our project is great / Now give us some money.”

She claps with a drunken, raucous laugh and Gale laughs at how delighted she seems at something that wasn’t even particularly funny, just incredibly niche. 

For all her silliness and Gale being distracting, they finish the section. It takes another hour, but it is done (pending her advisors’ inputs) and ready for Tolna’s review.

Gale drives her home and Tav dreams about what could’ve been and, maybe, what is somewhere else—kissing against a shelf of works by Pushkin, writing odes that they hide away for the other to find later, nothing but love and time between them. 

-

-

-

Tuesday

Astarion looks a bit more like himself today. An undertone is emerging from the languid blood under his skin. And she realizes she’s been looking for that, for some vital sign, proof of life beside his nurse’s insistence that he will not die in Manorborn. 

It’s not much. But she’s grateful. 

She uses their time alone, as Gale calls into a meeting, to entertain him with gossip. 

“They’re going away together for the break? He didn’t mention that when he visited…,” Astarion smirks, “Our little Rolan, all grown up and remembering he has a cock.” 

Tav shoves his shoulder lightly as she snickers. They are sitting on Astarion’s bed, facing each other, eating through a container Gale brought in from his car. It’s filled with pieces of peeled and sliced fruit, somehow still cool as it sits in the warmth between them.

Astarion spears an orange wedge with his fork. 

“I suppose I’m the only one around here not getting laid then,” he sighs with feigned drama, the back of the hand with his forked fruit coming to rest on his forehead. 

Tav rolls her eyes, “Very subtle. You know that’s not happening for me either.” 

“This bounty of carefully prepared fruit begs to differ, darling.”

He smirks and Tav puts her fork down as the crisp apple on her tongue turns bitter. 

Astarion rolls his eyes after a long moment of silence and sighs, “Well fine, since you have to be all sensitive about it… I know you’re not having sex with the wizard. The real question is: why not?”

“You know why.”

“I know that it’s against the rules, yes… but you also made it seem like he was no longer interested in you. And that, dear, is a crock of hogwash.”

“Star.”

“It is,” Astarion throws his arms as widely as he can, still restrained by his IV, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man pine so hard. I mean who in their right mind goes so far as to cut this much fruit for someone they have platonic feelings about. Mangoes aren’t even in season yet and these are superb—“

“Okay! I get it!”

Astarion chews and swallows a mouthful of mango.  

“Why won’t you just talk to each other about it? Truly, it’s not metamechanics or whatever the real nerds do,” he says, “This is simple, Tavelle.”

“Because maybe he does like me. But I don’t just like him...” 

Astarion rolls his eyes and shifts his legs to put his feet on the floor. Tav moves to help, but he waves her off and wheels his IV bag with him in stiff movements. Before he closes the bathroom door behind him, he turns around and gives her a deeply unimpressed look. 

“You are one of the smartest people I know… and also one of the densest dolts I’ve ever met.” 

And she knows what he means. It’s obvious. 

But she actually knows Gale, knows his incredible romanticism and his tendency toward self-sacrifice and his eagerness to be embraced, to be loyal. He speaks with an unrelenting sincerity that can be too easily misconstrued as admiration or… more. 

She’s not special. He is. And she just happened to be his first fling after the end of his relationship with Mystra. 

She wishes she was special.

-

-

-

Wednesday

She didn’t get a chance to do laundry this past weekend or in the days since. She’s out of overalls and t-shirts and light sweaters and billowy cotton dresses that are loose around her body. And it’s just too hot today for anything else she would’ve grabbed. 

She hasn’t worn this dress in years. It’s a surprise that it still fits given how her body has changed, though the ribbed elastic around her chest is working overtime. It’s bright red with short sleeves and falls a bit above her knees and comes in at the waist before flaring out into something swishy and soft. And she hates it, hates the lack of pockets and the way she’ll certainly chafe between the thighs because it comes up too high to wear her layering shorts underneath and the pressure she’ll feel all day to squeeze her legs together even tighter when she sits in the already-too-narrow chairs on campus. 

She considers canceling her meetings today and staying home to do laundry instead, maybe even spending some money she doesn’t have on new clothes so this doesn’t happen again, but Gale is already downstairs by the time she gets serious about it.

He greets her as he always has, pleased and delighted and like she put the sun in the sky. He doesn’t behave any differently, but she can feel him look, however noncommittally, as she buckles herself in and they drive to campus. 

The short walk from Gale’s car to the CoM lobby is near torture. A random gust of wind scares her so much she fists the excess fabric of the skirt in her right hand. She’s tensing and she can feel it in her back, muscles tangling into something that will bother her soon. A man sitting by the fountain in front of the CoM building drags his eyes up and down her body as she passes. And the nakedness she feels makes everything and everyone seem extra close to her skin. 

When they enter the too-corporate-looking building, three of the four elevators have been closed for maintenance, which is typical for the week leading up to University breaks, but deeply inconvenient. 

And then Aradin, the disinterested lobby security guard who hasn’t spoken a full word to her in about five years, starts to talk to her, full phrases and sentences and questions—about her plans for the break, something innocuous and contextually appropriate in the same way that complaining about the elevator maintenance would be. He gives her a fairly rakish grin as he says she looks very nice today and Tav wonders if he still knows her name without a glimpse at her BGU ID. 

Before she can respond, Aradin runs a hand through his ashy brown curls and asks if she’ll be around, maybe with some free time to go to the street market that will open by the docks this coming weekend. And it is then that she feels the warm touch of Gale’s hand, unbelievably light against the middle of her back, directing her away—our elevator is here, he says—until they are in the only working lift in the building.

Gale seems upset with her. As the elevator rises, she thanks him—for what, she knows she shouldn’t entirely make explicit right then—and he gives her a quick, tense smile before looking away, back to the climbing floor numbers on the small screen above the elevator doors. She doesn’t sigh, doesn’t feel like there’s space for it; he probably thinks she was flirting and is annoyed with her and so she’s just going to shut up and—

There is a quiet ding as they reach the sixth floor, where she books a small office for her open hours each week, and Tav steps out with a quiet bye. If he’s not too mad, she will see him later when they go to visit Astarion and maybe she’ll apologize then, try to explain that she didn’t really want to speak to Aradin and this stupid dress—

“Tav… would this help?”

Gale is holding open the elevator with his arm, offering a light, forest green cardigan. She can only assume he pulled it out of his satchel. And while she’s pretty sure it’s too small, it’s clear just from looking at it, she takes it.

“I’ll see you later?” He offers this with an awkward smile, but he looks at her now. He’s not mad. 

There is a long buzzing sound; Gale has been holding the elevator open for too long and he sighs before waving at her and letting it slide shut.

The cardigan is too small to fit around her chest, like she thought, and too delicate to tie around her waist (on its label: ‘pure cashmere’). She drapes it around her shoulders and even though it kind of clashes with her dress…

It makes her feel lighter than air.

Because Gale wasn’t mad. 

Gale was jealous.  

-

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-

Thursday

It is her last scheduled class before Spring Recess and Tav uses the session to have one-on-one meetings about her class’s semester projects. She’s tasked each of her Alternative Qualitative Methodologies students with collecting one oral history from any person of their choosing; they are expected to decide on an angle of interest, prepare an interviewing protocol, collect the materials and equipment needed for their chosen mode of interviewing, and then procure informed consent before conducting the actual interview and identifying at least 3 key themes across their interviewee’s stories. 

And even though the vast majority of her students are completely on track to finish by the end of the semester, and the few who aren’t mostly needed nudges in the right directions, Tav is drained. She sighs into the empty room and sits on the metal desk she’s constantly banging her shins on. 

Until the door to the classroom opens and Shadowheart steps through it. 

“What are you doing here?” Tav stands up and hugs her, rubbing her upper back in a reassuring motion. (It’s reassuring for Tav… she is terrified that something else will happen to another person she cares about.) 

“I had a meeting with someone in Clerical and Healing Studies,” she says, “And then I remembered that you teach on Thursdays so I looked it up stalker-style.” 

They laugh as Shadowheart looks around, “It is awfully empty though? Where is everyone?” 

“Oh,” Tav waves her hand, “The last week before breaks is always awful for attendance so I do meetings about their semester projects instead.” 

“There’s a couple of students who may still show up, but they also may be on vacation already. Who knows. More power to ‘em.” 

Tav sits back on the metal desk and tries not to wince at the sharpness of one of its corners.

“I don’t mind waiting around. Want to get lunch after this?” 

“Oh actually—“

It is at this moment that a soft knock taps on the door and Gale’s head pokes in. Tav huffs a laugh and waves him all the way inside. He is surprised by Shadowheart, who is smirking wider than Tav’s ever seen in the short time she’s known her. 

“Shadowheart, this is Gale. Gale, this is Shadowheart Hallowleaf, PhD,” Tav says, wiggling her fingers in a jazzy maneuver as she mentions Shadowheart’s degree. 

The silver haired woman snorts. 

“Gale Dekarios,” he says with a smile, holding out a hand towards Shadowheart, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Hallowleaf.” 

“Shadowheart is fine,” she slides her pale hand onto Gale’s tanned one, “Do you always introduce yourself with your full name?” 

Gale comes to stand up straight again and then squints as he thinks the question over. 

“Hmm… I suppose I often do,” Gale replies thoughtfully, “Interesting…”

Shadowheart laughs and gives Tav a look with an amused mouth. We will talk about this later.

They wait out the rest of the time and it’s a good thing she stays because one of her students comes running in with just 10 minutes left in the class’s timeslot. She shoos Gale and Shadowheart out with a laugh and answers Erin’s questions on his project after he catches his breath. 

Then they go to lunch at a small place about a block away from campus. Gale pulls out chairs for them before taking a seat next to Tav and begins to ask questions about Shadowheart’s training and time at BGU. It’s just so impossibly Gale that she can’t help but smile at him for much longer than is probably typical. 

And Shadowheart, somehow, despite having no plans of meeting a new person today, let alone one that seems intent on knowing everything about her, seems to be having fun. 

Too soon, lunch is over and Shadowheart has to go back to the Medical School campus for work. Gale steps away for a moment to use the restroom, but Tav is sure he will also pay the check on the way back to the table just so she doesn’t have the chance to fight him about it. 

Shadowheart sips the last of her tea and then sets the empty cup down on its saucer.

“Now I really get it,” she says. 

“Get what?”

“Why you didn’t want to hook up,” Shadowheart says with another long, teasing smirk, “He is… something.”

Tav blushes deeply, but doesn’t deny it. If Shadowheart could tell despite her never mentioning Gale’s name that night in her apartment, it wouldn’t be the first time she’s been obvious. 

She nods and sighs, much more dreamily than she intended. 

“He really is.” 

-

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-

Friday 

Astarion’s test results are on a steady positive trend. He is pinker than he’s seemed in weeks, maybe months. 

He is alive. He will live. And according to his doctors, he will come home tomorrow and rest in his own bed and she will be able to hug him against his theatrical protests without cables and cords and tubes getting in the way. 

Astarion doesn’t cry at the news of his upcoming release. And maybe it’s because this is not his first rodeo or maybe it’s because Gale is in the room and Astarion thinks his tears will become ammo for a future time if Gale ever decides he’d like to tease him back. Perhaps it's something else. Regardless, he doesn’t cry, so she doesn’t either. 

But it builds in her. As Astarion eats the meal set in front of him by his nurse and Gale heats up the containers he’d filled with their dinner that morning, Tav focuses on breathing slowly and making room in her throat for unaffected words and jokes and other social things. 

She is happy; of course, she is. How could she not be? But the fear and the panic and the dreams she’s been having of planning Astarion’s funeral all go into the same blender with the positive emotions and it's all just thick sludge when the blades stop spinning. 

Later, after Astarion falls asleep and the nurses wave goodbye back and they walk slowly back towards Gale’s car, she doesn’t have enough strength to pull open the passenger side door. She’s frozen, choking on sludge, and when Gale rushes around the front of the car, she falls into his arms and cries. 

And cries and cries and cries. 

They stand there for a long time. Gale leans on the passenger side door and she leans on him, sandwiching him between the hard blue body of his car and the river pouring out of her face. He holds her up by the waist and runs a soothing hand along her back and his mouth settles in her hair, not quite kissing her there. 

When she pulls back, she looks at the large damp spot soaking the front of his button-down. And after a beat of silence, she laughs. She laughs until it is painful, and he laughs with her, holding her all the while, even when she practically doubles over from the spasm panging in her gut. 

-

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Saturday 

That morning, the head of Astarion’s treatment team goes through his updated medication regimen and schedule of monthly treatments with both of them, and then provides Tav with the number for Astarion’s new Rare Conditions Access Coordinator in the case of another emergency. (Why Astarion had not already been linked to such a resource before is beyond her...)

Then they take him home, with Gale driving carefully in the midday traffic and her riding with Astarion in the backseat, making sure he doesn’t sway too much (pain medication works). Ever so often, they make eye contact in the rearview mirror, private laughter dancing in their gazes at Astarion’s excited babbling about freedom (“it was a beautiful prison!”).

Gale holds open the doors they encounter as she guides Astarion out of the car and upstairs and into his bed. He orders her dinner from the noodle place she likes and the containers are arranged neatly and sensibly on her coffee table by the time Astarion finally gives into sleep and lets her slip out of his room. 

They eat together, too tired and relieved for conversation. Gale clears  the table when they finish and sets the dishwasher to run and when he seems too close to broaching the topic of leaving, she asks if he’d like to watch a movie with her.

They pick something neither of them seem particularly interested in and they criticize more than they engage, not moving to stop the next movie from autoplaying once the credits of the first finish. 

Eventually, and without much preamble, he asks. 

“Should I stay?”

And now they're here, looking at each other in her living room like they have so many times before. And Gale is waiting with all the patience in the realms for her answer.

He’s scheduled to leave for Waterdeep tomorrow. His mother is expecting him. That had always been the plan, him going home during Spring Recess. And with Astarion out of Manorborn, there’s no real reason for Gale to consider changing that plan, not under the auspices of helping her. 

And yet, he’s asking. And he’s clearly asking if he should stay for her. 

With her. 

Tav knows she’s a selfish being at her core. She has always been tortured by her immense capacity for want. She has always wanted, so fucking deeply, what she cannot have, what is not hers to want. And it is not really that she’s ambitious or persistent, but something else. She covets. 

Being around Gale awakens that part of her that would’ve blossomed into a terrible monster under less impoverished conditions. 

He enables her. The picking her up and dropping her off and getting jealous and making her dinner—even cajoling her into letting him grade her students’ shorter assignments so he can “learn” from her “very clear rubrics”. He thinks it escapes her attention, the fact that he does things for her by making it seem like she’s doing him a favor or like it is all in service of keeping them on track to submit their grant in a timely fashion. She knows. 

She’s letting him. 

It has become clear to her that Gale probably still likes her, even if he doesn’t know quite what to do with those feelings or the extent of them—the endpoints. 

But she knows what she wants.

She wants to keep riding around in the passenger side of his car and listening to him explain what’s for dinner and defending him when Astarion teases him about some factoid that Gale has offered freely because he can’t help but be an open book. She wants to sit at the desk in Gale’s study and ask him to bring her things and listen to him get distracted and talk to her from the other rooms where he’s found yet another thing he just needs to show her. And when he is delighted by something she does, she actually kind of wants to hear him gush, wants to awkwardly swallow up his praise and feel oversated and parched and full-to-bursting and hungry for more. 

She wants it all. And more. She wants his everything—all of his time and attention and space and love. She knows, she’s known it all this time.  

But if she’s going to do this again, he has to want it too. He has to want her in the way she wants him or there’s nowhere to go, really. 

And at least for right now, he doesn’t. As far as she knows, he doesn’t feel that way. As far as she knows, he doesn’t want her that way. And in a fashion that she’ll probably never escape, Tav is selfish. 

So she says no. 

She doesn’t have all of him so tells him to go, that his mother and Tara miss him and that she will see him when he gets back because it's only a little over a week away, that dinner with her advisors, and everything is just fine here, now. 

And when the look on his face drops for a moment before righting itself, when he lingers by the front door as he leaves, she feels it again, blooming in her chest around her pounding heart:  

Hope. 

Chapter Text

Gale is sitting in his rental car, parked on the Street of Whispers. It’s late—late enough that his mother has long gone to bed and Tara has likely made the decision to wait up for him in the sitting room of his childhood home. 

He looks at his phone in his hand, still open to his call log with Tav’s name running down the list of phoned contacts with few exceptions. 

He needs to speak with her now, needs to tell someone about whatever the fuck is currently happening. But it’s late, late enough that if she’s tending to Astarion the way he thinks she is, she is likely to be unconscious, lying still in a state of exhausted, dreamless sleep.

Still, his finger presses on the screen of his phone, over her name, and he holds the phone to his ear. He listens to it ring and ring and ring until her automated voicemail message comes up. 

Of all the times to be right. 

-

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-

It’s not that he’d been avoiding his old colleagues from U of Waterdeep while he was visiting… 

He had just been hoping not to run into any of them. 

On the drive to his mother’s house, as he made his stop at their favorite patisserie, he steered clear of any streets or establishments he used to frequent with a dedicated U of Waterdeep presence. It wasn’t avoiding his old colleagues as much as it was avoiding anything even remotely associated with his former life. But to truly accomplish that he would’ve needed to leave the city, maybe the realm… 

So he couldn’t fully accomplish avoiding U of Waterdeep entirely, but he could work very hard at… maintaining his hope that he wouldn’t run into his old colleagues. And he did. He stayed within the safe perimeter of his childhood home, playing lanceboard with his mother and reading in the library with Tara and spending hours with them both in the garden. 

But after a few days of that, his mother wanted to go to tea and then stop at the House of Wonder and he was not avoiding his old colleagues so he’d embarked outside. 

And now he’s here, at a dinner party with most of his old colleagues in attendance. 

Thank the gods his mother still had one of his suits lying around.

He remembers attending something like this at a faculty member’s home for the first time, not long after he began his doctoral studies: a dinner party where the main means of sustenance are debate and wine and despite the catered meal, no one bothers actually eating food (unless they are very senior or very shameless) and everyone leaves with to-go plates instead. 

Gale is fairly adept at maneuvering such occasions with plenty of charm and wit and scholarly acumen. It was a vital part of his ongoing demonstration of worthiness for quite a while, after all. If he could earn his invites on his own merits, then it would mean he was Mystra’s equal… or something to that effect. Regardless, it didn’t work. And while he knows that he can and should be trying to prove that he’s just fine despite his abrupt leave and then resignation in a bang of shimmering likability, he doesn’t want to. 

Gale is just counting down the minutes until he can make a polite exit without insulting the host, Fea Eltorchul, who’d been the one to invite him. 

Fea had run into him waiting, reading on a bench on the first floor of the House of Wonder as his mother was off visiting Rhinzen Halnian, the… eccentric leader of the House’s mage academy who she’d known since before Gale was called a prodigy. 

Fea had asked him all manner of questions—starting with where he’d been and what he’d been up to, eventually getting to if he’d heard about some grant someone in the department just won until she seemed to remember the dinner party she was hosting soon. She’d insisted on his attendance; “Everyone would be positively gobsmacked to see you! ”

Of that, he had no doubt.

He’d tried to tell Fea he was in town visiting his mother and that he’d need to check if he could steal away for an hour or so… but of course Morena chose then to return and, having heard the tail end of his excuse, encouraged him to go to the gathering right in front of Fea, citing that she’d “visit a friend for dinner” while he was gone. 

It was borderline traitorous. 

Gale sips a glass of white wine he doesn’t like and makes his way towards the villa’s gardens. Its neatly trimmed hedges provide plenty of places to hide, but he’s not quite looking for that either. He just needs a small break. The last three conversations he’d been roped into concluded with him slipping away, no real faux pas committed, but explaining his teaching-focused position at BGU to looks of surprise is starting to give him a headache. 

It’s all worsened by the fact that Gale cannot quite fault anyone for being surprised. He knows he is different now, that he wants different things and that it is okay, splendid actually, that he does. But he’d spent far longer caring about things that don’t matter, loving someone who surely still values those things that don’t matter, and he does not appreciate the endless stream of reminders. 

He doesn’t go far from inside, taking a seat on a wooden bench just to the side of the stairs leading into the gardens. He breathes the cool night air in deeply and looks at the moon, the planets, and the stars.

The stars are brighter over Waterdeep. Gale knows it to be the result of a complex magical structure that filters out light pollution in an intricate maneuver of the Weave. It’s by no means evenly applied—the times he’d visited the dwellings of his classmates living in the Dock Ward, for example, he’d been stunned over and over again by the absence of stars over his head, out of their windows. But here, in the Sea Ward, even with its well-lit streets, the stars seem close enough to touch. 

Baldur’s Gate’s night sky cannot compare, cannot hold a flickering candle to the sight. And yet, he wishes he were there instead. 

He wishes, for the nth time, that he was with Tav. 

Something had shifted between them before he left to visit his family. Unspoken, but acknowledged. Gale thinks she could see his heart, could read the words he so desperately still wants to tell her in the careful manners in which he packed her dinners and snacks, in the unsubtle wall he erected between her and Aradin. 

He isn’t trying to hide it very much anymore, if he ever truly was. But she still sent him away after he’d asked her if he should stay. Admittedly, he’d left his language vague out of fear, despite his intentions to make things much more specific if she agreed, as he (perhaps) expected she would…

But she didn’t. She told him to go, implored him to keep his commitment to his mother and to Tara and to avoid the irritation of canceling his flight so soon before check-in. 

Gale sighs and takes out his phone, feeling the sudden urge to call her and ask why. It’s almost 11pm, but unless something drastic has happened in his absence, she is still awake and will be for a while longer. 

But, as this exact sequence of events had gone all week, something gives him pause once again…

She sent him away. She told him to go.  

But who cares, another, more desperate part of him questions. Do it. Do it now. And just as he decides to not have any shame and call her anyway, a darkened figure falls over onto the concrete ground on its hands and knees, obscured from the moonlight by the hedges behind them. 

They hiss uncomfortably as they attempt to stand without use of their hands. Gale, realizing this is not a scenario in which someone is trying to ambush him, rushes over to the figure and helps pull them up from their knees onto their feet. 

“Are you alright?”

Gale guides them to the nearby bench, illuminated in the light of the moon, and immediately notes their skinned palms, the tiny pebbles and splinters nestled in red angry flesh, blood beading to the surface. He holds their wrists and looks more closely, clicking his tongue. 

“That’s not great. But not terrible! And fortunately for you, I have done a lot of studying recently. Now, just stay still and try not to clap for anyone just yet.”

Gale conjures a pair of tweezer and a more proximal orb of light to work under and he begins to pluck the debris out from the skin gently. 

“Um…” there is a cough from the owner of the hands he’s focusing on, “I’m Tarik.”

Gale looks up and gives Tarik a warm smile.

“Nice to meet you, Tarik. I’m Gale. Now if you’ll just hold still a moment, I’ll get you patched up enough to shake your hand… and receive that applause.”

–-

Gale can cast Cure Wounds now, after a week of extensive study and practice between work and Tav and Manorborn. He can’t cast it very easily, of course, but he can do it and he mended Tarik’s palms, the skin healing over with barely a sign of the bloody mess that existed before. 

“Are you a wizard?” Tarik asks curiously as he tests and prods the skin of his hands.

They’re inside now, back among the chatter and the old colleagues and the savory smell of mostly neglected catering.

“I am. Here, it’s very important to hydrate after any rapid healing process,” Gale hands Tarik a glass of water and gives a polite smile and upturned hand to a waving, vaguely familiar passerby who will surely try to speak to him later. 

“I’ve never seen you on campus,” Tarik takes a sip and then gulps down the rest of the water in the glass, “Are you in Wizardry?”

“Oh,” Gale huffs a laugh, “I don’t work here anymore. I’m at Baldur’s Gate University.”

“But you’re a wizard… who can do healing magic,” Tarik questions, “...I didn’t even know that was possible.”

And of course there’s an implication there, that if he can do something like cast magic he’s not really supposed to know, that he shouldn’t be at BGU—he should be at U of Waterdeep, in his old department, with his old job. But Tarik doesn’t really realize what he’s said, is probably too close to the younger side of his 20s to realize there are scholarly, magical worlds outside of U of Waterdeep. 

It’s like looking into a mirror, at himself, more than a decade into the past. 

“Well actually, I can only do the one spell. At least, that’s the case right now. But magic is the art of possibility, young mage,” Gale replies goodnaturedly, “And it is all around us, including other major cities on the Sword Coast."

Tarik’s light brown cheeks warm, “Of course. My apologies.”

“That’s quite alright. Now, are you a graduate student?”

He is. Tarik is a first-year doctoral student in the Department of Wizardry, studying under Tsarra Chaadren. Gale knows Tsarra, but was never well-acquainted; she is one of the few magical academics that straddle the line between sorcery and wizardry and her joint appointment in both applicable departments had not been quite controversial, but definitely spoken about in hushed tones among more senior faculty members, including Mystra. However, he’d never been privy to the details of those conversations. 

Tarik is from Myratma in Tethyr and transferred to U of Waterdeep in his undergrad as a sophomore. When Gale recalls a conference visit to Tarik’s hometown and mentions the Purple Hills Cider he still thinks about on occasion from Kraljaom Distillery, Tarik’s cobalt eyes light up. The young wizard is proud of his birthplace and excited to boast to Gale, who doesn’t mind a bit of pride, especially when it’s borne of such love. 

They talk for what must be too long; this party is a networking opportunity for Tarik, after all. The purpose is for him to ingratiate himself among the other faculty members in his department. But the young wizard does not seem overly concerned with this, so Gale resolves to not project whatever lingers of his Waterdeep days onto him. 

Tarik chatters excitedly, fiddling with the folded sleeves of his thick, deep green sweater as he discusses his scholarly interests; he’s a conjurer with natural skills in evocation, the kind of power set some wizards would kill for, and likes studying magical weapons. He has a particular zest for bows, which explains why he’s Tsarra’s advisee. 

It’s good, Gale thinks. A good match. Tsarra had always seemed rather kind and grounded, as much as he could tell that sort of thing from a distance. She will be a good advisor to Tarik, professionally and personally. She likely already is. He listens to Tarik summarize an article he’d read recently about the Taulmaril and feels something like relief. 

“But it was only after the Spellplague that its arrows took on a lightning effect, which makes me wonder if—oh, sorry. Just a moment.” 

Tarik reaches into his pocket for his phone. His eyes widen a fraction and then he turns to Gale with something torn on his face. 

“I—I completely forgot I was going to check on a friend who also came. I… should go find them now,” Tarik smiles apologetically.

“Oh! Please go, tend to your friend! I’m about ready to leave anyway,” Gale waves him off, sitting up on the couch they’d been sharing. 

“But can we keep in touch?” Tarik asks hurriedly, phone buzzing once more in his hand. Whatever is on it leaves him more frazzled than before. 

“Of course,” Gale considers asking for Tarik’s phone to input his number and email address, but it buzzes again. “Just look me up on the BGU faculty site. My last name is Dekarios.” 

“Will do,” he nods quickly and spares an extra moment to smile, “I’ll talk to you soon.” 

Tarik turns around and speedwalks out of the drawing room, his shiny jet black hair blowing behind him in his haste. 

Gale drinks the rest of the wine he doesn’t like, finally emptying his glass, and walks to bring it back to the bar. 

On the way, he is stopped by two former colleagues who insist on having a whiskey with him (“—especially if you’re on your way out!”). And the whiskey is much better than the wine he’d nursed all night, but they are both tipsy and Gale finds he only has to get through a few sips, wrangle a few more people into the conversation before he can slip away, unnoticed, towards the coat closet. 

He fiddles with the token in his hand and lets it pull him by the hand further into the darkness, past light overcoats and parkas and springtime robes that belong to other attendees. 

He stops. The token is pulling him to the right. He can see his jacket on the rack, glowing subtley in the unlit closet, but he doesn’t grab it right away. 

There is a cluster of noises ahead; something chokes and shuffles and there is a sound of singular impact. It’s worrying and Gale has always been too curious; he conjures a small orb of light for the second time that evening and moves forward. 

There is only silence as he steps ahead, past his jacket and a shelf of satchels and hats. But he does not have to step far, does not have to look too closely before he finds what he’d been looking for. 

He dismisses the light, turns around, and grabs his jacket as he walks out of the closet with long strides. The token dissipates into intangible particles and he slips his arms into his jacket as he walks towards the exit. 

She’s following him. There is too much commotion to single out her footsteps from everything else, but Gale can feel her. He doesn’t have to try. It’s as unconscious as breathing to him now as it was for over a decade. 

He spots Fea in the drawing room near the entrance. He meets her beckoning to come over with a wave goodbye and does not stop until he gets down the stairs outside the front door and most of the way to his rental car. 

“Gale!” 

And of course his body freezes, stops him just a yard away from the driver’s side door, and then turns around to face her. 

She’d taken to waving the very ends of her long dark hair again. She’s wearing a dark green dress he hasn’t seen before, close cut and long sleeved and stopping right below the knee. 

Mystra takes a breath and then stands up straight. 

“Gale.”

She repeats it, voice even and almost unaffected. If he was anyone else, he wouldn’t have believed that her ex-long-term partner/former student had just caught her in a corner of the coat closet, pressed up against a first year doctoral student with her hands over his mouth and throat, illuminated in Gale’s conjured light. But he is not anyone else. And not only had he been the one to find her, but he’d been with her long enough to see it now, as readily as anything else: the current of panic lighting her golden eyes. 

“Mystra,” he replies. 

If he doesn’t get into his car soon, he’s going to pass out from the force needed to not throw up. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks, having the nerve, as per usual, to be slightly affronted. 

“Fea invited me.”

“In Waterdeep, Gale.” 

He’s not going to deign that with a response, he decides. She doesn’t own the city. He was born here. He’d grown up here, went to school here. His mother still lives here. He’d never even left until meeting her, until her fucking plan—

“We should talk. Before you do something rash.” 

Gale looks at her and remembers so clearly that she was once his entire world. The sun, the moon, the stars—all in her name, named for the goddess of magic, and he prayed to her, got down on his knees and supplicated for however long was necessary for a glance, a kiss, an utterance of his name. 

His life and his mind and his body, in the thrum of her heart and the palm of her hand, had been hers, to do with as she pleased, all at her mercy and will. 

Is it the same for Tarik?  

“Come to the house. We’ll talk there.”

She turns around, walks back up the stairs, and lets herself inside. 

Gale turns back to his rental car, unlocks it, and sits in the driver’s seat. 

And while he delays, drives circles around the Sea Ward, goes to Westwall Street and watches the moon over the ocean for a little while, he does not pretend to entertain the option of not going. 

-

-

-

Tav does not pick up. Gale leaves the car where its parked, at the other end of the block. 

He walks past the residences of his former neighbors to a house he knows well. 

-

-

-

A few days later, Gale hugs his mother and Tara goodbye with a promise to see them soon and drives his rental car back to the airport. He does not mention that he will likely ask them to visit him next time.

He gets on the plane. As it takes off, he does not look at the city from this precious aerial view as he has done on every flight to or from The City of Splendours. 

Gale leaves Waterdeep and does not look back. 

Chapter Text

Tav’s dissertation committee is composed of two of the oldest and most senior faculty in her department and the youngest tenured faculty member in the history of Baldur’s Gate University. Halsin and Jaheira both have bodies of scholarship to their names that span longer than Gale’s life. And then there’s Vajra, who’d been tenured for a whole year by the time she was 30; he still remembers when he heard the news of her promotion, circulated in several formal and informal academic outlets, and how Mystra had scoffed with a particular kind of disgust. 

“Does tenure mean nothing anymore?”

He’s met Vajra once before. She was—and still is, Gale supposes—the widow of the Waterdhavian archmage and former head of the illustrious Blackstaff Academy: Samark Dhanzscul. Despite the fact that Samark left Blackstaff to follow Vajra to Baldur’s Gate, Vajra held his funeral in Waterdeep after his tragic death. But Gale knows she’d made that concession to rebuke another. While there was the expectation that Samark be laid to rest in The City of the Dead’s Hall of Sages, Vajra refused; it was the archmage’s wish to be cremated and for the woman he left behind to have his ashes. Multiple powerful parties were, and probably still are, displeased with Vajra for acquiescing, despite the very clear directives written in Samark’s distinct hand. 

Gale remembers the incredibly dignified manner in which Vajra conducted herself at the funeral, even with Samark’s body laying in full view, perfectly, and temporarily, preserved. The cruelties of tradition…

While Gale was not necessarily close with the former Blackstaff, he was acquainted well enough and more than connected enough to be invited to attend—on his own, as Elminster’s protégé, as Mystra’s partner, and even as his mother’s son. Ultimately, he opted to attend alone. He’d expressed his condolences and Vajra had sincerely thanked him despite Gale being just another person in a procession of people looking to brush against her grief. She’d been so… solid that even Mystra commented on it favorably after they both returned to her home from Blackstaff’s temple. Yet, while Mystra had felt Vajra’s “poise” was remarkable, Gale noted (to himself) that Vajra had little choice but to be beyond reproach. 

After all, she was the mentee Samark had fallen in love with and left his prestigious job for. The funeral was just another place where Vajra had to prove she was worth it all. 

He arrived about 40 minutes ago to Vajra’s penthouse apartment in the affluent Bloomridge District of the Lower City. The ceilings are high and the lighting is intentional. Every wall has a shelf with prized possessions and art and the furnishings are modern and well-coordinated in muted tones. 

While Vajra and Halsin finish dinner in the kitchen, after being forbidden from helping during an early attempt (“enjoy your last bit of freedom before you get grilled at dinner,” she’d said), Gale sits on the temperature-controlled terrace leading to the sitting room with Jaheira. From up here, he can hardly hear the bustle on the streets below… but perhaps that has to do with his relatively limited, human sense of hearing. 

Tav has yet to arrive; she is waiting for Rolan and Alfira’s delayed train to get back to the city so Astarion isn’t left alone for an extended period. 

Gale snorts into his wine glass at the thought of the elfen man’s displeasure at her hovering. 

“What’s so funny?”

He jolts, turning to his left to find Jaheira’s widening smirk. 

Jaheira intimidates him. It is that simple, really. She’s razor sharp, Elminster had noted it to him after meeting Tav, and he can see the incisive quality of her eyes now. Gale is the kind of person who often talks to fill social silences and he hasn’t been doing that because he is terrified that Tav’s dissertation chair will… find him to be an unfit collaborator? read his love for Tav off of his face? He’s not sure. 

“I was thinking of Tav…” he trails off and then realizes how he sounds practically sighing her name and then continues in a frenzied sort of rush, “and her refusing to leave Astarion alone for longer than a few minutes. I’m sure he’s planning his escape right about now.” 

“Ha!” She laughs in a shout and takes another sip of her whiskey, “I can imagine it well. And she’d chase him anywhere. Loyal to her ends, that one.”

Gale manages a smile at this, despite his continued vigilance.

“So you met Tav at a Parchment orientation…,” Jaheira begins.

It’s the truth. He’s not even lying. Why is it almost making him sweat?

…That’s a silly question. He knows why. 

“That’s right. I was late and had no idea what was going on and she can apparently navigate that website with her eyes closed,” he says.

Stick to the truth.  

“That she can. But how did you come to work together?” 

“I just moved here from Waterdeep—“

“Ah, yes,” Jaheira throws her head back and laughs, “How is your pointy-hatted old fart of an advisor, by the way?”

He practically spills his glass as he accidentally inhales his wine. 

“I say that with all due respect, by the way,” she clarifies, watching him amusedly.

He coughs, “I’m sure he’s about the same as you last saw him with that elegant description.”

Jaheira snorts again, “I’m not surprised. Pardon my interruption, you were saying?” 

“Ah,” Gale finishes coughing, “I was going to say I just moved here from Waterdeep and have no friends. Tav graciously agreed to take me to one of her favorite places for dinner—Ophal. Have you been?”

“Oh I’ve been,” Jaheira nods her head, a bit haunted, “I’ll never drink Athkatlan clarry again.”

And just as he is about to excitedly compare his story from the night he drunkenly kissed her advisee, vigilance forgotten, Jaheira turns towards inside, “I think our girl is finally in.” 

She’s right. He follows Jaheira to the sitting room and he watches Vajra greet Tav with a hug in the foyer. She pulls away with a bouquet of flowers. 

“They’re beautiful, Tav. Thank you.” 

Halsin emerges from the dining room.

“The table is set. Ah, Tav,” he holds a fist over his chest briefly and then squeezes Tav’s shoulder in greeting, “Hello dear.”

As Halsin and Vajra flit off to the kitchen and bring dinner to the dining table, Jaheira gives Tav a hug and then grasps her upper arms lightly.

“Are you alright, cub?”

Tav is frowning. 

She sighs and nods. “Yeah, just still all stressed from earlier. Sorry for being late.” 

“Bah, enough. I will not hear of it,” Jaheira lets go of Tav’s arms and waves her off. 

Gale eases his way into the moment, “Fancy running into you here.”

Tav finally turns her head towards him and smiles, rolls her eyes.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she says cheekily before jabbing a thumb at Jaheira, “I hope they haven’t been giving you too much trouble.”

“Us? We would never,” Jaheira feigns offense. 

“Oh no, they’ve been perfectly kind,” Gale returns her grin, “It even seems that Jaheira and I have similar clarry-related trauma.” 

Jaheira’s face lights up in recognition and then she groans, probably remembering a particularly brutal morning after, before walking off to the dining room. 

And then it’s just him and Tav in the hallway. While Spring is moving into warmer territory, the night is still cool. She’s wearing a familiar fuzzy lavender cardigan over her long black cotton dress. Her hair is down, touching her shoulders in shiny dark spirals and her cheeks are flushed, likely from her delayed rush over. 

She’s lovely, perhaps even lovelier than he remembered. He’s missed her so deeply that it washes over him like a storm when she pushes up her glasses and he almost pulls her in for a kiss. 

Perhaps soon. 

“Are you okay?” she asks in a lower voice. 

“More than,” he answers, “It’s nice to see you, Tav.”

She blushes. “It’s nice to see you… How was your trip?” 

With an impeccable timing that Gale is grateful for, Vajra leans over into the hallway and calls to them. 

“Are you two trying to eat tonight? Have you seen Halsin?” 

In relief, he follows Tav to Vajra’s dining room. 

Soon, definitely. He will tell her about his trip and much more and do much more, soon.

But not tonight. 

—

Meeting everyone for dinner had mostly gone without a hitch. If not for that singular hitch, Gale could have gotten swept up in the energy of the evening to do something wholly embarrassing and game-ending, like swinging Tav around for a dance when Halsin turned on Vajra’s stereo and spun Jaheira with elfen grace. He’d almost forgotten that interactions with other academics could go so smoothly, be so fun—withholding Ramazith, of course, lest the older wizard throw him into a lake.

He and Tav received her committee’s full blessing to proceed with the grant application; they would complete the paperwork to be listed as supervisory project members and then send feedback on their full application in a week or so. Then it would just be up to him and Tav to incorporate their edits before the final submission.  

It’s actually happening. 

When he sent Tav the email about the IMER call for grants, he had been serious about applying with her. Of course he had also been looking for a way to put them on pause until she graduates, but he wouldn’t have even considered it if he didn’t have so much confidence in Tav’s mind. However: he knows just how many obstacles stand in the way of completing even simple tasks in the academy—like setting up a meeting with more than 3 people—so he is always surprised when things work out. 

But it feels… correct that this is happening, despite how bleak it all seemed in the beginning. And seeing how kind Tav’s advisors are—downright doting at times, he’d observed—has been a comfort to Gale. Knowing she has advisors who care about her, who are invested in her success and happiness, puts him at ease. 

There are little parallels in life to the advisor-advisee relationship. Advisors hold a ridiculous amount of power over the students they steer. A lukewarm recommendation letter from an advisor functions as a badge of shame during an admissions or hiring or tenure process, marring the rising scholar who can’t move their advisor into singing their praises. Well-known senior scholars lend their advisees a fast track to post-dissertation success, while students with less flashy affiliations are stuck waiting for the right committee, the right advocate who is willing to take a chance on someone without an already-promising network. 

Of course, there are many, many worse things to lack as an advisor than notoriety. Gale sighs at this reminder of his own former advisors (the documented and not-documented one) and his visit back home. 

He can only hope his choices do not come back to haunt him. 

The light patter of rain on his car lays over the quiet between him and Tav. He had driven her home in silences just like this one many times now. She never talks to fill the space and is somehow the only person in the realms who gets lost in their thoughts more than him. 

He gives her a quick glance, noting again the slight narrowing of her eyes and the troubled slant of her mouth. 

The hitch. 

She has been like this for most of the night. It’d taken some time to re-emerge after Jaheira’s concern, but it did. Even as she laughed and joked, it was there, spliced in. The only time she’d seemed different were when her advisors pretended to interrogate his stance on something or another, thoroughly enjoying their oddly specific situation in which they are adults doing something that requires “permission” from other adults. She was alert then, even as she played along. 

He wonders when he became so attuned to her, when he made that shift from seeing her to reading her.

He’d wanted to hold her hand or brush his foot against hers under the table, just something to let her know he had noticed she is not okay and that he is there for her, but there was too high of a chance that he would make contact with someone else instead. 

Tav fiddles with her fingers and licks her lips, practically on another plane entirely, and he wonders if maybe he should reach over now, slip his fingers into hers…

He decides against it as he parks in front of her building, if only because he does not want to confuse his desires with what she needs at this moment. 

The rain comes down in earnest now, a sudden downpour from nowhere that blurs the view from their windows. The shift in sound makes Tav jolt. 

“It’ll probably pass soon. Are you in a rush?” she asks, “I know it’s late.” 

“Pish posh,” he turns off the car and unbuckles his seatbelt, settling in, “I can’t think of better company to sit in a car in the middle of a rainstorm with. Although Jaheira seems like the prepared type…”

Her nose scrunches as she laughs.

“She carries around one of those rain ponchos that folds up into a little square,” Tav says with a grin, “I’ve seen her get it back into that teensy pouch.”

“Remarkable,” he huffs a laugh and so does she. 

They settle into a comfortable silence. She is present, with him, as they sit there and look at the blurred lights of cars and store fronts and traffic signals bleed into each other on the windshield.

“I’m glad they liked you. I knew they would, but I was still nervous,” she says, without preamble.

It’s a naked thing to say, the kind of thing she probably would not be saying if they were still as they were two weeks ago.

“I was also nervous,” he admits. 

“Oh? But you’re so… sparkly,” her head lolls back against the headrest and her eyes slide over to him, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone dislike you.” 

“What about Astarion?” 

“He likes you,” she says plainly. 

Gale blushes, “Well… just trust me, it’s happened before. Besides… this was important.” You are important. “I wanted it to go well.”

“Mission accomplished, then.” But it’s a statement of success without satisfaction. The lightness that had surfaced moments ago has sunk back down. 

The rain intensifies for a moment, harsh beads slapping against glass, and then ebbs to a lower intensity, dulling back to its torrential roar.

“If that’s the case…,” Gale shifts in his seat to face her more directly, “what's troubling you?” 

She sighs and looks at some distant spot on his glove box for a while. He becomes unsure that she will share just as she does.

“Wyll…” 

Gale feels his brow furrow, “Who’s Wyll?”

“He’s a grad student in my department, about to finish,” she says quickly, “He texted me a few days ago…”

“Okay…” Gale responds, still confused. 

“He wanted me to know that he spoke with an incoming grad student…,” her mouth comes taut with restrained emotion, “...who’s going to be advised by Enver in the fall.” 

Gale’s eyes narrow and he watches her face, its strangled agony materializing right below the surface. His head begins to fill with plans—plans he will never tell her—and Gale feels himself get pulled right into the details until she speaks again, icing him like a bucket of water. 

“I always knew it was going to happen,” she continues, simultaneously far away and very close, “I mean, I’m surprised it’s taken this long, to be honest but… fuck.”

She sighs and frowns at her lap. He should say something. He needs to say something. 

“Do your advisors know?” he asks.

“No. I don’t think so,” she replies.

“You need to tell them.” 

“Why? It won’t make a difference,” her eyebrows furrow at him.

“Yes it will.” Gale hears himself insist although he isn’t entirely sure of it. Is it true? Could they actually ever prevent Tav from running into him on campus or Gortash from seeking her out? Whether it’s rage or fear whispering furiously into his ear, he feels certain that the man will try to make contact. Could they actually shield her?

“They’ll shield you,” he settles on this. 

“From what? I’m the one who fucked up. Me,” she counters, volume rising in irritation. 

“If anything, he’s the one who needs shielding.”

The change is sudden and sharp enough (vicious enough) to make him flinch ever so slightly and she freezes. 

And Gale knows. Gale knows exactly what she’s thinking now. But she doesn’t know that he knows, she doesn’t know that Hallwood made sure of it. 

“Surely you know that isn’t true, Tav,” he says, steadily, to assure her that she hasn’t truly frightened him. 

“I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” she says, guilty and preoccupied.

“It’s okay to be upset,” he says, hoping that it reassures her. If she’s going to rage about this to anyone, it should be him. “Goddess knows you have more than enough right to be.” 

“Still,” she frowns again. 

“No,” he shakes his head. 

The word hangs between them. He could try to say more, tell her that her frustration always has a home with him, but it does not seem like the right time for it. 

“I—I should go.”

“Hold on, for just one moment,” he draws closer and stops her movement towards the door handle with a brush of his fingers against the back of her hand. 

“If you truly want to go, I won’t stop you again. But first of all, it’s pouring still,” he gestures at the rivulets of water obscuring their view outside of his car, “and I keep forgetting to put an umbrella in this car, so I don’t have one to give you. And secondly…” Gale takes a breath before continuing.

He will tell her he knows soon. Just not now, not like this. 

“What… ever happened with Gortash was not your fault. But if you don’t believe me, then we should perhaps dig into that a bit.” 

She looks at him with a sincere expression, “That’s not what I meant. I know… I know it wasn’t my fault. Not in most ways and not in any of ways that actually matter.” 

He relaxes slightly at this, “…Good. That’s good.” …enough.

“But…,” she continues meaningfully, “there are things that happened… at the end. Things I did that I shouldn’t have done.”

Maybe if he didn’t already know the truth, or some very important aspect of it, he would be a bit frustrated at the vagueness of her statement. But he does know and so all he feels is a warming pride at Tav’s honesty, followed by a plummeting guilt that he’s deceiving her, even partially. 

“Regrets are… natural,” he replies, conceding there as a matter of strategy, “I still think you should consider talking to your advisors about this, sooner rather than later.” 

She sighs and he continues, “They would want to know and even if there isn’t anything they can do, there’s no need for you to suffer in silence about it.”

“Suffering in silence seems a bit dramatic.”

It’s what she’d been doing all night, as far as he could tell, but apparently she finds it to be an exaggeration. 

“If you don’t want to talk to them, you don’t have to…,” he swallows before continuing, “Regardless, I will protect you.” he says.

Because he will. 

He looks at her with a serious, promising face and she arches a brow.

“I really don’t think I need that, Gale.“

“Whether you need it or not, I will protect you,” Gale restates. 

“Why?”

“Because I care about you,” he says firmly. It is the simplest thing in the world to articulate and regardless of whether she wants to hear this particular thing, he would voice it. 

“I care about what happens to you. I care about your happiness—and that will be the case regardless of whether or not we are awarded that grant, regardless of whether I leave Baldur's Gate forever. I will look out for you. Do you understand me?” 

Something like understanding, real understanding, flashes on her face before she nods and looks away from him with a frown. 

“Yeah.”

They sit there and the rain begins to let up, slowing to a drizzle with the occasional sagging drop. 

“But...” She starts again, after the long silence.

“Going to campus. Teaching,” she explains, “If he’s there… I don’t know how I’m gonna make myself do it…”

“I know I have to for the purposes of paying bills and having health insurance and Astarion having health insurance and all that jazz. So I will. I don’t really have a choice,” her lips stretch into a humorless smile, “I just don’t know how.”

And he doesn’t know what to say to that. Not at all. It would be one thing if she thought she couldn't, if she was questioning her ability to get through to graduation. He could reassure her of that. He could offer his assistance in several concrete ways. But this isn’t that at all. 

She’s already accepted that next academic year will be hell. She has already accepted that she will need to endure. 

And he hates it. 

“You will. But you don’t have to figure out the how of it right this second,” he says.

He supposes that having any institutional power to prevent Gortash from coming within a mile of her would also drastically alter the particular ethical contours of their situation… but still. It would be very useful at this moment. 

“I don’t have to… but it’s hard not to think about.”

He nods, “Of course.” 

They sit in silence, letting the passage of cars and pedestrians fill in the space. The rain has left and people are now walking on the wet sidewalk beside them. 

“Tav?”

“Hm?” 

“If there’s ever anything I can do to make it all less dreadful… consider it most enthusiastically done.”

She turns towards him with a saddened kind of humor.

“You want to do even more, beyond ‘protecting me’?” she smirks wryly, “‘Whether I need it or not’?”

“Why not?” He grins at her, “I am quite the multitasker, as you’ve seen with your own eyes.” 

She snorts, “I can concede that, but it seems like you’re forgetting you have an actual job. Can’t just follow me around all day until I graduate, you know.” 

She gives him a small smile and despite the fatigue rolling off of her in ways, it is genuine. He knows it is. 

“I’m well aware,” and he can’t help but add, “My inability to follow you around all day is one of the only things I don’t like about my job, in fact.” 

He realizes the full extent of what he’s just said, but he does not wish or try to take it back. And then she is looking at him with a certain buzzy expression, leaning forward slightly. But what is slightness when they are in his car, hunkered together as they hide from the rain, hardly apart to begin with? 

“I think… you’re focused on the wrong things,” but she says it with a teasing little smile that makes him want to ask how wrong could they really be?

Gale reaches to brush aside the curls falling into her glasses.

“Hm. Well I think… you need a haircut,” he says in a low voice. They are so close now. She can hear him just as well. 

“What?” she rolls her eyes, “Just barely. ” 

“You’re not very coordinated,” he retorts, “having your full range of vision is important. You need all the help you can get, as they say.”

Her mouth falls open and then she laughs and shoves his shoulder. When he returns to her, they are even closer.

“One: you’re a dick, Gale Dekarios. And two: They’re barely too long. Who even notices something like that, bangs being a bit too long? You absolute weirdo,” she ends this in a smile. He is close enough to smell the cream she uses to moisturize her hair. 

“There isn’t a single thing about you that escapes my attention, Tav,” he is brushing her jaw with his thumb now, “My… interpretation is sometimes lacking, but I notice it all.”

“Is that so?” 

He feels her breath against his face and he nods. 

“It is. And if that makes me a weirdo, then so be it.”

She pretends to consider it, tilting her gaze up and stroking her chin, smiling transparently as their wrists brush against each other.

“…I guess it doesn’t make you a weirdo, per se,” she shrugs in feigned concession.

He hums. “How gracious of you.” 

“...But it does mean you like me though,” she says, eyes twinkling at him.

Something slippery happens then. His heart leaps into his chest and then drops into his stomach. She is smiling at him and then she’s not. He is touching her jaw and then she moves away, slipping away from his fingers. 

He hasn’t responded. Why isn’t he responding? 

He loves Tav. He’s in love with her. And she’s giving him an opening, one that he’d been all but asking for outright. He can’t help it, what being around her turns him into—a sick, lovestarved geyser bursting with devotion.

But there is ice in his throat, in his veins. 

Why can’t he speak? 

“Gale,” she says cautiously, “I didn’t mean to—”

A buzzing sound interrupts her. Tav turns her head to the dashboard, where his rumbling phone sits snugly in its holder. 

Incoming call from… 

Mystra Savras

And there it is: the consequences of his actions. 

Chapter Text

It’s almost as loud outside as it is inside. There isn’t anywhere to sit but the ground and it’s littered with flattened beer cans and discarded wrappers and somehow almost sticky despite being concrete. 

There is a guy, tall and broad-shouldered with a deep voice, who has saddled up beside her against a wall that has definitely been pissed on in several places. He asked for a light for his cigarette a few minutes ago and she’d offered her torch, but he hasn’t said or done much else since. 

Until now. 

“I’m guessing clubs aren’t your scene.” 

It’s an accurate observation, even if it doesn’t make him anyone’s ace detective. 

-

-

-

When Tav made it home earlier, she’d been on the verge of a panic attack. After all, Jaheira had deemed her unfit to go to the rest of her meetings or get feedback on the grant that day. 

“In all frankness, you look like shit, Tavelle.” 

It was 9am. She hadn’t even fully settled into her usual seat in front of Jaheira’s desk before the druid left her desk chair to look more closely at her. 

“Have you been sleeping?”

“...Not really.”

“Do you have any other meetings today? ”

It was an impossible question for her to answer on brain power alone. Just the act of trying to recall her schedule made her skull throb. She eventually scrambled awkwardly to check her calendar on her phone.

“Tav,” Jaheira said clearly, carefully, “What’s wrong?” 

“I-I have two meetings after this,” she finally managed to answer. 

“Okay,” Jaheira nodded as if the matter was settled, “Now tell me what’s going on.” 

Tav doesn’t remember getting dressed before their meeting. She doesn’t remember tying her hair up. She can’t remember if she took her meds or if the water in her bottle is the same water she was carrying around yesterday or a week before. Did she even make it to her lectures this week or did her students—

Jaheira's voice came to her through a thick fog, “I want you to cancel the rest of your meetings and go home and get some sleep.”

“I don’t—I don’t know if I can do that.”

“I’m sorry, Tav, but I’m not giving you a choice,” Jaheira squeezed her forearm this time, gently sliding her computer out of her lap, “We will set aside the discussion of your chapters for now and I think I will also delay sending our feedback on the grant draft, just until Monday—”

“Wait, I–I understand the meetings,” Tav said, suddenly alarmed, “And my chapters… But there’s not that much time left to work on the grant.”

“The grant is practically done. With all the work you and Gale have managed over the past few months, there isn’t much to edit.” Tav could hardly see Jaheira’s expression soften through the blurring shroud of shame over her eyes. The druid sighed. 

“I promise to send the feedback before anything else on my agenda on Monday morning. Even prior to getting up to piss, if you’d like. But not before Monday morning.”

Jaheira placed the open laptop on the edge of her desk and pulled up Tav’s calendar. She wrote out drafts of emails to cancel Tav’s commitments for the rest of the day and had her look over them, accepting an absent nod as permission before sending them off and sending her home, to rest. 

Tav proceeded to go home, have her panic attack, and then pass out for several hours, sleeping straight through the afternoon, still in her outside clothes. She stirred briefly at the sound of Astarion’s return before falling back asleep for a few more hours, until laughter in the living room woke her again. 

Her head was aching still. She needed water. Tav got out of bed and padded softly down the hallway only to find Astarion and Shadowheart laughing on her couch, his arm slung over her shoulders casually, as they watched something on tv together. 

“Good evening, sleeping beauty,” Shadowheart teased.

“Hi…,” her voice was sore, “What time is it?” 

“Hm, almost 11pm,” Astarion said and then turned to Shadowheart, “It’s prime outing hours for we older-than-25s. If only the tieflings would arrive.” 

It was then that Tav noticed their clothes. Shadowheart was wearing a short, tight black dress with blocky, strappy heels and Astarion had on a black button-down he’d left undone over his chest and a pair of dark red leather pants. 

They were an attractive pair with ethereal charm, all silver hair and elegant limbs and jewel-toned eyes. And they were obviously planning on leaving the couch at some point. 

“Would you like to come out with us, Tav?” Shadowheart asked, “We’re just waiting for Rolan and Alfira to get here. Should be any minute now.”

She’s not sure why, but Tav let Shadowheart pull her back to her room after she brushed her teeth. She sat on her bed docily as Shadowheart looked through her clothes. 

It was a bit like being a doll. She let Shadowheart dress her in a tight pair of dark jeans with some stretch and a low cut, vest-like top with buttons running down the front. Tav sat still as Shadowheart swiped kohl on her eyes and fixed her hair and applied lip gloss with the precision of a surgeon. 

They were done only a few minutes after Rolan and Alfira’s arrival, but Tav delayed leaving her room. Shadowheart sat on the floor behind her still as she looked at herself in the mirror. She felt… alien. It wasn’t the outfit or the makeup, but something deeper, shifted out of alignment and distant. Like everything was slightly crooked. She was looking at herself, but she could scarcely believe it was herself and that she was alive. 

“Are you alright?” Shadowheart asked. 

“Is this… okay?” Tav asked, unsure of how to ask if this was real life and if she was actually in her own body without unnecessarily alarming anyone. 

“You look very hot. And hopefully you have a nice time while we’re out. Selûne knows you need it.” 

And while it's not what she’d been looking for reassurance about, Tav got up then and let Shadowheart bring her to the living room to officially begin their night. 

-

—

-

Everyone (except Tav and Rolan, of course) wanted to dance, so they ended up at a club within some kind of walking distance from her apartment. Alfira knows the DJ that works on Friday nights and so they hadn’t needed to wait outside on the modest line. 

But being that the tall stranger to her right is correct—clubs are hardly ever the “scene” for people who can’t drink or dance without the potential for bodily harm—she’s been having a not-great time. Shadowheart and Astarion disappeared not long after they arrived. Tav had been hanging out at the bar with Rolan until Alfira had coaxed him into a dance. 

Still, maybe she could have a nice time too…

Whoever this guy is, he’s trying to have a conversation with her that doesn’t start with something lewd or off-putting. And he’s handsome—if you’re into blue-eyed guys with ashy blonde hair, roguish grins, and large hands. She’s not sure she is though, with the way her mind finds him diminished by the lightness of his hair and eyes and the confident smoothness of his talk. 

She supposes she prefers her people with brown eyes and hair, who straddle the line between pretty boy and bookish nerd and brim with enthusiastic curiosity. But that’s just an overwrought description of Gale. And who knows where her love is or what he’s doing or who he’s doing…

Her love. Is that what she’d taken to calling him now?

“Her love”: who she hasn’t spoken to since this past weekend, since the night he met her advisors… and who she thinks is in the process of getting back together with his longtime ex. 

Tav had never considered whether sending him to Waterdeep could possibly have the effect of sending him back to Mystra. And why would she? As far as Gale had ever articulated, it was not something he would ever be open to—including in the case where Mystra wanted that herself... But he hadn’t seen her since they broke up, not in person anyhow. Maybe he saw her and it was different. Maybe he’d spent time with his old friends in his hometown and ran into her and realized that Mystra’s much lovelier than he remembered and far beyond having any peers for his love (not that Gale loves her, something punishing in her quickly amends). 

Mystra’s call last week had interrupted an already tense moment. They’d been bantering and Gale was coming closer and just before it seemed like they were going to kiss, she’d made a tiny little effort to clarify whatever the fuck is going on between them before it became even more complicated. 

“…It does mean you like me though,” she’d teased. 

She’d been hoping he might affirm her, that he might be clear for once about what he was feeling. And she’d done it even after she told herself she was going to let Gale come to her. Even after admitting to herself that she wants to be sought out, she still gave him the opening. 

And then he didn’t take it. 

He froze, as if he suddenly realized what he was doing. And as she tried to explain that she hadn’t meant to make things uncomfortable, Mystra’s call came in and finished sucking all the air out of the car.

“She’s calling you… how strange,” she’d said just a few rings before the buzzing stopped. 

But Gale did not seem to think so. He was on edge, but lacking the confusion that would have manifested if he truly hadn’t been expecting it. 

When she asked outright if they had spoken while he was away, Gale never managed an answer. His mouth opened and closed several times and it quickly became so awkward that she asked him just as plainly if he and Mystra are getting “reacquainted.”

He never managed to answer that either.

“I… I seem to be having trouble trying to speak right now,” he eventually breathed. 

“Okay… I should go.”

She’d slipped out of the car then without protest from Gale and went up to her apartment. 

It’s not like she has any proof. There was a phone call. Just a phone call, one that Gale didn’t even pick up. Yes, his answers, or lack thereof, to her questions were worrying, are worrying. She is worried. But there’s nothing beyond that, nothing she can definitively point to as a sign that he has moved on… Okay so there was that weird comment he made, about caring for her “regardless of whether he leaves Baldur’s Gate forever” but Gale sometimes lives in hyperbole so comfortably that he forgets to be clear about the ordinary. 

She knows things are often not what she fears most. 

And yet. 

What evidence is she expecting? What else is there to draw on besides what she’s seen and heard? (Mystra calling him.) And what she hasn’t seen or heard? (An explanation. A straight answer. Even a vague discussion of his feelings for her. Gale, himself, for about a week now.)

To think he’d been so tongue-tied to explain himself after promising so thoroughly to protect her from Enver, after telling her in no uncertain terms that he cares about her, after touching her face and telling her she never escapes his attention.

She’d even begun to think that maybe he… 

Well, it doesn’t matter now.  

She decides then to take the distraction that’s come her way.

“You caught me,” she replies wryly, “This is the first time I’ve been at a club in like five years.”

“Is it just as fun as you remember?” he grins as he turns to face her directly, still leaning against the wall.

“Just about,” she smirks, “Crowded rooms. No seating. Overpriced drinks…”

He chuckles and adds, “Wait, you can’t forget: strangers trying to talk to you.” 

She laughs then and makes to respond with something witty but a crescendo of cheers and clubgoer glee surprises her in its volume. 

She looks back at the stranger then and shifts closer, gestures for him to give her his ear. 

Her cheek grazes his as he bends down to hear her. Breathy from nerves and exhilaration, she continues: “It’s also much… louder than I remember.” 

It’s an opening.

His lips brush her ear as he asks in a low voice, “Want to go someplace quieter?”

He takes it without missing a beat.

–

They go to a bar on the next block. His name is Rugan. He’s a “transporter” and he says it with enough of a smirk that there isn’t a speck of ambiguity between them; he moves drugs or guns or maybe both. Regardless, Tav doesn’t really care. He knows her name, knows she’s a PhD student, and knows that she hates it; he makes a joke about going back to school and she thinks she almost kills the mood by telling him it is an entire waste of time for anyone with worthwhile skills outside of reading and writing and award-chasing. But he only quirks an eyebrow and laughs, tells her she isn’t like any academic he’d ever met and slides his arm around her shoulder to drag his hand down to her waist in the booth they occupy.

She almost recoils. She never had the chance to do this with Gale and it always seemed to loom over them like a bad omen yet here she is, trading idle flirtations while touching some stranger in a dark, semi-public space without a second thought...

But Gale got to do this with Mystra, didn’t he? For many years. And he still could. Maybe he currently is. Gale hasn’t spoken to her in a week and when she gathered her courage to stop by his townhouse, the door hadn't opened for her, even after she pressed her hand to the dark wood. Maybe he’s in Waterdeep right now, classes and students be damned…

Tav decides she doesn’t want more of her ginger ale despite only taking a few sips. 

She wants to go. She wants to forget. 

It doesn’t take much to steer the conversation to where Rugan lives. He orders them a car and it takes them 15 minutes away from the club to a normal looking apartment building. She sends her location to Shadowheart and Astarion, just in case, and lets him pull her by the hand towards the elevator. He backs her up against the wall and kisses her for the first time then, hungry and wanting; he slides his hands down to her ass and grabs her there, half-grinding into her by the time they reach the top floor. 

As far as she can tell with the lights off, it’s a normal looking apartment. The living room has furniture and the coffee table is strewn with mundanely shaped objects. The kitchen is stocked. There are darkened pictures on the walls. He leads her to the room at the end of the hallway and kicks on the floor switch for a lamp before pushing her back onto the large, low bed in the center of the room. From her seat on the soft sheets, he is especially tall as he stands between her legs. 

He looks down at her then, blue eyes darkened. 

“Anything you’re looking for in particular?”

She reaches for his belt and makes quick work of it, flinging it onto the dark floor. Rugan laughs, a bit surprised. 

“To get fucked. And to forget my many problems. Think you can manage that?”

She can see his slick grin in the darkness. He leans down and pushes a hand onto her chest, laying her back onto the sheets with her feet still on the floor. His hands drags over her breasts and her stomach to the button of her jeans. 

“If that’s what you want, then yes,” he pulls the zipper down and tugs her tight jeans off, “I think I can manage that for you just fine, sweetheart.”

It is dark enough, impersonal enough, that she can pretend she’s with Gale if she wants, that he’s the one kissing her neck, that he’s the one sliding her underwear off and groaning, remarking at how wet she is. She could even pretend that Gale’s the one she’s stroking with impatient hands, even though she is so well-acquainted with his dick that the differences are obvious, glaring. 

She doesn’t want that though. Any of it. She doesn’t want to think about him. The point of this is to not think about him, to not pine for him, to not lock herself away, waiting for his attention or his honesty, as she has been. But the point of it doesn’t matter much in practice.

She can’t forget him. He’s with her. The memories of them touching each other materialize, overwhelm and when Rugan enters her from behind, all she can do is pretend that her cries are of pleasure and not of sorrow. 

Tav gets fucked. But her problems don’t go anywhere. 

-

-

-

The last time she went to a club, she was 22. She was in her second semester of grad school, and she was upset that Enver had to travel for some business/funder thing, that it was something he needed Orin for, and that he was leaving her to spend the weekend on a yacht with his wife and some billionaire and some billionaire’s wife. 

It was her first weekend without him in months. She was sad and self-loathing and did something not dissimilar from what she’d done so far tonight: she let a stranger who seemed interested in fucking her, fuck her. 

She’d instructed Enver’s driver to take them to the stranger’s address from the club and back to her apartment from there. It wasn’t cheating. It felt wrong, but it wasn't cheating. Despite spending most of his free time with her, Enver was still entirely insistent at that point that they were nothing special outside of their secrecy, that he would not cherish her exclusivity if she gave it to him. But she hopefully gave it anyway… until that night. 

Of course his driver told Enver what she’d done just as soon as she had done it. And while Tav expected he would simply end their intimacies, and maybe even their advising relationship, whenever he returned, that’s not what happened.

Instead, he came home a day early and summoned her to his and Orin’s home. 

It was still light out when she arrived that Sunday afternoon. One of Enver’s staff recognized her as she let herself in through the double iron doors at the main entrance and told her “Dr. Gortash” was waiting in his main office. 

She knew the way well, and could still find her way there now, even with the manor’s long branching halls. She knocked lightly on the large wooden door and he beckoned her inside as he had dozens of times before. 

The first thing she noticed was the absence of sunlight. There are towering windows in his main office and they were covered by the heavy curtains his staff opened every morning. Candles were lit and the fireplace had been set aflame. He stood in front of it with his back to her, wearing dark slacks and a dark button-up. 

He turned around then and greeted her with an exceptionally soft smile. It made her heart sing. He’d been… cruel, for lack of a better term, when they spoke before his departure. 

“Hello, flower,” he held out a hand towards her, “Come here.” 

She hurried over, concerned about spoiling his good mood, and came to a stop in front of him. He surprised her by pulling her into a hug, his arms coming to circle her waist and her back. She leaned into him immediately. He smelled like his favorite cologne and cigars and she started to sniffle and sob into his shoulder, overcome with relief and the ache of missing him and the dissipating feeling of brokenness that came with his absence. 

“There there,” he spoke into her ear soothingly as he rubbed her back, “You’re alright.”

It was not long before his hands drifted, before he began to kiss her neck so much more gingerly than he ever had and unbutton her pants to slide a hand beneath her underwear. 

“I missed you so much,” she choked out between sobs and moans.

“Get on the chaise,” he whispered to her eventually, after she’d impatiently grabbed his dick through his pants while panting on the glide of his hand.

She followed his instruction, laying on her back with her knees bent. The familiar fabric of the maroon chaise was soft against her ass and her feet after she helped Enver take her pants and her underwear off. 

He knelt between her bent legs, pushing them apart and up towards her chest before burying himself to the hilt, his pants undone only enough to release himself. He gripped her throat with his hand as he set a brutal pace. 

It hurt. But she wanted him to use her. If he would accept nothing else—not her heart or her exclusivity—she could give him her body to find passing pleasure in. 

The grip on her throat tightened. She could feel herself growing lightheaded and she called to him.

“Enver—”

“Yes, flower?,” he groaned, pushing his weight further onto her bent legs, “You know, it’s hard to be believe you’re still so fucking tight. ”

“I—I can’t—“

“Oh, did you want to breathe?” he huffed a laugh as he continued to drive into her, unrelenting.

And then the lightness of his face fell away to reveal a cruel sneer. 

“One would think not, given you think you can use my driver as some kind of whore taxi service.”

Ice flooded her veins then. Her weak hands, wrestled free from the crushing fold of her legs, clawed at his fingers around her throat. She pushed at his solid chest and he only barked a laugh, pushing her further into the softness of the chaise, so forcefully she could feel the tufted buttons pressing across her shoulders and back. 

“P-please—,” she attempted to plead. 

She was weak. Without her magic, she was weak. She could do nothing to save herself. They both knew this. And it only seemed to spur his grip tighter. 

“Please what? Do you have any idea what I left behind because of you?,” he bent closer to whisper sinisterly, staring right into her terrified eyes with a special kind of contempt and satisfaction as he thrusted.

“No, you don’t. You’re just a mindless hole for cock, flower. And not just mine, apparently. Whatever happened to devotion?”

Black spots filled her vision, shrouding the view of Enver moving above her, illuminated only by flame. He pressed with force onto her neck.

The last thing she remembers before fading away completely, into the embrace of something gray and cold and quiet, is the sound of him finishing inside of her. 

—

She woke up later in his bed. She wasn’t sore. Nothing hurt. She even remembers feeling rested. It was not the first time Enver’s on-staff healer would mend her back to unbrokeness and it would not be the last.

He was at his worktable in the corner, hunched over and fiddling with a set of gears, wearing his magnifiers. He sat up when he heard her shift and when their eyes met, she dropped hers to the wine red sheets. 

“Look at me,” he told her as he sat on the edge of the bed. 

When she didn’t, because she was frozen, he tilted her chin with his oil stained fingers until their eyes met again.

“Much better.” 

She remembers every word of the conversation that followed. He explained that from that moment onwards, she was not to see anyone else; she was “his” and she should’ve known that before doing what she did, but he was saying it explicitly now lest she get any other brilliant ideas in the future.

He never apologized. And she never asked him to. 

All she felt was relief—because in the future meant they had one and as for the present? She was his. 

It was all she wanted. 

-

-

-

This time, she wakes up in her bed. It’s early, too early to actually move. And she’s sore; her back and knees and her head are pissed at her. 

Some part of her had been looking for punishment last night—not during sex, but afterwards. A quick bat down to the surface of the earth, her cheek pushed into gravel for straying in body, if not in mind or spirit. Pain in exchange for her lack of devotion.

But that’s not what her life is anymore. She's not 22. No one is watching. No one is waiting—to punish or save or give her actions meaning. Enver will never summon her again. Gale will not know that she slept with anyone else unless she tells him and she has no reason to do that, not unless she does the incredibly juvenile thing of attempting to make him jealous—to no avail, because he wouldn’t be anyway. That whole blip with Aradin was before his return to Waterdeep. It’s over. She understands that now.

She can’t judge him for going back to Mystra. She won’t. If things hadn’t ended with Enver on such unambiguous terms, she would have been tempted to seek him out again after everything went to shit. Tav knows this, just as she knows it is no longer the case. So she’ll miss Gale. She’ll mourn her love and start packing it away while it still hurts. Maybe something dark and red and ugly will emerge to take her somewhere she’s not supposed to be. But she won’t hurt anyone but herself. And she will not judge. 

Besides, she's not sure why she ever thought she could compete. With Mystra Savras? Who was named for the literal goddess of magic, the goddess of wizards? Not only does the woman have more than a decade headstart in the Gale race, but she actually has the world, as much of it as academics care about, to offer him. All he has to do is want it. 

Two special people, drawn to each other once more… 

Tav has nothing: no prestige to give him, no intertwined history to appeal to, no notable competencies—magical or otherwise. She has nothing, nothing of value to offer, not even a fate to guide her way out of this moment, nothing to remind her of who she is outside of pain and heartbreak and a ticking clock. Hells, she won't even have a degree at this rate, with how she can't even get enough sleep for her dissertation chair to have faith in her ability to get through a meeting. And she has no place in the story that's unfolding between Gale and Mystra again—even if it is kinda fucked up. She gets that now too.

It almost feels like relief, the way the hope that bloomed around her heart falls away, petals scattered in the wind.

Her eyes slide shut and let her drift somewhere dreamless.

-

-

-

The edits come in at 6:53 on Monday morning, just as Jaheira promised. Gale texts her before 9, for the first time in a week, asking if she’d like to work on them together over lunch. 

She says no. 

Chapter Text

Elminster arrives 30 minutes late and Gale does not make even a lightly teasing comment about it. Gale plies him with an aged cheddar he bought earlier at the fancy grocery store down the block and a vintage Sembian wine he’s been saving for a moderately special occasion. 

Gale finishes dinner (sarsauce fowl… the old mage’s favorite) as Elminster asks him about what he’s read recently. Gale plays along, referencing a few articles he looked up prior to the his arrival, chosen specifically to get Elminster excited and talking. 

Besting a wizard is not about power, but strategy. 

Of course, Elminster is not new to this game. He knows what Gale is doing—trying to soften him up with a nice time so he will be endeared to do something, anything, to help Gale with his current predicament. 

But it doesn’t have to be unseen for it to work. Gale only has to put the pieces in the right place, make the right moves at the right time. Gale knows that Elminster knows he’s being buttered up, but Gale also knows that Elminster, on some level, pities him, that some part of him is discomfited by Gale choking under the grip of what’s taken him. 

And Gale intends to use that to his benefit as well.

He first noticed something being… off before he left his mother and Tara. He struggled to talk to them a few times before his departure, at seemingly random moments. At the time, he thought it was perhaps his nerves about returning to Baldur’s Gate getting the best of him. After all, he had something—an incredibly precious and tentative something—that needed tending to and he was more determined than he’d ever been to nurture it into something beautiful and defined. It made sense to be a bit anxious and distracted…

He returned to Baldur’s Gate. After a night without an ounce of oddness besides feeling foggy-minded at times, which he blamed on the flight back, Gale met Tav’s advisors. And somehow it went very well and then Tav told him that godsforsaken Enver Gortash was coming back to BGU. But then they were laughing and Tav was calling him out on his feelings and he was about to abandon any plan of waiting for a time when he could do this properly, with dinner and flowers and a romantic speech and maybe a verse or two about her and the way she makes him want to write in verse.

But he froze. It was as if his heart had paused in his chest even while it raced at the implications of being silent at that exact moment and the moments after when Mystra called him and Tav asked him two exceedingly vital questions that he could not physically manage to answer in the slightest.

He was being thrown into an ice bath, the moment of frigid impact playing out in an endless, seamless loop as he tried his absolute hardest to tell her something. He hardly remembers her leaving after that, nor his drive home and the steps he took before he threw himself onto his bed sheets. But he knows it was bad. He knows that damage was done.

Before any other explanation, Gale considered the option that he was just scared at that moment. It wouldn’t be the first time. Even as he wasn’t trying to hide, to be seen so easily in his want for her felt… naked? Revealing? Certainly enough so that it could have stunted his ability to respond and then, maybe, it was also worsened by the serendipitous fact that Mystra chose exactly then to call him and make Tav think the absolute worst thing she could possibly think of him in that moment. 

Oh, he knows. He’s getting better at this, following her train of thought to its end, a series of logics that could only manifest in someone who does not understand how dear she is. It makes all the sense in the world to him that she would think he was getting back together with Mystra—because he knows her now and also because the odds of things happening in the order that they did are… suspect…

And he could not manage to tell her differently when she asked outright. 

But it also makes no sense to him at all. None.  Because Tav exists and so why would he bother with anyone else? 

Gale tried to text Tav as soon as he fell into bed that night. And he intended for it to be an incredibly detailed one too, one that specified in no uncertain terms that not only was he not reacquainting himself with Mystra but he was also deeply, consumingly in love with her and had been for weeks now. He would wait no longer.

That was the plan. But when he tried to write it out, his fingers cramped, becoming numb and filled with that staticky needle sensation that invades a waking limb but intensified. And that went on. And on. 

And on. 

It was only minutes after he finally stopped trying that the feeling returned to his hands and the pins abated.

Of course he only proceeded to immediately attempt writing it again. And again. 

And again. 

Gale shifted to paper and a pen and that did not fix the issue. He tried writing Tav an email (to her personal address… obviously) but he couldn’t manage it. All of his attempts ended up the same. He almost drove back over to her apartment to speak with her, still frenzied and panicked about how they’d left things, before quickly remembering that stifled speech was how this trial began. 

It was then that he accepted it: This was not fear. It was not nerves or anxiety or even his thoroughly complex tapestry of relationship-related problems. 

This was magic.  

Of course, his first question then was whose magic? 

A number of things gave it away once he thought on it. Timing, for one. The literal feeling was another. When he concentrated on pulling it apart, digging underneath the horror that gripped his body, there was a signature he knew well. It’s not a name, as much as it is a movement, the kind of order in which the Weave maneuvers to manifest the desired effects: the neatest lines, undulating with a most parsimonious efficiency. 

The phone call from Elminster was almost overkill at that point. 

Not long into his attempts at writing down his predicament (with fear of damaging his circulation), Elminster called him. He was traveling back to Waterdeep from the Wealdath and flat out refused to pass through Baldur’s Gate without seeing Gale during his brief stay. In doing so, he confirmed who was responsible beyond a shadow of a doubt. 

If he’d been just a tad less eager to speak to him face-to-face, Gale would’ve blamed it on his longtime mentor being overly interested in his transition to BGU; Elminster had been the one to direct him towards the job in his old friend Drin’s department. 

But no. Gale has known Elminster long enough to know: this is Mystra’s doing and the old mage would come to Gale as her mouthpiece.

Elminster has always played a… particular role in Gale’s life and relationship with Mystra. 

Elminster became Gale’s mentor because Mystra made it so. The year they spent together in Candlekeep and the years that followed obviously forged a kind of quasi parental/supervisory bond that Gale has certainly appreciated many times. But from the start, Elminster primarily served as a buffer and conduit between Gale and Mystra: someone to separate them and keep them close. 

Things didn’t change as much as Gale predicted (or hoped) once he became faculty. Instead of Mystra controlling his progress towards his degree or his research plans through Elminster, they instead outvoted him every time (now as “equals”) with regards to their anticipated grant applications and publications and conference presentations and even who they hired to work in the lab. 

And Elminster’s involvement in his and Mystra’s relationship only reached newer, more absurd heights. Elminster not only more frequently counseled him on how to be a “better partner” to Mystra (with notes provided from the source herself), but he often spoke to Gale when she wouldn’t, when she was so upset with him that she told him to sleep somewhere else and he’d end up in his lab office, dozing off every few hours as he worked through the night.

That Elminster is here, in Mystra’s stead once again, is something Gale plans to use to his advantage this time.

Strategy, not force.

Eventually, they get to the part of the evening where they’re sitting at the cleared dining table. Elminster ensured there weren’t any leftovers and an Unseen Servant took care of the rest of the mess. 

“Gale, my boy,” Elminster begins, “I’m sure you know that I have come to address a most serious matter. I’ll speak as plainly as I can, forswearing the accustomed frills that decorate my speech…”

Gale lays his hand on the dining table, no longer swirling the whiskey in his glass. 

“She sent me.” 

-

-

-

The door did not swing open to him, but it was left unlocked. Gale walked to the end of the long foyer into her open concept kitchen and living room.

He already knew he was inconsequential to her, but seeing the house look almost exactly as he’d left it, almost exactly as he’d found it, drives the point home again.

There was an addition or two. A new throw pillow on the couch. An unfamiliar award plaque on the mantle. But it looked the same. And it smelled the same: crisp apple skins and ocean breeze. To think he spent such a portion of his life here, feeling so sure he would never want to be anywhere else, would never want to linger on any other slice of the sea than the one he could admire from the balcony outside of her bedroom…

Gale paused to appreciate that his musings had not confused her bedroom for their bedroom or even their former bedroom. The latter is not incorrect, but it gave him a boost of something vital that the reflexive knows this place is not his. 

What a difference a few years (and intensive therapy) makes. 

Mystra came down from the stairs leading into the kitchen then, barefoot and still in her green dress. 

“Wine?” She asked concisely. 

“No thank you,” he responded. 

She sighed lightly, irritatedly and pulled out a bottle from the small fridge below the marble countertop. The cork puffed away, leaving a cool whisper of smoke behind, and she poured two glasses anyway that set themselves on the coffee table. 

She took a seat on the couch and gestured for him to do the same as she tucked her dress smoothly beneath her, not bothering to turn the lights on. 

Gale sits on the armchair facing the couch, the one he rarely sat in during his past life, and it comforts him that he can see the moon and the stars from the floor-to-ceiling windows. All of him is not here and he is thankful. 

“Must I always start?” 

Gale responded evenly, looking at her forehead and the small beauty mark there, “You told me to come here.”

“Because knowing you, you would do something deeply foolish in your emotional haste,” she said coolly.

It’s a game as old as their relationship. No, older. Even in the small space of time between becoming her undergraduate research assistant and her lover, she would often become annoyed with him if he reminded her of the things she said to him. And gods forbid he quote her directly… 

Gale indulged in a bit of pettiness then. 

“I think my emotional haste, as you put it, pales in front of your fondling of a graduate student in a coat closet.”

She tried to hide it, but he could see it just fine in the light of the moon. Because he knew to look.

Her nostrils were flared.

“Where is Tarik, by the way?” He continued, “You moved me in before making any risky moves like that at academic socials.”

Her gaze shifted into something piercing. 

“Are you about done with your practiced quips?” She said sharply, “He’s a real person, Gale. Not fodder for your little revenge fantasy.”

He was unmoved. 

“Oh I’m highly aware that he’s a real person. Flesh and bone,” he paused for a moment, savoring the silence with no satisfaction. “I had quite the conversation with him earlier after he just so happened to fall in the garden and skin his hands. I suppose that was your handiwork as well, wasn’t it?” 

She stilled momentarily. She’d been about to take a sip from one of the glasses on the table. 

They were remembering the same things: any of the number of times she’d called to him for a mid-party or mid-dinner tryst and all the times he’d been tasked with distracting a too-close passerby so she could move away, unseen. 

“Why am I here, Mystra?” He asked quietly and the question lays flat over the stillness between them. 

“…It’s not serious. And I don’t advise him, even informally,” she eventually said.

Tsarra Chaadren was not a fan of Mystra. She would never replicate Elminster’s positioning as the young man’s advisor solely in record. Maybe she was steering his studies in another way—as his professor, perhaps—but Tarik’s progress was not dependent on Mystra’s wishes… currently. 

As for the rest of it… he didn’t believe her. 

“So you’re risking your job and reputation for a fling?” He shakes his head at the idea, “You must truly believe me foolish.”

She scoffed and got up from the couch then. “I’m being honest and you can’t manage a speck of a good faith interpretation… My, you were never so cruel before.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed and he stood, unwilling to look up at her for another second. “How is well-earned skepticism, cruelty? How does asking a question about a situation that should be questioned, equate to cruelty?”

She took slow steps towards him as he spoke, almost gliding to stand too close.

She hummed, suddenly amused.

“‘A situation that should be questioned’,” she quoted him and quirked a thin eyebrow, “Yet, you hardly questioned it at all yourself, Doctor Dekarios. Not until it was over, it seems.”

Gale stood still, not responding. He’s sure her intention was to make him feel like a hypocrite. She was not entirely wrong. But just as he knows the deep seated want that drove him to her office again and again as an undergrad, he knows and recalls just as easily the many, many times he did, in fact, question it. To himself. To her. Those were so many of the moments she sent him away, when she was appalled at the implication that he wasn’t entirely and grovelingly grateful at her dominion over his life. 

He had questioned it. He knows this. But distance and silence and isolation and deprivation and love always made him take it back, always made him come back on his knees to supplicate at her altar. 

“Are you still pining for me, Gale? Is that it?” She reached out to brush her fingers against his earring of Mystra’s star, the one she gave him upon his return from Candlekeep all those years ago.

And then she flicked it with a shiny, polished nail.

”…Because all of this reads as quite pathetic.” 

She was close. For a moment, Gale waited for his confidence to falter. Or his resistance. He’s not a fool, he didn’t believe that her words would not hit some sort of plain truth… at first. 

He waited. 

And waited.

He waited a bit longer and nothing materialized. 

No envy. No jealousy. No wounded pride. 

No love.  

He looked into her eyes, golden and threaded with the glow of the arcane. In them, he used to read a thousand stories. She was beauty. Wisdom. Elegance. Power. And her eyes contained universes, once enough to make his stomach flip with a look—across a room, a table, a lab bench, a pillow. 

Once. 

She was hardly a breath away, but Gale spoke slowly, so she could hear the contour of every word.

“I know you need that to be true on some level. And I don’t think I care enough to refute it. Not anymore. But understand this…”

“Tarik knows who I am. He knows my name. And if there ever comes a day where this all comes to an awful conclusion, whether it be 6 months or 12 years from now, and he decides to find me at that point… I won’t lie for you.”

“And,” Gale looked away then, with something like shame, “I will apologize to him for not acting more forcefully or rashly at this moment, even though I know that if I do, his only concern will be to protect you.”

Gale moved to his right, barely brushing her shoulder as he did, and took a step backwards towards the entrance to the living room.

Mystra stood up straight again but did not yet follow. Gale watched her as she watched him and decided that he’d had about enough. 

“If you have nothing else to say,” he said softly, “I’m going to leave now.” 

Gale turned around then, starting down the long foyer hallway to the front door. A hand on his wrist stopped him on the third step. 

He turned back to look at her. It was dark. They never turned the lights on. 

“…I love him, Gale,” she breathed, desperately, “I love him like I loved you.” 

He’d already known. “Yet, you said it wasn’t serious.” 

She laughed softly then, without humor. 

“Can you blame me?”

He could. 

He does. 

He thought of Ramazith’s words the night they went catfishing. He considers telling her that loving Tarik, or him, doesn’t make any of the problems go away. Love doesn’t make it all pure. 

But he did not think she would receive it well. And he wanted to leave more than he wanted to say another word. 

So he left. 

-

-

-

Gale made it clear that he would not lie to Tarik if the young wizard sought him out with desires to know the truth. Apparently, Mystra found this to be unacceptable. 

Elminster reaches into the pocket of his robe and pulls out a roll of paper, held closed with a black wax seal. 

A scroll of Geas. 

She wants his silence guaranteed.

Elminster places the scroll between them and folds his hands on the table. 

“What are the terms?” Gale asks without preamble. 

“To never again reference or share of what you witnessed, nor of your shared personal history,” Elminster replies.

If Gale signs his name into the scroll, he will be bound to never speak of finding Mystra and Tarik or of his former relationship ever again for as long as he lives (or, according to some scholars, even after that). 

“And if I refuse?”

Elminster’s eyes slide shut as he exhales softly.

“You may have noticed some difficulty in discussing certain matters... In lieu of your agreement, or in anticipation of it, Mystra felt protection by complementary means was necessary.” 

Gale’s hands fisted on the table.

“…She put a muzzle on me.”

Elminster does not correct him, only purses his lips. “She’s overly cautious. I told her as much beforehand—“ 

“She told you she was putting a muzzle on me. And you let her.” 

Fuck strategy. 

Elminster looks at him sharply. 

“You know where you went wrong, Gale. We needn’t dwell on that here and now. But even so, you’re being given a chance to put this unfortunate affair to rest.” 

“A chance to—you have to be fucking kidding me,” Gale stood up from the table and scoffed, turning away from his mentor. 

“Gale.”

Gale stops pacing, but does not turn to look.

“Gale.”

He turns then, burning so hot with anger that he thinks he’ll smolder. 

“Because of your muzzle,” Gale grits out, “I may have…”

He freezes of his own volition.

He will not mention Tav. Not here. Not to Elminster.  

Elminster waits uncomfortably for him to finish, but he doesn’t. He won’t. Gale stands there, angrier than he thinks he’s ever been, and stares at the older wizard.

“I know it’s been terribly inconvenient…” Elminster struggles to begin, fiddling with the end of his long beard, “And it brings me no pleasure to ask this of you, lad. Please believe it. But such is Mystra’s proposal.”  

-

Gale considers going to work the next day. But the readings he assigned for that day’s session of his 200-level course were all about the Weave—theoretical and practical explorations of the fabric of magic, of Mystra. 

He’d already been unable to get through his prepared lecture on Monday afternoon before Elminster delivered Mystra’s ultimatum; he eventually had his students do independent work on their projects in lieu of continuing to struggle. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t do it again and not with that particular set of readings. No, Gale decides it is better to cancel class than feel like he’s going into cardiac arrest the entire time, all because his ex was named after the Goddess of Magic and has no boundaries. 

Thursday comes. He’s spent the last few days at home, mostly poring over any potentially helpful books in his library and talking aloud into the silence, trying to keep track of what he can and can’t say without punishment in his mind (since he can’t write it down). 

There is a buzzing hum now too. It wasn’t there before, in the beginning. But it is nearly constant, vibrating in the back of his head like a plucked lute string. He wonders if this is some kind of added punishment for saying no, for setting the scroll on fire with a twitch of his fingers and sending Elminster back to his hotel. 

The ashes of it were gone by the time he went back to sweep them off the dining table into the trash. 

He will not sign it. Not when the scroll inevitably reappears, all in one piece. Not even if the buzzing hum in the back of his head overwhelms him and deprives him of the scattered hours of sleep he can manage. 

He needs to solve this on his own, expel whatever magics Mystra has used to silence him without consulting anyone—definitely not Elminster, who surely wouldn’t help at this point, but not even someone like Ramazith, who probably would have solved his predicament immediately if Gale could physically manage to explain the situation and consult him. 

But he can’t, not even in a general “something is dearly wrong with me” kind of way. He would know; he’s tried piecing together all kinds of phrase and word combinations in the mirror in an attempt to practice communicating to someone what was happening, but once he came to a sentence that did not steal his breath, he soon realized it was so vague that it no longer communicated anything at all. 

After a few days filled with research and talking to himself and dozens of successful instances of Remove Curse without any real results, Gale is at a loss. Spells to remove magical effects are fairly simple matters, especially for someone with his arcane aptitude. He should be able to do this…

It’s all the more maddening by the fact that he thinks he can feel something waver, becoming unfurled, in the moments after he casts, but the effects ultimately remain. When he tries to speak his love, he chokes. When he tries to speak his loathing, he crumples, folds into a protective shape on the ground as his body trembles with a frost that won’t melt until he stops loathing.

He is on the floor of his study following another attempt, still unmoving in a pained heap, when he feels a familiar tug at his mind. 

It’s his wards, the ones he’s set up on the townhouse. 

He reaches out with his mind’s eye and sees Tav, preparing to jaywalk across the street, aiming straight for his front door. 

It’s windy. She has to brush her hair away from her glasses so she can see fully. She’s wearing the dark blue overalls she had on when they met and her colorful clogs with her backpack slung over her shoulders. She seems nervous as she slips between the parked cars to walk across the clear street and get to his—

Shit shit shit shit shit shit

Gale frantically drops a mental gate over his door as she approaches. For some reason, he scrambles downstairs from his study, running down the steps on unsteady legs just to sit at the top of the stairs on the second floor and stare at his front door.

It’s unnecessary. He’s already secured the door, ensuring she can’t come inside, and he can see her just as well as he could before, still in his mind’s eye… 

She’s confused when the door doesn’t open. She backs up and reapproaches, as if she walked up to it incorrectly the first time. When it remains closed, she frowns and reaches out. 

Tav touches the door briefly with her fingertips. He thinks he feels it faintly, but he isn’t sure, not until she lays one of her hands, palm down flat, on the surface of the wood. He feels that, as clearly as day. 

She’s warm; it’s like he’s stepped into a pool of water just a few degrees hotter than his own skin. Gale sits still, breathing calmly for the first time in days. 

Eventually, she pulls back and leaves, looking dejected and questioning and it’s enough that he almost races down the rest of the steps to rip the door open himself. 

But it would be an awful idea. Their last conversation surely left a mess that needed cleaning up, but he can’t do that until he can actually speak to her. 

He lets her walk away, disappearing from the periphery of his wards’ sensitivity.

This is the cruelest part of Mystra’s magical power play. While Elminster had insisted that the muzzle was intended to keep him quiet about Mystra, generally, Gale knows this is inaccurate. He did not correct the sage; besides not being sure that he physically could, enlightening Elminster would mean talking about Tav, even if not by name, and speaking of her, his not-yet-again lover, feels too much like inviting a dragon into his home. 

Of course, Mystra already knows that he’s moved on. He’s sure of it. 

Gale understands that his muzzle is about silence and punishment in equal measure. She wants him to accept his place beneath her, to equate freedom with her favor. When he first froze in earnest, so far beyond the brief moments of difficulty he had while speaking to his mother or Tara, Gale had not been speaking about Mystra. No. He’d been speaking with Tav and had been about to confirm his feelings for her. Mystra had been so incredibly far from his mind at that moment… 

The phone call that came right afterward may as well have been a bright neon sign spelling out the words I’M WATCHING. It was a reminder, a yank of a leash: he did not get to just leave, let alone live happily ever after, after having the proverbial last word in her own home or with the precious knowledge he currently held, potential keys to her destruction in his grasp.

He considers using them then, as he sits at the top of the stairs, unwilling to move from the last place he felt Tav. The reminder that he cannot currently retaliate, not until he removes his muzzle, incenses him, makes him burn with the desire to burn and to burn Mystra specifically in a way that he’s never felt, not even after she broke him and his life into a million pieces.

He may not be able to speak her name, but he can do that—burn. He can book a flight to Waterdeep right now and make it there by the late evening. He can go straight to that house on the Street of Whispers. He can set it on fire after ensuring she’s inside. 

He can. 

But he won’t.

And he won’t consider it again. 

Gale sighs and stands, suddenly exhausted and nauseous and no longer content with sitting in the phantom of Tav’s touch. He first intends to climb up to the third floor, back to his study, but he goes to his room instead. 

He lies on the bed he hasn’t touched in days, on top of the still-made sheets he tidied on Monday. He tries to sleep. He turns to face the half of the bed he’s deemed as Tav’s. He tries to breathe slowly again, but sleep does not come. He puts his hand on the pillow where her head laid all those weeks ago, thinks about the night of Ramazith’s party and his head between her legs and her sweet cries and the way she looked as she fell asleep in his arms after he wrought her pleasure. 

With that thought, Gale gives up on rest.

Chapter Text

Rugan’s hips bounce against her ass over and over at a punishing pace. She’d urged him on and he seemed happy to oblige, to fuck her as hard as he can from behind, stick his fingers into the mass of her curly hair and make a fist.

It hurts good. She won’t cum like this, she’s never cum like this, but her brain is humming an absent little tune and that’s what she came over for: to shut down. 

He says he wants to see her face and turns her head onto her cheek by the hair in his grasp. She’d had her face in the sheets, trying to deprive herself of vital breath. The sudden availability of air makes her gasp and this seems to finish him off. He cums inside of her with a groan that breaks in the middle and pulls out with a hiss.

It’s over. Just as she was getting to nowhere. 

He asks if she’d like to stay as he ties off the condom and throws it away. He’s still catching his breath, sweating lightly underneath his crisp, blue sheets, but she’s already halfway dressed. Her nerves are alight, like raw, frayed wires. And she has no interest in sticking around.

“Should I… get you a cab?” he asks tentatively as her rush to leave seems to set in. 

“No need,” she sits on the very edge of the bed to slip her sneakers on, “I got it.”

She steps out into the hallway and closes the bedroom door behind her. She can hear Rugan fumbling for his clothes as she walks towards the entrance and stops in the kitchen for a glass of water. She leans against the counter to drink and is almost done by the time Rugan emerges with his pants slung low on his hips. 

“Okay, I have to know. Was it that bad?”

She pauses at the question before setting her used glass on the counter.

“Uh, no? It was fine,” Tav texts Shadowheart that she is waiting for her cab as she responds, “It’s just that I have work to do. I should get home.”

He nods, still unconvinced, “That makes sense… People usually lay down for at least five minutes and a short conversation before leaving though. At least, that’s been my experience.”

It surprises her that the statement sounds self-conscious, maybe even a bit disappointed, leaving his mouth.

It’s Wednesday night. They’ve been doing this—hooking up after her days are over and then going their separate ways—since Sunday. They don’t speak much generally; she doesn’t tell him about her days and he doesn’t tell her about his and she’s fine with that. She doesn’t want to know. She doesn’t want to feel interest or curiosity or amusement or ire, on her own or on his behalf as he tells her some heavily edited story from his transporting work. 

It’s just supposed to be a distraction, something to fill her evenings so she doesn’t redirect her attention to—

Anyway, Rugan hasn’t followed her out of bed afterwards like this before. 

“You know we hardly spoke before having sex the first time, right?” she retorts dryly, pointing a thumb back to last Friday, “I didn’t realize conversation was something you were even interested in.”

“Well, it kinda seemed like you wanted to get to bed, so I kept things light and speedy that night,” he explains, slipping his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, “But I do appreciate some conversation, yeah. Especially when it’s not a one off.”

Her stomach twists uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry,” she says sincerely.

He seems surprised at her apology, flustered even. After a beat, he shakes his head and sighs, “No, it’s okay… I might be feeling a little raw in general. I just got out of a long relationship not too long ago.”

Her eyes close in shame. Of course. Of course she’s been using him like a tissue when he’s in a fragile emotional state.

For fuck’s sake, is there anything she can’t mess up? 

“I’m sorry for making this awkward,” he chuckles a bit, giving her an embarrassed smile, “For what it’s worth, I’ve had a nice time. You’re definitely… something.”

He has a nice smile, she thinks absentmindedly, when he’s not being… hot, for lack of a better term. Something cold pricks the back of her neck at the sentiment. She shouldn’t think like that. She can’t be trusted to have a thought like that and leave it alone afterwards.

She needs to go.

“Maybe we can grab a drink next time?”

Luckily, her phone buzzes then. Her cab will be in the front of Rugan’s building in less than a minute or so. 

“Your cab’s here?” he guesses.

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I should go,” she starts to move towards the front door and he stops her with a light touch on the shoulder. She looks up at him, past the long, toned span of his torso, to his face. He still has the same embarrassed smile on. 

“Think about it though? No pressure.”

She nods after a moment and walks to his door. She turns around before leaving to give him a small, awkward wave. He waves back as she closes the door behind her. 

It’s a civil departure. More civil than she’s sure she deserves. 

She will not come back. 

—

Her friends have been treating her like glass. And that’s funny because she wants to be smashed onto a concrete floor, ruined into pieces so small she cannot be fully found or rebuilt. 

Rolan has been too nice to her, in his own way, and too present on campus, picking her up from each of her classes and office hours. Shadowheart has texted her every morning for almost the past 2 weeks to “check in”, even though Tav knows she is in a particularly hectic phase with her current lab appointment. Even Astarion has been softer with her. There are fewer jabs, more offers to sit with her while she works. They’d conspired to get her to that club last Friday and their hovering hasn’t ceased. 

There’s something wrong with her. Somehow, it’s become everyone else’s problem. And she’s not sure how she managed that. It’s not like she’s laying despondently in bed all day or avoiding everyone or hurting herself. 

She just doesn’t want to talk. And she’s numb, except for when she laughs and it hurts but in a bad way. 

Now, Rolan is at the CoM library with her after picking her up from her Thursday class meeting, even though he has no real reason to be here. He pretends to read while she does the final check of the grant application’s references—particularly, the much older, non-digitally archived sources. 

They’re on the lowest basement level of the CoM library, where most of the sources that need checking live. This floor doesn’t usually have very many visitors, so theirs is the only table. It’s mostly one very long space, filled with bookshelves placed one after the other with consistent spacing, forming long aisles of books. 

She’s about halfway through the references that need checking; she gets up again, leaving Rolan behind and heading nearby to the shelves with works from authors CA through CL. She wanders into the aisle, taking her time. Maybe she can draw this out long enough that Rolan offers to get them dinner. If her friends are going to hover, she could at least get fed.

Tav knows she’s only annoyed with them because she’s annoyed with herself. She… doesn’t think she likes the person she becomes when Gale is involved. 

She feels weak. Obsessive and self-doubting. Vulnerable. Misshapen. And it’s not really because he makes her feel that way with his words or actions, but because she just wasn’t ready to fall in love again and certainly not under these conditions once more—secrets and academic politics and exes. But she did fall in love again, under these conditions no less, and she did it when she hadn't healed what Enver left. She’d thought it had at least scabbed over but no. 

She’s raw, weeping flesh and she cries over it all, over everyone, like a helpless fucking baby. It’s not Gale’s fault just like her friends aren’t really doing anything wrong but caring about her.

She can feel the heat build behind her face and this, this is why she’d been seeking Rugan out—a semblance of reprieve from her stupid brain and her stupid thoughts and her stupid tears burning behind her stupid face. 

She focuses on walking deeper into the stacks and finding the right shelf and when she does, she stands there for a moment and takes a shuddering breath. 

She hopes this passes soon.

“Tavelle Ancunín.”

She jolts. She hadn’t heard anyone walk into this aisle. 

“Actually I prefer…” her voice dies as she turns around to find Hallwood looking at her, just a few feet away.

She hasn’t seen Hallwood since meeting him at Ramazith’s party. She’d ripped up his off-white contact card and thrown it into a trash can on the corner of Gale’s street, just before jumping into his bed that night. 

Gale… No. 

Just stop.  

“You prefer…?” He begins for her.

“Tav. I prefer Tav,” she breathes, finally. 

“Tav, then,” Hallwood’s lips quirk into a smirk.

He’s not wearing his robes. It’s the first thing she notices. He’s wearing a close-cut button-up and dark blue slacks and looking impossibly long and slender, save for his broad shoulders. The next thing she notices is that his long silver hair is half-up, accentuating the sharp lines of his jaw and high cheekbones. 

Quite the beautiful dick…

He watches her look him over with amused golden eyes.

…and he knows it. 

“How’s the dissertation coming along?” he asks.

It’s not a question she’s anticipating, not from him.

“Fine… still writing it,” she answers warily, not sure of what else to say. 

“What are you looking for?” He asks, unphased by her confusion. 

“Um, it's a volume by Jeriah Chronos.”

“The Netherese Variator…,” Hallwood says with curiosity, “Is your dissertation related to time or psionics?” 

“Ah, no,” she shakes her head, “this is for another project.” 

A project for which she’s been avoiding seeing her collaborator since Monday, when Jaheira sent the edits and Gale texted her to set up a work lunch. And it had been harder than she anticipated to manage successfully. Gale knows the ins and outs of her days, he remembers things about upcoming events and past events. And she doesn’t want to cause any unnecessary awkwardness by making up a bad excuse to not see him that he will see through. So far she’d been actually filling her schedule with real stuff (Rugan and otherwise) so she isn’t even lying, just ostensibly in possession of bad prioritization skills. 

Still. She’s doing the work. She hasn’t disappeared, no matter how much she thinks of running and never speaking to him again. They’ll be able to hand in their completed application by the internal deadline.

They have their last meeting with Tolna to finalize their submission on Monday. All she has to do is avoid him for the rest of today and tomorrow and the weekend; submit the grant next week; and then they’ll have no real reason to speak again until they receive their assessment from the IMER evaluation committee, which shouldn't be until August at the earliest. 

Gale will do… whatever he’s currently doing, probably. And she will work on her dissertation as much as she can between working on other people’s dissertations and theses and articles, as she does every summer in lieu of teaching. She will not have as much time to think about him and she’s so grateful for this, for this smidge of light flickering weakly at the end of this semester, that she almost weeps in the middle of talking to Hallwood.

“Another project? During your dissertation phase? Your advisors must have their hands full with you.”

There’s something about the way he says hands… 

“They’re not concerned,” she says coolly, “so neither am I.”

“Hm. Well then you must be quite the multitasker.”

It’s an odd compliment, but not unheard of from a wizard. What actually makes it loaded is the tone. And the look, the way it roams. 

She’s right. He’s flirting with her. 

It’s not unprecedented. He gave her his card at Ramazith’s party. He probably thinks she’ll sleep with him because she slept with Enver. Hells, maybe he’s even right. 

Wait, what? 

“Which volume?” 

“What?” She blinks out a sudden haze. 

He rolls his eyes lightly. “The Chronos volume. Which are you looking for?”

“Six.”

Hallwood steps closer, so close that his chest bumps the outside of her arm. She’s about to ask what he’s doing when he reaches his long arm up to the top shelf and plucks a book from others. 

“Volume Six.”

He holds the book towards her, but she’s frozen. He takes her further hand and holds it palmside up, by the wrist and places the old red volume on top of it. She pulls her hand back down and he lets go over her wrist, but he doesn’t step away, his body still warming the outside of her arm. 

“The Chronos translations can be cumbersome,” he speaks in a low voice, looking at her with eyes of honey, “But I’ve read that volume before. Do let me know if you need assistance with it... or with anything else.”

Her eyes lower to his hands. 

Hallwood wouldn’t have a problem breaking her into a million pieces, would he? No, he wouldn't—neither in means or in conscience. He wouldn’t care. He wouldn’t even check in on her. 

It’s an awful idea. One lacking any sense of self-preservation or -respect entirely.

“I’ll… keep that offer in mind,” is the best she can do, murmured quietly. And when she says best, she doesn’t know if she means in terms of not saying yes or in terms of not saying no.

It’s ridiculous to even consider it, saying yes. But the urge to destroy herself wriggles to the forefront and the closer it gets, the more ridiculous it seems to not say yes. 

From not far away at all, someone clears their throat. 

“If you’re in need of a drink, Mr. Skuldask, the library does provide complimentary water,” Hallwood’s words are sharp and laced with irritation. 

It was Rolan. He’s standing there now, in the stacks with her and Hallwood. 

The flush on Rolan’s cheeks deepens. “Of course, Dr. Hallwood. I’ll be sure to make use of it.” 

Hallwood’s eyes narrow at Rolan and then turn back to her, softening. 

“You know how to find me.” 

She nods, unable to speak. Hallwood turns and leaves as silently as he appeared. 

A moment passes. As soon as they both hear the door to the floor open and slam itself shut, Rolan begins.

“Hallwood?” he says, not quietly. 

“Rolan—“

He cuts her off. “Hallwood is the closest thing to a villain that my department has to offer. You have to be fucking kidding me.”

“It was nothing, Rolan.” 

“Tav, are you forgetting? I’m capable of sight and inference. Please. That was not nothing.”

She stands there, suddenly feeling even worse at the memory of when Rolan last said that to her, when she admitted she was attracted to Gale and he insisted that Gale was as well. The current situation feels so much more complicated than she could’ve predicted back then. 

Rolan sighs. “Okay look, I know that you and Dekarios are in some kind of weird holding pattern right now—“

“No, it’s over," she corrects, "And I don’t want to talk about him.” 

Rolan looks at her flatly. “If you’re going to do something like consider spending any amount of time alone with Caliban Hallwood, we need to talk about Dekarios whether you want to or not.”

“I wasn’t.”

Rolan closes his eyes and exhales slowly. “If that’s really the case, say so one more time and I will drop this. But I need you to be honest, like you said you would be. Remember that?”

She does. She remembers. The night she’d told the (almost) whole story of her and Enver, she also told Rolan and Astarion that she wouldn’t hide shit like this from them anymore. It was a genuine promise at the time. She didn't want to break it…

“I don’t… know.” 

Rolan’s face falls. “You don’t know if you’re going to pursue Hallwood?” 

“I’m not pursuing him,” she shakes her head, “I’m just… I don’t know what I’m doing.” 

“If you don’t know what you’re doing,” Rolan says firmly, “Then listen to me: Keep your distance from him. Please.” 

He’s never looked more serious. But it’s the fear on his face that gives her pause. Rolan is frightened, not anxious or worried or even angry. 

Terrified. 

“Okay,” she breathes, “I will.”

Rolan lets out a sigh that does not seem to bring him relief. He nods, mostly to himself. 

“Thank the gods.” 

She begins the walk back to their table, hoping Rolan doesn’t ask. But he does, once they sit down again. 

“What’s happening with you and Dekarios? Astarion said you were a day short of running away together when he was in the hospital.”

She sighs and buries her head in her hands. 

“Come on. Out with it.” 

The words coat her mouth in something acidic. 

“I… I think Gale is getting back together with Mystra, if he isn’t already.”

Rolan’s eyes widen, then narrow. “How sure are you?” 

“I feel pretty sure… but it’s really not clear.” It’s as close to accurate as she can be. She doesn’t know and that had been Gale’s fault initially but now it’s probably her fault because she’s been avoiding him but she’s fucking scared. 

“Well that’s useless, Tav,” Rolan says flatly. 

“I know.” 

“Why don’t you just ask him?”

“I did… he couldn’t answer.” At least she can say she did that right. 

“Well… fuck.” Rolan sits back in his chair, an arm slung over the back. 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It was inevitable,” she stretches her lips into a smile, “And it could’ve ended much, much worse…”

She didn’t mean to quote Rolan, those words he’d told her after learning Gale ended things. She only realizes she did when he grimaces in response. 

“While that may be the case… I’m still sorry.” 

She shrugs. 

Unlike the night she told Rolan and Astarion everything, speaking about Gale now doesn’t make her feel any lighter or less burdened. If anything, telling someone else only makes it feel realer, like drying cement.

“Wait, why are you sorry?” She asks. “You didn’t want me to date Gale in the first place.” 

Rolan rolls his eyes. “He showed up when you and Astarion needed him. I can’t possibly take issue with him now unless he actually does something. I’m an asshole, not delusional.” 

Tav can’t help but snort. “Well it hardly matters anyway.” 

“I suppose so.” Rolan opens back up the book he’d been pretending to read, opening to a completely different section towards the end. 

She goes back to checking her references. Before the library closes, Tav is able to finish her checklist. And Rolan agrees to carry the books in his bag of holding and split the cost of dinner with her. 

When they get to her place, he orders dinner while she gets undressed and brings the books she’d checked out to her room. 

In the middle of the stack lies Chronos’s Volume Six. 

She pulls the old red book out and lifts the front cover and finds it: an off-white contact card. 

Chapter Text

The Flamesinger Artifact Research Center is a 20 minute walk away from the main BGU campus. This distance is one of the only things Rolan does not like about his research assistantship appointment at the FARC, as part of his mentorship under Ramazith.  

He hates walking this distance so much, in fact, that when Ramazith enters the office shared by his RAs to ask for a volunteer (or two) to pop over to main campus for a random errand, Rolan usually hides away or pretends to take a phone call. He hates being a mule and hates the unstructured chaos of running one of Ramazith’s errands. Will it take an hour? Two? Is he picking something up or tracking someone down? One never knows until after volunteering (i.e., waiting out the awkward silence until another RA cracks or Ramazith gets tired of waiting and asks someone at random) and Rolan hates that kind of unpredictability.

But today is different. When Ramazith asks for a volunteer, Rolan jumps at the chance. It confuses everyone in the room, including Ramazith, but the older wizard just smiles and explains the task, which Rolan had anticipated: 

To deliver an advance reader copy of a forthcoming anthology to Gale Dekarios. 

Ramazith co-edited an anthology on the critical study of magical artifacts last spring and he wants to see if Dekarios can make use of one of the chapters contained therein for a potential project. Rolan knows this to be the project for which Dekarios and Tav are writing their grant together. His advisor had spoken to the other wizard over the phone earlier that morning, and Rolan had heard his advisor’s promise to send along the advanced copy that day.

Thank the gods for Ramazith’s reliability. He could’ve ended up volunteering himself to go to an archive or something. 

Of course now he has to actually walk. And it’s fucking hot. He’d forgotten to do laundry and bring lighter clothes to Alfira’s place last week. When he woke up there this morning, all he could find were woolen sweaters in the drawer she’d cleared out for him and he’d been forced to pick the thinnest one. Regardless, it’s too warm for it. 

Rolan begins the trek to campus with the anthology firmly in his grasp, tucked into his side. He starts sweating before he’s a third of the way there and he curses Tav. Because it’s her fault.

He doesn’t believe her. And that’s why he’s doing this. 

Rolan groans. 

The situation is messy. He doesn’t like mess. Alfira likes to tease him about it; she says his mind probably looks much like his room—organized drawers, clear paths of travel, everything with its place. And while he’s been increasingly accepting of her tendency to leave her belongings on his floor, he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop picking them up and putting them on any of the shelves that he very clearly and explicitly designated for her things.

Order—orderliness—is how he’s gotten by all these years. There is a place for everything, even his messy feelings and moments. He wrangles these into their own boxes and opens them in their own contexts. He has his own set of rules, not unlike Tav—or, at least, the Tav he’d gotten to know these past few years who was very intent on not repeating the same mistakes and who also cared deeply about protecting herself. He hadn’t needed the whole story to notice this. She is, or was, someone who lives with an abundance of caution, enough caution that it bleeds into isolation.

And Rolan is not the meddling type. He doesn’t insert himself into other people’s affairs and he doesn’t do things that can compromise the development of his professional network. When he decided to report Lorroakan, he told himself that if he managed to recover from that show of… unruliness, he’d never do it again. He’d buckle down and focus on his studies like a good little grad student and never display an ounce of forceful autonomy ever again. 

But Tav…

And fucking Caliban Hallwood?

Hallwood has a complaint file in some University admin’s office that’s as thick as a godsdamned encyclopedia. The directors of his department’s doctoral program hardly assign him advisees anymore and never women because every single one of his last five female mentees dropped out. He was tenure-track at U of Waterdeep once upon a time, but Rolan is sure there was some concerted effort by students to get him dismissed. 

And, upon another time, Hallwood had been something of a mentor to him. Before knowing what he knows now, Rolan read the wizard’s papers while he was in his masters program and wanted, so desperately, to work under him. To crawl inside of his mind. Hallwood was the entire reason he applied to BGU’s doctoral program; he didn’t get matched to be advised by Hallwood (because he is rarely assigned advisees) but Lorroakan had done him the service (or disservice) of connecting him with his good friend Caliban. And that first meeting spawned off into a mentoring-adjacent relationship.

In retrospect, he mostly marveled at Hallwood’s knowledge and Hallwood made vague promises of future collaborations that never manifested. It ended a year and half later, with Rolan confiding in Hallwood about the abuse he was suffering at Lorroakan’s hands; after feigning his support and getting all the details, Hallwood warned Lorroakan about Rolan’s “lack of discretion” and helped his former advisor rally support and counter Rolan’s meticulously formed accusations. 

Ultimately, Lorroakan was dismissed. And because of Hallwood, Rolan met Tav—because the wizard had forced Rolan to construct the picture of a pattern of bad behavior that couldn’t be ignored by the Disciplinary Review Committee. Hallwood had given him no choice but to look for allies who could help him prove that, beyond Rolan, Lorroakan was “not fit to continue to represent the University”, to quote from one of his later statements. 

And now Hallwood wanted to sink his teeth into Tav. 

Rolan leans against the wall of the elevator and sighs. He’s finally made it to the CoM building and while he’s glad to be out of the sun, he finds that his sweating has only intensified. 

While they’d all been fairly high, Rolan remembers almost every word of what Tav told him that night weeks ago, of “Gale” and Mystra Savras and, eventually, Gortash. Tav didn’t seem to notice the way the tears streamed down her face as she spoke about her current lover and his former lover and her own former lover, laying out on the floor of the living room, unmoving beside her mouth, blanketing him and Astarion in fucked up stories…

He won’t let her do it all over again. He won’t. He can’t let there be another fucked up story if he can prevent it.

He thinks now that he should've followed Tav's lead or taken his own advice and tried honesty, tried telling her the entire story, one in which she plays a significant role herself. But his history with Hallwood has always been one of those things he cannot find the voice to say. Maybe it's the embarrassment of trusting someone so obviously, transparently flawed—so clearly and deeply cruel. And now... maybe he didn't tell her last night because he's not sure it would make a difference.

(And if it didn't, if he told Tav about Hallwood and she went after him anyway, that would pretty much break his heart. He'd never be able to look at her the same again, even if she did it in her current state.)

She said she wouldn’t pursue him. But Rolan doesn’t quite know who told him that yesterday—Tav or the stranger who’s been lingering, more and more, in her place for the last two weeks. 

A shift happened at some point, while no one was looking particularly hard. And now he hasn’t seen her eat more than a few bites of food in front of him in two weeks; they ordered dinner last night and she only moved the food around on her plate, then made him take the leftovers home. Astarion says she hasn’t been sleeping and that he’s fallen asleep on the couch beside her multiple times, waking up in the bleary morning hours to find her awake and staring into space. She’s been forgetting plans they agree on and is hardly there when she shows up. She’s hooking up with some random guy she met at that club Astarion and Shadowheart insisted would be a good idea. Now, she might be turning her attention towards Hallwood. 

Fucking Hallwood. 

(And, of course, there was the text Astarion had woken him up with this morning… which he doesn’t even want to think about. Rolan wrangles this wandering thought into a box, only to be opened in the proper context: when he absolutely has to and doesn’t have a choice about it).

Rolan steps out of the elevator onto the Wizardry department floor. It’s silent, which is typical for Fridays. That seems like it’s for the best, for what he’s about to do, but he’s not sure why. And his heart races anyway. 

Because what he’s about to do is ill-advised. Wholly unwise. He’s considered the different angles of it, sure—as thoroughly as one can in the two hours between seeing an opportunity (hearing Ramazith on the phone) and having to pursue it (volunteering to walk to campus on what has to be the sunniest day of the semester so far). 

His rationale is simple and, admittedly, underreasoned: Tav will listen to Dekarios. She will listen to “Gale”.

Rolan isn’t sure how or why he’s so certain of this, especially in light of Tav’s news that he might be getting back together with Mystra, but it’s all he’s got. And Rolan is sure, even if he doesn’t quite understand it. 

And really, it’s the only idea he has. So he’s all in. 

—

When Rolan walks into the (almost too) cozily decorated office, he isn’t expecting to find the Sage of Shadowdale having a tense conversation with Gale Dekarios. But that is what he finds. 

“Pardon me,” Rolan clutches the anthology tight in both hands, like a shield, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

Dekarios turns to look at him with a reassuring smile, never mind that one of the most prominent wizards in history is staring at him with a face Rolan cannot begin to parse and that would probably make him shrivel up and die if he were Dekarios. 

“No need to worry, Rolan, we were just about done… Have you met Elminster Aumar?” 

“I have not had the pleasure, no,” Rolan stands up straighter then, “Dr. Aumar, it is an honor to meet you.” 

Dekarios introduces him. “Elminster, this is Rolan Skuldask: Ramazith Flamesinger’s doctoral advisee and quite the talented young wizard.”

Rolan swallows, torn between blushing and running away. 

“Mm, Flamesinger—now there’s a name I’d never forget… It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Skuldask,” Aumar’s blue eyes are piercing when they lay on him briefly before returning to Dekarios. 

“I will take my leave now… Until next time, Gale.” 

It’s a heavy farewell, loaded with all kinds of context Rolan is not privileged enough to know. 

“Safe travels,” and yet Dekarios seems entirely casual about it. 

Aumar gives Rolan a gentle wink as he passes by, leaving the office and closing the door behind him. 

“I assume that’s mine?” 

Rolan blinks away the haze, a mix of starstruckedness and confusion and trepidation, and follows Dekarios’s finger to the book still in his grasp. 

“Yes! Yes, of course. Here you go.” 

He passes the book to the wizard from Waterdeep, who takes it with a smile and flips to the table of contents. After a moment and a hum, he closes the book and sets it back on his desk.

“Thank you for bringing this over, Rolan. I hope the walk wasn’t too cumbersome. It is awfully hot today.”

“No! No, at all,” Rolan shakes his head, “It was fine.” 

Dekarios looks at him with something like sympathy. He’s still standing, leaning against the side of his desk. 

“Are you leaving right away? I was hoping to get your read on something.”

Rolan’s eyebrows shoot up on their own accord, “My read?” 

Dekarios nods, pulling a velvet pouch out of his pocket. 

“Would you mind?” He gestures to the reddish brown couch. 

Rolan shakes his head and takes a seat. Dekarios sits down and hands him the pouch.

“Inside is something that gave me quite a bit of trouble last week…”

Rolan undoes the tie on the pouch and turns it over in his hand. A silver earring tumbles out.

“Have you ever analyzed an item without an active enchantment?” Dekarios asks. 

Rolan’s brows move up again and he fumbles for his words, “Not really. Just—one or twice. And only under supervision.” 

It’s an advanced technique that requires special equipment and meaningfully chosen components; i.e., it’s not something most magical scholars-in-training get exposure to and fewer academics have the means (in material and advisory resources) to amass expertise in such a method. Dekarios, in fact, is one of the few who can boast such expertise. There’s a reason why most older, notable artifacts get analyzed in Waterdeep—regardless of where they’re coming from. 

Dekarios nods. “Okay. Give it a try now. Nothing more than a surface-level look. I’ll supervise.”

He hesitates, but Dekarios nods and urges him to attempt if he’d like.

Rolan wipes away errant sweat on his forehead and focuses on the earring in his palm. 

It seems familiar. It’s Mystra’s Star, of course: eight tendrils against a halo and a sparkling yellow stone at its center. But beyond the symbol, he feels like he’s seen it before. 

Rolan’s de-enchanted artifact analysis skills are not nearly as developed as many of his other competencies, and he would typically need additional equipment for this, but even he can see the odd remnants of the enchantment that lingered only in particles of Weave. 

“Mass Suggestion? Kind of…” 

“That’s right,” Dekarios confirms, “It’s an altered form of Mass Suggestion.” 

Rolan tries to understand more, but he can’t. All he can note for sure is that the enchantment was one intended to last; he can tell by the tightly interwoven, arcane tendrils that remain, faint but clearly evident. Rolan notes as much aloud. 

“Yes,” Dekarios nods, almost grimly, “I believe this one would have lasted around a year, perhaps a bit more.”

Mass Suggestion is a spell of magical influence. Of control—a remarkably powerful effect for the low, low price of some verbal and manual components, a snake’s tongue, and a bit of honeycomb. But it’s a complex spell, with desirable effects being highly dependent on the caster and their ability to manipulate the Weave. 

Judging from what remains, the caster was, is, quite formidable.

“Admittedly, I am reluctant to analyze it beyond a cursory glance,” Dekarios says.  

Rolan looks away from the shimmering earring, “Why is that?” 

Dekarios gives him a pleasureless pull of the lips, “It was attuned to me.” 

Rolan’s eyes widen, “What? But…” 

He’d been under Mass Suggestion? Or whatever the version imbued in this earring was? 

The thought gives Rolan chills. That there was, is, someone out there with the skills and sensibility to target someone like Dekarios and get away with it, even if only for a short time… 

He doesn’t want to think about it or even pack it away to think of later.

“Like I said—it gave me quite a bit of trouble last week,” Dekarios huffs a laugh and rubs at the back of his neck, as if they’re talking about a splinter or traffic, “I removed the curse, and the attunement, of course. Even with my curiosity, however, I do not want to look at it or possess it any longer.”

Nothing about this makes sense, but Rolan thinks not wanting to look at or be near a thing that rendered him vulnerable to the effects of Mass Suggestion is understandable. So he nods, too dumbfounded to speak.

“Will you take it to Ramazith? And, by all means, feel free to look at it some more yourself. I’d love to hear what you uncover,” Dekarios asks him as if there’s any reason for Rolan to say no. 

“Of course,” Rolan says. He puts the earring back into the pouch, already thinking about how he might make time to start the analysis today once he gets back. He gets so distracted that he almost forgets why he’d offered to come here in the first place. 

Almost. 

“Do you… have a moment to discuss something else, Dr. Dekarios?” Rolan asks. He can hear his blood pumping in his ears. 

“Just Gale is fine, Rolan,” Dekarios corrects him gently, “And yes, of course. Is everything alright?” 

The air shifts immediately. And in Rolan’s lengthening silence, fear builds on Dekarios’s face…

Rolan fiddles with the pouch. “My apologies… And no. Everything is not alright.” 

…Because there is nothing else that the two of them would ever need to talk about that requires such an awkward preamble. 

Nothing besides Tav. 

“I may be overstepping… but I think that given my concerns, it’s warranted.”

“Speak freely, Rolan,” he sounds like he’s holding his breath. 

“I know that you are… close with Tav,” Rolan cannot look at the man as he says it, “I’m worried about her.”

Rolan stares ahead, at the varied books shelved on the opposite wall and continues. 

“Yesterday…”

As Rolan speaks, he continues to avoid Dekarios’s gaze. It is too much, to do this and say these things and acknowledge what has always been implicit: when they ran into each other at Manorborn or at Tav’s place during Astarion’s hospitalization or even earlier, during the times Rolan wandered by the man’s office, knowing he’d find Tav there, and even still when they bump into each other at meetings or otherwise on campus. They are both tied to her, in stunningly different ways, and their tethers are always there, running parallel to each other whether Tav is near or not. 

But they’ve never talked about it before. And they’re not supposed to. They both know the rules even in the absence of an official book on something like this.

Rolan finishes explaining the less personal bits of Hallwood’s reputation and finally turns to look at the older wizard.

It takes Rolan aback for a moment. As far as he’d seen, Gale Dekarios is a man of exceptionally even temperament, shimmering charm, and sunny disposition—so much so that it had confused Rolan that Tav (his Tav!) had fallen in love with such a character when she seemed so given to darkness. It confuses him less now, now that he has carved out a space for his own ray of irritatingly wonderful sunshine. But even Alfira is not so genial. 

The Gale Dekarios he looks upon now is nothing like he’s seen at conferences or committee meetings. Nothing like the Assistant Professor with a reputation for having a gaggle of students following him to his office, spilling into the hallway after his classes. Nothing like the kind-eyed academic who brings muffins or cookies to dissertation and thesis defenses.

Something dark and sharp-edged lingers just below the surface of his face now. A contained fire, miles away, slinking closer. 

Tav may hate him for doing this. She may decide to not speak to him for a good amount of time or even never again. He’s not sure. He’s never done this before, in more ways than one. 

But he knows it, somehow, as he looks at the storm of Dekarios’s face. 

He’s made the right choice. 

He can only hope she forgives him for it. 

Chapter Text

There is a sweet spot, right between accepting your seat in a doctoral program and actually beginning said program, when your soon-to-be department will wine and dine and email and parade and hand out University merch all so that you can feel more secure in your choice to spend five years or more in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar, and likely batshit, politics. It’s a special blip of time that fades almost as soon as it comes, a triumphant little flourish at the end of a grueling application season, and Visiting Day is a vital part of it.  

Visiting Day is the day when students who have been admitted to doctoral programs are invited to visit campus, meet current students and faculty, and participate in activities that are meant to acquaint them not just with BGU, but Baldur’s Gate. Visiting Day was when Tav first had lunch with Enver, when she first smelled the distinct Baldurian air, and when she first rode a boat out on the Chionthar. 

Tav has not involved herself in the departmental planning around Visiting Day since returning from her leave. There are reasons for this—legitimate constraints on time and energy—but the truest reason is that she hates the reminder of how foolish she was at that point in her academic training and her life. 

Everything seemed so simple then. She was all eagerness to please and subtle brags about how widely she read and, above all, clarity. She had a meticulously detailed plan: five years out, organized by month and year. She thought she knew exactly what she was going to do and how. She thought she knew exactly what to expect. And most of all, she thought she'd be able to handle anything that got in the way of her getting her doctorate because everything else she'd ever gotten was earned through sweat and effort and budgeting and skillful maneuvers and how different could this really be?

In reality, she knew nothing. She had been hurt, but she had not yet suffered. She was very aware of the world but she did not yet have the experience of leaving it. And that particular knowledge has made all the difference.

She was a different person before she loved Enver—still sad at her core and overworked and overdetermined and hungry. So incredibly hungry. Yet she was capable of joy. Even if it was only sometimes. Real joy—the kind of lightheartedness you cannot access once you’ve left your body behind, battered and bruised, and walked into the darkening gray.

The point: she doesn’t have anything good to tell the incoming students. It’s better for her, and probably them, that she stays away from department events as she typically does. 

“I looked you up… I’m sorry if I should’ve done this a different way. I guess I don’t know what the protocol is in this situation.”

Tav hadn’t accounted for being tracked down though.  

The young woman standing before her is beautiful, a halfling with long, jet black hair and eyes like emeralds and unblemished olive skin. And Tav does not need to read it, but her name tag says her name in a looping script: Constance (she/her) :)

According to Wyll: Constance is from Marsember, the City of Spices. She’s 21, like Tav was at her stage. And also like Tav, she studied magical mechanics because she wanted a job after undergrad that could support her family... and then she got pulled aside by a professor who wanted her to become a professor too. 

“How did you know to look me up?” 

Enver has not been listed as her advisor for years now. They’ve never updated the departmental website as quickly as they did after she did what she did. 

“The students who are further along… More than one said I should talk to you about Dr. Gortash.”

Right. People still talk. And Tav has forgotten again that a large chunk of her personal history is not solely her own.

She gestures for Constance to have a seat and she does, taking the swivel chair that was last occupied by one of her students. 

Tav has just finished her last office hours session of the semester. From here, her students will work on their final projects until the final due date. 

Now that she’s done, and the kind comments have been exchanged and the plea for them to complete their course evaluations has been posted to Parchment, she is supposed to be able to take it easy, maybe even go home and attempt to take a nap. She should’ve known better, really.  

Tav is not supposed to have this conversation: as part of the decision from the Disciplinary Review Committee, she isn’t allowed to “approach, make contact with, speak to, or speak of ” Enver on campus or with members of the campus community, to quote just one part of her University Return contract. And she signed that contract with her own hand in front of a faculty witness after confirming she understood the consequences for violating it. If someone catches her doing this, she’ll probably get kicked out of school. Jaheira, Halsin, and Vajra will not be able to save her—no one will.  

But Constance found her. And Tav's mind is made up. It has been for years, really. She decided, long before she was in the right mind to make such a commitment, that if she ever had the chance to warn the next person, she would—regardless of the circumstances. No one had warned her, despite key knowledge lingering in whisper networks that Enver was, is, dangerous. She refuses to replicate her ignorance in someone else. 

Tav looks down at her right hand in her lap, still wrapped in gauze from this morning. 

And of course there’s that, too.

Earlier this morning, she’d been attempting to open a package of superglue, bought weeks ago and finally relevant, when the sharp plastic slashed her palm. 

Deep. 

It’d been gruesome, honestly—so much so that she’d been too stunned (and maybe… awed) by the incredibly delicate curve of the cut and the steady drip of her blood onto the linoleum floor to act immediately. Astarion found her, standing still and staring at the weeping wound of her hand as she marveled at how symmetrical it was. When he appeared, they stared at each other for what felt like a long time before she started to apply pressure with a paper towel and he left to grab ointment. 

They worked in silence. As Astarion helped her dress the cut, she’d wanted to tell him that it wasn’t on purpose, that she hadn’t been looking to hurt herself. But the fact that it needed to be said at all seemed like an inherent negation of her reassurance that she is not at rock bottom. And it felt something like confirmation: 

She may be at rock bottom. She may be at the floor of a pit so familiar she didn’t even recognize it until now.

Because she’s heartbroken, of all things. And it’s fucking embarrassing, really; Astarion probably thinks she’s suicidal because the boy she likes doesn’t like her back or likes another girl or whatever the fuck is happening and she doesn’t know how to cope without making it everyone else’s problem. 

Pathetic. 

So. In the interest of being a grown fucking adult about it, she is going to warn Constance the way someone should’ve warned her. 

She deserves to be protected.

So Tav tries. And it takes her far longer than she’s booked this office for, but no one comes by to take it from her. 

She tells Constance that Enver plucked her application from obscurity. She’d gone to a public university in her hometown for undergrad, the kind of school that faculty at BGU have never heard of, and Enver had fashioned himself into an advocate for her admission. After she got her acceptance, he took her out on his yacht to celebrate along with a few candidates who have since graduated. He told her that night that she was special, that all of her was special—not just the parts she’d highlighted for the admissions committee. 

And she decided right then that she would commit to BGU. 

She was placed under the advisement of Sarevok Anchev and immediately struggled. It was an assignment based purely on institutional capacity.  Enver had three advisees in dissertation phase at the time and the doctoral program administrators were hesitant to give him another student to mentor, especially one so early on. But Enver didn't care. He still mentored her. Sarevok had no patience for or interest in her and he happily handed her over to Enver in every way but on paper, documented to the department. 

By the end of her first semester, they were having sex in his office on a regular basis. Over her first winter break, he took her to his home, the sprawling manor with its full-time staff, and she stayed for days at a time. He was rough with her—he liked to hurt her and to mark her and he sometimes directed the healers on staff to leave a bruise or wound (“something small”) untouched (“something to remember me by”). But where she should've seen the shadow of a grave stone, she saw romance and a chance to prove her devotion. 

Their situation transitioned into a semblance of a deeply askew relationship after she hooked up with someone else and he choked her for so long that not only did she pass out, but she died. Her first time dying. In retrospect, she didn't consider the incredible weight of literally dying nearly as much as she should have at the time, if she did at all. And why would she? What a small price to pay, she'd thought, for the attention of someone so beyond the confines of the ordinary—the drudgery of mortality. 

He brought her along to conferences. He took her on real work trips and made up fake ones for them to get away together in between. Sometimes, when they woke up together, far from Baldur’s Gate, he touched her softly, like something fragile and petaled. And the summer after her first year was over, he took her to his other home in Athkatla and they stayed there for a month, playing house and burdening the estate staff and staying up late and having debates and working on articles and then abandoning them and having sex so incredibly consuming that she fought with him to keep the carvings of his name into her skin instead of healing them away. And she never won any of those fights and the letters of his name were always healed away but he took to kissing her, so softly, as they disappeared that she wasn't sure if she really minded. 

On their last day there, as they double checked that their belongings were packed, Enver told her that he loved her. And she has never been sure if it was the truth, not even at the time he said it, but she was in love. Deeply. And she’d said as much time and time again. So she kissed his hand and told him she would make sure he did not regret it. 

But then came her second year of grad school. Orin wanted to reconnect with Enver. They were not in love, and Orin was aware of their affair, but Enver’s declining efforts to attend events or meetings where he was expected was a problem. 

He started to ignore her. And then she broke in every way possible. Tav went to sleep one night and woke up the next day and couldn’t get out of bed. Her body became pain overnight. And she’s still not sure how or why, but it did and she’s never been the same. 

Astarion came to Baldur’s Gate to take care of her. That semester, she went to doctor and cleric appointments and did work for the classes with professors who would let her study from home and had to drop out of the rest. Nothing helped—not magic nor inert medicine. She was at the mercy of her material nature, a corporeal prison. Just another mortal. And the only things that seemed to do anything at all for her continue to be her only sources of reprieve, even now: time and weed. 

Around the end of that semester, she and Astarion signed a marriage certificate to get him insured while in the waiting room of a particularly useless appointment. Before that week was out, Enver knew. 

What followed was the one time he came to her apartment. Astarion was at an appointment, thankfully. She was alone for the first time in weeks and she let Enver in, wide-eyed at the bouquet of flowers in his hand. 

He brutalized her until she died. Again. Her second time dying. 

She woke up in her bed with Astarion shaking her in panic; he'd found her passed out on her sheets with the floor of the living room still covered in blood and tendrils of her hair and broken glass. And as soon as she came to consciousness, she felt it. Her body was different that time. While she was not dead or injured in the conventional sense, she was not completely healed. She could feel what Enver had done and how he did it and how much fury he’d put behind it.

But her only concern was not losing him entirely. 

She tells Constance then that he forgave her and they continued their relationship but, eventually, things still went fully sour. And at the end of her second year, when it was time to update the department on her progress, Enver took credit for her work on a magical construct project they started together during their month away in Athkatla. And then he recommended that she be placed on academic probation “for failure to demonstrate timely development of core research competencies.”

Surprisingly, Sarevok wanted the full story and called a meeting between the three of them before forwarding Enver’s recommendation to her program’s admin. But at that meeting, when Enver proceeded to lie about their project and her progress and claim she was “too unwell” to continue without “maybe, a small leave of absence”, she saw red. And then she was being pulled off of him, bloodied and unrecognizable, by two faculty members and a security guard. 

She tells Constance this and does not mince words. But there are many things she doesn’t say. 

She does not tell Constance that on the day she died for the second time, she took a cab to the manor, uninvited. She waited for him in his office until night fell. And for that, she expected that he may kill her again and leave her dead that time, but he didn’t. He went to his office and found her and she got on her knees and explained why she’d done it and told him she would do anything to keep him and instead of snuffing her out once again, he asked her to repeat it. 

She did. 

And then he asked her to prove it. 

And she does not tell Constance that she did prove it, in almost every way he asked her to.

She became Orin’s plaything… and replacement. When Enver had to leave the city to meet with a funder needing a bit of sweetner, she was saccharin. She let Ketheric Thorm bend her over his desk, littered in antique blades, while Enver was in the other room. She let Raphael (“the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father,” Enver called him) squeeze her throat until she was limp. And she let Balthazar paralyze her body with spell after spell, while he poked and prodded and needled and incised. 

And she does not tell Constance that, eventually, she failed. Because her body was already broken by that point and every test was agony a world over and she never healed completely after dying the second time. Burning on burning on burning. Blood on blood on scabs on blood. Each act of devotion made her want to die permanently and eventually, before an upcoming trip to Thorm, she begged Enver to please just let her stay behind, just this once, because everything hurt and if he needed her to do this, she would but she needed just a little bit of time to hurt just a little less. 

In response, Enver kissed her. 

It was indescribably gentle. She felt priceless. Special. He held her chin in his grasp and told her “of course, flower” and she would’ve let him do anything he wanted to her right then and there, but he only kissed her once more and sent her home to rest. 

The next day, he recommended she be put on probation. 

She does not tell Constance those things, but she shouldn’t need to. The rest of it should be enough. 

Tav glances at her.

“I’m sorry… that’s—that’s crazy,” her big green eyes are closed.

Tav winces. She thought this might happen, that Constance may not believe her. “I know it’s not what you were expecting to hear—“

“I’m—I’m so sorry.”

Tav does not expect Constance’s sobbing. She gets out of her chair and kneels beside the young woman and holds her hand.

It only seems to make it worse. Constance’s sobs become wails. Tav holds her, cradles her head to her shoulder, and strokes her soft black hair. But Constance still cries. In empathy. In sympathy. In pity. In anger. And in confusion and helplessness too—because she is tied to Enver now, more officially than Tav ever was, and she has no idea what to do about it. 

Soon, Tav cries too. 

–-

Tav and Constance pull up the Graduate Student Handbook from online and strategize. There is no one else in the IM department, or in the College of Magic, who specializes in magical mechanics or engineering. And unlike Tav, Constance does not yet have a secondary research interest; such things typically emerge over the course of training.

But Tav just so happens to know of an advisor with a penchant for lost lambs… who does not yet know Enver is returning. 

“That slimy fucking—“ Jaheira takes a deep breath and walked around her desk to pace in the middle of her office. When she stops, she turns towards the both of them with a face of deadly seriousness. 

“Okay, listen to me,” Jaheira speaks to Constance, “I will take you under my wing in the fall. But I am old. So no sassing.” 

“She’s not that old. And she likes sassing,” Tav says.

Constance’s shoulders drop in relief and Jaheira turns to Tav.

“As for you—”

“Outside of killing him, I’m not sure what can actually be done for me,” Tav says this without an ounce of humor and Constance’s eyes snap to her, widened.  

“You might be right, cub,” Jaheira says, softening, “But let your committee strategize around that. That’s our job.” 

“To shield me,” she hears herself echo Gale’s words, from their last real conversation. 

“In a manner of speaking: yes. But it will require some... creative problem-solving. And a heaping dose of luck,” Jaheira places a firm hand on Tav’s shoulder and squeezes.

Tav laughs, despite it all.

Following the incident with Gortash, Sarevok withdrew his grant support. Even if he hadn’t been a literal witness to her rage, he would have done so anyway. She’d crossed the line from “disappointing mentee” to “actual liability” and had transformed herself into a true persona non grata. 

When Sarevok withdrew his support, it meant that there were no longer any dedicated funds to allocate for her wages or health insurance… which meant that the College of Magic would need to find money with no strings attached to pay her stipend if she were to re-enroll; unsurprisingly, that was a task no one at the administration level had any motivation to do for someone who had just physically assaulted a faculty member they’d also slept with. 

And while she had only been placed on medical leave, versus being dismissed from the program, a lack of funding dedicated to her stipend meant that she’d eventually be pushed out or denied re-enrollment under the guise of institutional limitations. It was a slower death, but all but guaranteed. 

Enter: Vajra. 

Tav had been serving as a kind of “unofficial” teaching assistant for one of Vajra’s courses in the semester leading up to the incident. She wanted to take Vajra’s course, but neither Enver or Sarevok found Advanced Magical Research Theory to be relevant for a student who was supposed to be focusing on magical engineering and constructs. So she’d been (informally, but firmly) disallowed from registering. But Vajra had invited her to informally audit the course and then that turned into an arrangement where Tav was helping Vajra refine the syllabus and brainstorm new assignments and, towards the end, teach. 

(Looking back now, Tav isn’t sure how or why she did this. The semester of that little arrangement, she was still scared enough of losing Enver that she was letting Orin and Balthazar cut her up at their leisure. But she did. And it is a small reminder that even when she was at rock bottom, she never stopped trying to live.) 

Vajra, somehow impressed enough with her classroom skills to be moved to action, stepped in to take Tav on as an advisee in Enver and Sarevok’s place. And then Vajra connected her with Jaheira and Halsin, senior faculty and collaborators who could support her money- and academic politics-wise. 

Tav still can’t really believe her luck. She’s always been terrible at games of chance; she’s never won a lottery or a raffle or scratch off or even a game of dice. But maybe The Jester had been saving it all, every ounce of good fortune, for that one singular event, to pour on her and cackle at the way she broke into tears when Vajra, Jaheira, and Halsin had explained their plan: how they’d pooled their discretionary faculty funding to cover her stipend and health insurance for the year after her return, how they were working on getting CoM admin to allow Tav to teach for her stipend wages after a probationary period, and the incredible commitment they had to getting her past the finish line… if she still wanted to, that was. 

And it had taken her extra time to decide, but after two years on medical leave, after two years of writing and editing other people’s dissertations and theses and research articles to pay the bills, and after one year of Astarion struggling with the patchwork coverage provided by The City of Baldur’s Gate’s municipal health insurance (because insurance is terminated after one year of leave, thanks admin), she decided that even if she didn’t want to, she needed to go back to BGU.

Still. She got lucky. Incredibly lucky. So stupidly lucky that she knew it would never happen again, that she’d sworn to herself that she would never be a burden on her advisors ever again. Miracles, after all, cannot be replicated. And yet, here it is, happening again—if not for her, than for Constance. 

Tav is sure that this is part of The Jester’s fun too. 

So she keeps laughing.

–-

Eventually, Constance rejoins the Visiting Day activities. Before Tav leaves to go home, Jaheira pulls her into a hug that is laden with a chastising kind of fondness. 

“What’d I do to get this?” Tav asks, muffled by her shoulder. 

Jaheira shakes her head and holds her tighter. 

“You stupid girl. You are too good for this world.”

And Tav doesn’t quite know what she means. But the look that Jaheira gives her before she sends her off to rest for the weekend tells her that she’s done a good thing. And she feels relieved in a way she hasn’t felt in weeks.

As Tav waits for the elevator, she thinks that maybe she can do this. Heartbreak and all, maybe she can come back to herself and stop worrying her friends and advisors and be the person she has been trying to be for the past few years: someone who can go on when it hurts and be in pain and still do things that are good. Someone who won’t stop trying to live just because she’s broken. 

On the way home, she’ll stop at that fancy chocolate shop that Astarion likes and get him a box of truffles. And she will tell Rolan to come over for dinner tonight and she will apologize for even considering pursuing Hallwood and maybe they can order from—

The elevator dings and the doors slide open.

"Tav?"

Of course.

Why did she expect anything else?

Chapter Text

Tradition, many would say, is the backbone of any campus culture. Customs and rituals and little shows of belonging that are performed on a consistent basis coalesce into vibrant and distinct tapestries of University identity. 

With this in mind, if Tav had to describe BGU’s culture in one word, it would currently be ‘chaos’. 

Every year, the graduating seniors pull pranks. They are mischievous farewells. For example, last year’s grads from BGU’s School of Fine Arts covered the University President’s car in painted paper mache. They got the surface so smooth and glossy that from far enough, you couldn’t even tell they’d done it. 

Seniors from the College of Magic, however, tend to be a bit more… adventurous. 

Hence their current predicament. 

Last year, the graduating class opened portals to different places in Baldur’s Gates at each CoM stairwell entrance. This year? Tav isn’t sure. But whatever it is, it’s sent the building into lockdown. 

No one, at least for now, is getting in or out. And restrictive magical infrastructure in the surrounding area and exits have been engaged.

A voice comes through on the elevator speaker to document their names and explain the situation in summary terms. All elevators and escalators have been turned off to “investigate an unknown disruption to the building’s facilities” and, as outlined in the CoM’s Lockdown Protocol Guide, no magical or mundane means of travel, in or out of the building, are currently possible.

“—should be able to get you folks out in around 30 minutes or so but that estimate can change. In the meantime, use the intercom if you need assistance. We have eyes on the elevator interiors, but no sound unless you use the intercom, Dr. Dekarios.” 

“Understood. And thank you for the information. We’ll sit tight.”

Tav lets Gale handle talking to the facilities manager through the intercom. It’s for the best; she would be unable to restrain herself from commenting that the seniors do this every year and she’s confounded as to why the CoM’s systems are still so easy to tamper with. 

“Every. Year.”

“Some things never change,” Gale’s eyes twinkle like godsdamned stars as he speaks, “I got stuck in an elevator at Waterdeep once due to the senior prank that year. It took about two hours for them to get all of the owlbears out of the building.” 

Gale fiddles with his ear in a familiar motion. She expects to see the glint of his earring, but it’s not there. She wonders what else has changed since she last saw him, but doesn’t ponder for long. She has enough ideas. 

When the elevator doors opened to reveal Gale, Tav wanted to cry foul. But she still stepped in and the doors still closed behind her And she accepted that whatever happened afterwards would be something she earned. Because she stepped inside. She just hadn’t anticipated that the elevator would jerk and stop after he asked what happened to her hand without preamble.  And then came the ringing of the lockdown alarm.

She’s sweating now. She’s not a fan of closet-sized spaces and she doesn’t like being watched and she knows she’s just had a momentous day, and that she told herself she was going to start cleaning up her mess, but being stuck in an elevator with Gale right now is too much, too soon. 

But she earned this, she supposes.

They’re standing on opposite sides. It’s not very much distance at all, about the span of one Gale, and the harsh fluorescents mean there’s not even a bit of her that can hide.

“Are you okay?” Gale moves towards her for a moment, reaching out with worried hands, before he remembers the camera. He glances up with a frown and then leans back against his wall, hands tucked behind his back.

“I’m fine,” she tries to take a slow breath. She fails. 

“You don’t seem fine,” he responds.

“I am fine,” she insists, with a bit of bite, “I just don’t like being stuck in an elevator because this fucking school forgets seniors pull pranks every year.” 

She’s irritable. But Gale only smiles in a restrained kind of way that makes his right dimple appear. For someone she’s so in love with, Tav feels she understands him very little at times, increasingly and especially now when he seems so pleased and she’s ready to stomp a hole into the floor of their current prison. 

“Were senior pranks not so intense at your undergraduate institution?” he asks, still standing with his hands behind him.

“No idea,” she closes her eyes and leans her head against the wall, “But it was a commuter school. So it’s unlikely they were or are a thing at all.”

A commuter school: a place where people went to school for credits and degrees and not tradition. There were no freshman seminars intended to push young students to make friends. There was no quad to lounge on in the sun. There was one library, no IMER grant awardees, and all of the professors had way too many classes to teach each semester. For most of her bachelors, her closest friends were in their 30s and 40s, people with kids and spouses who were attending school between work shifts.  

It is the kind of place Gale cannot begin to construct in his mind, much like most of the people on BGU’s campus. But she can see that he’s trying. He has his thinking face on, gaze pointed somewhere vague and up.

“Hm. What about University Balls? Were there any? Did you ever go to one?” he scans the camera in the corner again, “Although I suppose such events are as close to the Hells as you, specifically, could possibly get.”

They are both thinking about Ramazith’s party. She does not want to think about Ramazith’s party. And she does not want to think about their night afterwards, so close to the last day she could call him her lover. 

“No,” she replies, “But I don’t think there were any anyway.”

“Did you go to graduation?” he gives her a meaningful look then and she turns her eyes away slightly, embarrassed, “I’m certain there had to be one of those.”

“There was a graduation,” she pinches the skin between her eyebrows, “But no, I didn’t go.” 

“That does not surprise me one bit.”

Gale finally looks away from her as he bends down to open his satchel on the floor and begins rummaging through its contents. 

Something sharp, more than irritation and surprise and confined space, claws at her.  

Sometimes, she approaches something like hating Gale.  

She doesn’t like to think about it. But it definitely happens. And hatred isn’t the right word, really. Maybe it’s resentment. Or envy. He’s like a monument to everything she’s never had and never will have and will never be. He is magic and sunshine and the product of engaged parenting and dancing at balls and exploding confidence. And she is not any of those things. Sometimes, the best way she can describe herself is nothing . 

Gale could never be nothing. 

“Well,” Gale eventually speaks as he continues to search for whatever he’s looking for, “I, for one, am not entirely hating this. I don’t think I’ve spoken to you this much in… well, what feels like too long.” 

Fuck . 

And she can’t have simple feelings because he says shit like that. They’re trapped in an elevator, unable to even teleport away, and he’s preoccupied with talking to her again. 

It’s messy. She wants him. Desperately. But she also kind of wishes she never met him. She wants to talk to him… but she also doesn’t really want to think about him. And she wants to do much more than talk—but she also wishes he would just go and fuck all the way off back to Waterdeep and the Lady of Academic Accolades. 

And as she looks at him now, still rifling through his bag, Tav doesn’t know which side of her is winning: the one that wants to love him or the one that wants to resume her life, the way it was and the way she was before he sat next to her at that Parchment orientation. 

Both sides can’t triumph, so they come to an impasse instead. Typical. 

Tav sighs. “I’m sorry.” 

It’s simple and true. She is sorry. For avoiding him. And for needing more than he can or would give her.

“It’s no worse than I deserve,” he responds simply, still checking the bag’s internal pockets carefully.

He knows. He knows she’s been avoiding him, even though she’d tried to hide it. 

“That’s not true,” she says. Because it’s not. It is worse than Gale deserves. Gale does not deserve anything but the highest, most perfectly ripened apple off the tree… or for his collaborator to show up to in-person work sessions. But she is neither the fruit nor the harvester nor the ideal collaborator.

“I believe it is,” he briefly looks away from his satchel to her, but doesn’t linger, “I’ve been terribly unfair to you these past few weeks.” 

She’s been swaying on her feet. His words still her. 

Unfairness. An interesting concept.

Tav is aware she’s not a consistent person. Sometimes, she is sure she deserves much more than she’s being given. And other times, she feels like no matter what she’s being given, she deserves less.

At this second, she doesn’t really know if Gale has been unfair. He’s been… unclear. And confusing. But she’s also not entirely sure if she deserves more or less than that. 

“I don’t know if I would say that.” 

“I would. But regardless, I’m happy to see you,” he replies, matter-of-factly.

She is not surprised to hear this. No. 

“You are?” 

But it still feels good to hear. 

“I very much am.” 

Somewhere outside of their elevator, there are the sounds of shrieks, something sloshing, and running footsteps. It sets her back on edge, reminding her that they are in a metal box suspended several stories in the air. She knows they won’t die… probably. But still. 

Every. Year. 

Gale breathes a small “a-ha” and takes out a pad of adhesive notes from his satchel. He peels one off and stands, holding the sticky paper up to the fluorescent light. He hums with some kind of observation. Then he peels off two more pieces, still stuck together, and proceeds to slap them onto the lens of the camera in the corner of the elevator. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Just one second, Tav,” he replies calmly. 

The elevator’s intercom lights up again. 

“Dr. Dekarios? Is everything okay in there? The camera is obscured.” The facilities manager’s voice fills the elevator again. 

Tav stares at Gale with wide eyes as he presses the appropriate button and speaks casually. 

“I’d really prefer not to be watched for half an hour, or more potentially. I’m sure you understand this feels a bit like being in a goldfish in a bowl,” Gale throws in a friendly laugh and she feels like she’s losing her fucking mind, “Is it truly a problem?”

The facilities manager sputters, “W-well, protocol states that there needs to be exchange with any stopped elevator riders during the course of lockdowns.”

“I completely understand,” Gale smiles at her as he speaks, his free hand waving a bit as if the manager were in front of him, “We’ll be sure to answer the intercom when contacted. You have my word, sir. Is that all?” 

“I-I suppose. But really—“ 

“Thank you so much for understanding. And good luck with those seniors!” Gale takes his finger off the button activating the microphone and turns to face her fully. 

She doesn’t have time to ask what he’s doing before he takes her into his arms. 

It’s funny. She can feel the buttons of his shirt against her forehead as she buries her head into his chest. It should be uncomfortable. The way he murmurs, brushing air along her ear, should bother her. The pressure between his body and the elevator wall behind her should be suffocating. She should want air.

But she doesn’t. 

The pace of her heart slows. His arms hold her waist and her upper back; he cradles the back of her head with his hand and every second that passes, something buckles, sending her sinking further into the puddle of her love. 

“I know I have a lot to explain,” he begins softly, his words caressing her ear still.

“Please just hold me,” she interrupts. 

“I can do that.” 

They stand there, swaying slightly, for what feels like a long time. But the elevator doesn’t move.

A tickle of something adjacent to self-consciousness emerges when she feels his hand shift against the damp back of her shirt. 

“I’m sweaty,” she whispers, not quite apologizing.

“You’re here. With me. There is nothing that could diminish that reality.” 

She pulls her face back from his chest. She wants to look at him, wants to pick apart the statement in the light of his eyes. But she’s scared. She doesn’t know what’s happening. She wants to be held by him, but her list of reasons for why it’s a bad idea is as long as her day has been.

It shouldn’t be hard. Being held shouldn’t be hard. But it is. She makes it hard, somehow, even when he does everything to make it easy for her. 

She remembers them standing, just like this, in the Manorborn parking lot. It’d been easy then. On her end too. Maybe she can only stop getting in her own way when she’s about to fall apart.

“Uh, Dr. Dekarios? ” the facilities manager comes back over the intercom, “Just wanted to check in and make sure—”

Gale pulls himself away with something approaching a growl. He presses the microphone button and responds, entirely pleasant in tone when his eyes are laden with irritation. Gale confirms they are “just fine” and the facilities manager shares that they have yet to “manage the disturbance” before the conversation ends. 

He comes back to her then, hands running down her arms lightly before lacing their fingers together. Or trying. 

He cradles the back of her injured hand.

“I’m not getting back together with Mystra. I never was.”

Oh.

“Oh.” 

She doesn’t realize she’s looking away from him until she feels a hand slip away from her uninjured palm. He guides her head gently to face him again with precious fingers.

“And I couldn’t tell you that because… well I couldn’t speak. It was an altered form of Mass Suggestion. In my earring. Mystra must have either enchanted it without my notice or it was there for much longer, waiting to be activated.”

Somehow she stumbles into the wall behind her. Gale’s hands move to her elbows and he just stands there, looking entirely too patient and like he hasn’t just told her that his ex violated Faerûnian magical law. 

“…That is so incredibly messed up.”

“Very much so.” 

Her eyes drift to his left ear, the one usually adorned by the Lady’s Star. Her fingers move on their own, coming to brush on the soft lobe. 

“I–I noticed you weren’t wearing it. I never would’ve guessed…,” his cheeks redden and she realizes how bold she’s being. He may have gathered her in his arms, but to touch him back feels… not the same. 

She pulls her hand away from his ear. 

“But why?” she asks. 

Gale sighs. “I saw something… something she didn’t want me to see when I visited Waterdeep.” 

Fear gathers in her stomach. “What did you see?” 

“I saw her… in a coat closet. With a doctoral student—a first year.”

“Oh Gale…” she wraps her arms around his shoulders this time, brushing away her self-consciousness. He’s touching her. It should be okay, “Are you okay?” 

Judging by his expression, it’s not a question he’d considered. His gaze flits across her face for a few moments before speaking. 

“I am now.” 

His eyes melt her. He’s all long lashes and light that never goes out.  

“What was…” she struggles to ask. Her brain is fried from looking at Gale so close, the first time in what may as well be forever. And from the absolute batshit mess he’s just told her of. 

“I know you said it was Mass Suggestion, but that spell requires activation conditions, right?” Tav tries to remember something of use from her Foundational Principles of Magic class. Not being able to access her magic hadn’t been enough to get her excused from the course. 

“It does,” he nods, slipping into thoughts she’s sure he’s turned over and over, “And I haven’t figured them out entirely myself, but it seems Mystra didn’t want me talking about her… widely interpreted. Or about some other things, unrelated to what I saw…”

Gale’s mouth sets into a thin line. “I sent the earring to Ramazith. He should be able to give me more details eventually.”

“Why? You certainly have the skills to analyze it yourself.” 

“I do…,” Gale shakes his head as he speaks, “but I have no desire to look at it any longer and certainly not in any depth. I’d like to pivot my attention to more worthy things.” 

“Like what?” she snorts, “Getting your grades in? She casted Mass Suggestion on you, Gale. What could possibly be more important than nailing her ass to the wall?” 

“You,” he says simply. 

“Me?” she responds.

“Yes. But before I get to that, I have to be honest with you about something else.”

“What? No. What are you—?” 

“I was on my way to see you when you got in the elevator.” 

Her eyes can’t widen anymore. Her heart is hammering against the bone of her body. 

“You were?” 

Please, one part of her begs, please tell me what I want to hear. 

“I was. Rolan visited me earlier to get the earring. And when he came, he also spoke to me about you,” Gale swallows, “He was concerned about… Hallwood approaching you yesterday. In the library.” 

Oh no. Not that. No no no no no no—

“Please don’t be too upset with him. He was very clear that he would not have gone to me if he felt like he had a better option.”

So that’s what this is. It’s not an organic, special thing that’s happening right now. He has been driven to her, to this place, by necessity. External urgency. And her inability to cope. 

You’ve earned this, the other half of her reminds with gritty schadenfreude. 

“Tav?”

She counts a few seconds, a bit of time to say goodbye, and then takes her hands off his shoulders, curling them around herself.

“You don’t have to say anything else. I’m not interested in Hallwood,” she turns her gaze to the buttons on his shirt. Pearly white. 

She looks past him, to the wall he’d been standing at until he held her. She wishes he’d stayed over there now. 

“Is that all?” she asks. 

“No. No, it’s not,” Gale sighs, “Honestly, Tav…” 

“What, Gale?” She shoulders past him to the other side of the elevator, where he stood not long ago. 

She stares at the wall, unwilling to face him again. She hears him turn, feels him look at her.

“What is it that you’re thinking?” he asks, sounding tired, “Because I can almost guarantee you’re incorrect.” 

That makes her turn back towards him. She gives him a look she knows is withering, but he doesn’t flinch. He just looks like he’s in pain, like she’s ripping him apart. And that does nothing to dull her tongue. Her words are still broken glass.

“What I’m thinking,” she is a viper, full of venom, “is that you heard I might fuck someone else and you came running.” 

Gale clenches his jaw. His nostrils flare.

Anger.

Good.

It spurns her onward. 

“Well guess what?” One step. 

His hands turn to fists. Another. 

“I already did.”

His expression falls then. It unravels—his hands, his face. There is no anger.

Only hurt. 

“Shit,” and even though she’s the one who said it, she falls back, covering her mouth and bumping against the wall behind her. 

What the fuck has she done?

An old fear, one with gnarled fingers, one from a red, red room, grips her throat. When Gale begins to move towards her, she closes her eyes. She tenses for impact—the slap of his skin on hers, the force of a fist, maybe something sharper. 

It doesn’t make sense, not even in this case and not even to her mind. Gale wouldn’t. But she still flinches, trembles when gentle fingers brush her cheeks. 

Tears. She’s crying. And he’s brushing them away.

She doesn’t dare open her eyes. Or move. Or speak. He could smash her face into the wall right now and she wouldn’t defend herself, staying still and holding out hope that it will just end soon until it’s over. 

When he speaks, it’s so soft she almost doesn’t hear it. 

“Did you finish?” 

“Wha—?”

“When you were with someone else…,” he clarifies without raising his voice and her ears strain past the fierce pumping of blood to process the words.

“Did you finish?”

The “no” comes out faster than she can swallow. 

It shouldn’t emerge so easily, the warmth below her belly. She is still scared, still not quite accepting that this is Gale and not Enver, but she burns hot anyway. 

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Not really,” she whispers.

Gale hums. “Did you think about—?”

“Yes,” she answers, not needing the rest of the question. 

Despite her best efforts, she never quite managed to think of anything but Gale in those moments outside of her brain settling, always for the briefest seconds, in the merciful hum of nowhere.

Gale leans forward, speaks barely any distance away from her mouth. She doesn’t need to see him to know. “May I?” 

“Please.”

Something falls then. Fear peels away, as much as it can. She knows these lips. She knows this tongue. It’s like coming home. Somewhere in a closet, Mystra lingers. And underneath a bed, Enver lives. But she is home and home is Gale and there are monsters but there is also Gale. 

His lips are warm and soft. His mouth tastes like black tea. She aches. He’s gentle with her. Even the strokes of his tongue are slow, almost no pressure behind them. And still, her arms are covered in goosebumps. 

He doesn’t touch anywhere, but her face. His thumbs still stroke her cheeks, even in the absence of tears, and its just so fucking gentle that she bites him.

It’s the tiniest nip, right on his bottom lip, but the groan that leaves him takes apart the rest of her restraint, if it was ever there. Her tongue presses against his and her trembling hands are on his belt buckle, magnetized there by some non-polarized force, and as she slips the leather out of the loops of his slacks, he pulls his mouth away from hers. 

“Wait, wait,” Gale puts his hands over hers, halting her progress on his belt—which isn't much, because of her bandaged hand. But in a fit of hunger, she finally opens her eyes and licks the exposed skin of his neck with the flat of her tongue. He whimpers.

“H-hold on—”

“No,” she bites his ear. Her teeth, his new earring. “No more.” 

She slides her hands out from under his, his attempt to keep his belt on, and she grasps the growing bulge in his dark pants. She salivates. 

“Fucking hells,” he breathes, “I love you.”

She stills. And so does he. 

He looks like he’s been caught doing something he’s not supposed to. It is her first interpretation and it feels correct. So an eager pit opens inside of her, swallowing the light that emerged moments ago. She takes her hands back and puts them at her sides. 

She looks away from his stricken face. 

“Hi folks, can you hear me? ”

Gale reaches over and presses the microphone speaker. She doesn’t look at him—she can’t, not right now—but he doesn’t bother dressing up the anxious stillness of his voice. 

“Yes.” 

“We’ve identified the disturbance. Elevators should be cleared to move in around 15 minutes, possibly less.”

“Understood.” 

Gale releases the button and moves his arm back to his side slowly. 

“Tav…,” he begins, but doesn’t go anywhere. 

She knows better than most that people say all kinds of things in moments that are hot enough, when it feels like sweat can turn to steam. She doesn’t need to make a big deal about this. 

She tries to give him an awkward smile, but she’s still not looking at him. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“I meant it,” Gale starts in a low voice. 

“Gale…,” He pulls her body flush to his and holds her there. She doesn’t quite recoil fully, but she feels herself try to shrink. 

He can’t mean it. He just can’t. 

“I meant it,” Gale tightens his hold on her, “Please… please believe me. Please don’t run away from me.”

“I’m not running,” her eyes snap to him, finally. And her words are sharp again, but he doesn’t shrink away. If anything, he pulls her closer.

“But you don’t believe me.” Gale makes the implicit, explicit. 

She doesn’t. How could she? 

“How could I?” her voice is flat, “Up until not even an hour ago, I thought you were back together with Mystra. Just a few weeks ago, you broke my heart at my favorite restaurant so I’d write a grant with you. And now you’re telling me you love me after I touched your dick through your pants. The circumstances don’t exactly inspire confidence, Gale.”

She recalls for a moment, in the too-warm-now pocket of his arms, how she’d dragged him out of Ophal while he was too drunk. She can almost taste vanilla on her tongue, feel the smack of the roof of his car lingering in throbs at the back of her head. She’s never had any control here. But she wants it to be over.  

She wants to go home. 

Gale looks at her and pulls his arms away. He takes a step back. The air that rushes in between their bodies is refreshing. And cold. Absence. 

“Then why would I say it?” Gale stands up straight and looks down at her ever so slightly. 

“I covered that,” she responds, “The aforementioned dick touching. And now you’re probably too embarrassed to just admit it. Plus… jealousy is a finicky thing. Makes people do and say all kinds of stupid shit that they wouldn’t usually and all because someone else is using a hole they used to use.”

Gale is now none of the put-on composure of a few moments ago. His jaw is clenched, his eyes are narrowed, and she can practically see the storm brewing inside of him. 

“Is that what you think of me?” 

The words are heavier, more hurt than she anticipates. There is still a part of her that expects Gale will break soon, that his fingers will move to grip her throat until the end of her happens in this elevator. And if he did, at least she would know what was happening. She’d know how to deal with that, she thinks, even from him. But this? Sad words formed in an emotion-coated throat, attempting to shed itself? 

She doesn’t have the first clue of how to navigate this.

He takes a step towards her again and she tries to take a step back, but she’s already holding the wall. 

“It’s not an indictment of you, specifically,” she clarifies, looking away, “But the dynamics are… familiar. I’m just calling it the way it seems.”

“Well that’s fascinating armchair psychology, Tav,” Gale volleys back, sounding pissed off in his thick words. 

“Is it my turn yet? To ‘call it the way it seems’, as you put it?”

“Even if it isn’t, I’m sure you’ll do it anyway,” she grits, still looking away, “Not like I get much say in anything that happens here.”

Here. Everywhere. Between the two of them or otherwise. 

But he glides right past that. 

“You’re scared.” 

She doesn’t move and he continues, “You are absolutely terrified of even the prospect that I could love you, let alone the reality that I do—that I’m so in love with you, I also know, more surely than I’ve known anything in my life, that you love me too.”

She laughs. He mistakes it for denial. 

“I’m not wrong,” he says firmly. 

She’s laughing so hard she’s doubled over until it all leaves her, like a mundane woosh of air, and she is left humorless.

“Of course you’re not wrong, Gale,” she leans her head back on the wall behind her, “Of course I love you.  And of course I’m scared. Why wouldn’t I be?” 

It's not what he was expecting. She can see it plainly. The surprised blinking of his fucking eyes pisses her off. 

“What?” she asks, almost cruelly, “You thought that was news? It doesn’t take being in love with me to see that I’ve been obsessed with you since I met you. Yeah, I’m in love with you. Congratulations. Big fucking whoop. You’re the last to know.” 

“Why,” his voice has the barest tremble, “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Is he kidding?

“Are you kidding?” she asks. It’s a chance, a chance to connect the obvious dots she’s already laid out before she explodes. 

But he doesn’t. 

“You fucking broke up with me. For a fucking grant, Gale.” 

She can’t see through the tears in her eyes. 

But something like a hand reaches out towards her and she slaps it away with more force than necessary with her bandaged hand, not thinking.

It should hurt, but she knows well enough that pain is relative. 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” her voice breaks in the middle. 

“Okay,” the blurry Gale in front of her pulls his hands away, “I won’t.” 

The placating tone of his voice makes her want to say something ugly and jagged again. But she doesn’t. She says something true instead, something she hasn’t voiced before, and it makes her cry, so much harder, just trying to get the words out.

“And I know…” he’s silent as she swallows her sobs to make room for words, “You said it was just because of the grant, but I know there’s more.” 

“Tav—“

“And you tried so hard to act like it was for the best. You said all those nice things about needing my expertise. You even brought Enver into it… But you were just looking for a way out. And now you’re saying you love me. What a crock of bullshit.”

“Tavelle—”

“Don’t bother,” her words are ice, even to her own ears, “I love you, but that doesn't mean I need to be insulted by your insistence that it was for the best. Spare me."

He goes silent. And it feels far beyond confirmation, if there’s such a thing. 

But she doesn’t need it. She knew it. She’s known it this whole time. 

They stand there long enough that her tears run dry. She wipes her face with the back of her bandaged hand and doesn't look at him. 

The elevator jolts. They move down to the lobby in a smooth descent. The typical ding precedes the doors sliding open, at last.  There are crowds of people in the lobby, lingering to talk about whatever this year’s senior prank was. She weaves through them all, entirely ignored, and leaves the building.

Gale doesn’t say a word. 

Chapter Text

It had rained all weekend and judging from the view outside his window, it would persist during his walk to campus. Gale sits on his bed, on his side, and holds a mirror up to his face, checking that he’s presentable enough to meet with Tolna, to see Tav, and to let go of the last official reason he has to see her before August. 

He should replace the missing mirror in his bathroom soon. He hadn’t had the patience or the desire to mend it himself, shard by shard, after he smashed it in an unprecedented fury. It usually goes inward. He usually breaks himself. But after plucking the earring from his lobe, and feeling the insidious fog of his mind recede, just slightly, just a taste of what was to come after a final cast of Remove Curse…

He’d looked into that mirror, spoken to himself, attempted to speak his love for Tav and his ire for Mystra into the air around him, for just over a week. Hours, days of looking into his reflection, trying to work the puzzle into relief, when all he had to do was shed himself of the token and be free. 

In the moment before removing it, Gale had been looking into the mirror once more. His eyes caught on the earring as it glinted in the light and he thought, certain in both directions, that “she wouldn’t.” 

And then he took it off. 

She certainly would. And she did. 

Mystra was always better than him at finding simple, elegant solutions. She probably always would be. The problem of his knowledge, of his autonomy, had been almost perfectly fixed with something as mundane as an earring he’d worn for over a decade. 

And then he smashed his bathroom mirror with his fist. Because who knows how long she’d been waiting to use it? Maybe she always had. But if Ramazith and Rolan figure it out, he isn’t yet sure of whether he’ll read the report.

Elminster had been something between stern and pleading when he visited Gale’s office on Friday and saw he no longer wore the earring. Before he’d invited Rolan inside, Gale had just finished explaining to his former dissertation chair that he would not be signing the scroll of Geas, that he’d dismantled her muzzle and reiterated, as he’d told Mystra herself, he had no intention of keeping quiet if he was sought out. 

“Gale,” Elminster said, “you’re playing a most dangerous game. You must understand this.” 

“Have you ever told her such a thing?” Gale had asked. 

But he knew from the look on Elminster’s face that a response to that would not come, no matter how long they stood there. And honestly, Gale hadn’t expected to get one when he asked. He told Rolan to come inside then, eager to hasten the departure of a man he once idolized. 

Gale sets the handheld mirror back on his nightstand. The rain is picking up now, beating against his window with renewed force. He could always dampen it by magical means, but he likes the sound, appreciates the shake of the glass, a needed reminder that fragile things can endure.

The rain first started not long after he’d left the elevator. He’d been accosted by several faculty he was friendly with, clustered in the lobby and chattering excitedly, before he could make his way home. The delay did not matter, as by the time he stepped out of the elevator, Tav was already gone and he was only going back to an empty house still short of a mirror in the master bathroom. He’s not sure what he said in that conversation with his colleagues, only that he got through it, and by the time he stepped outside, he could see the dark drops from above in the concrete below his feet, still too light to wash the sidewalk in uniform gray. 

Gale walks out of his bedroom and goes downstairs, grabs his tall brown umbrella and slips his satchel onto his jacketed shoulders.

He’d dropped his bag here, right beside the door, after coming home on Friday as he'd clawed at his seizing heart through his shirt. But he hadn’t collapsed like he thought he would on the way home that day. And he still hasn’t cried, like he was sure he would.

He doesn’t know why. He hasn’t been sure of anything for days. He couldn’t decide on what to cook for meals all weekend, not that he had an appetite, so he’d settled on working through the loaf of sourdough he’d picked up from a bakery nearby, slices brushed with butter eaten over the counter each night. He couldn’t decide on how to distract himself, so he’d started several books and movies only to abandon them mid-sentence, mid-scene. He’d only showered and gotten dressed on Saturday and Sunday because he had the thought to go see her as soon as he woke up from nights of awful sleep, to go to her apartment and say… he didn’t know. He still doesn’t. So he didn’t go anywhere. When he wasn’t trying to distract himself, he only sat on his bed, on his side, until several hours passed and he realized that sitting and staring into space for so long probably wasn’t healthy and that he needed to just talk to Tav. 

But what can he say to someone who doesn’t believe him? 

Gale doesn’t know if he’s ever had the experience of not being believed. And perhaps that is because he naturally favors honesty, sometimes too thoroughly for his own good. As a child, he never even considered lying to conceal his mistakes, often displaying them openly in a fit of tears and, afterwards, inquiring about how not to replicate them. And people were generally gracious with him except for those who weren’t and those notable outliers taught him how to not respond to the errors of others.

When he was eventually tasked with pretending he was not with Mystra, and after he was stuck with the perpetual lie of when it all started, he only managed because of practice. He spent significant portions of his free time anticipating, scripting scenarios in his head in which he’d have to perform this subterfuge. 

He understands that lying, like magic, is just a tool meant to beget a certain result. The result can be positive or negative, ethical or not. And he is capable of using it. He has used it, always with intention. 

Or so he thought. 

He hadn’t been considering what he’d said to Tav at Ophal as lying. Not even for a second, not until the elevator. It was just… part of his plan. Even as he knew she didn’t know his plan, he hadn’t considered his “insistence” (she’d almost spat this at him) that it was a decision based wholly on the professional benefits, as lying. Even as he decided not to tell her because he knew she would object to being apart, even as he concocted his (accurate, but not true ) rationale for ending their evolving relationship, he hadn’t considered it to be lying. Because he wanted to keep her and he knew she wanted to be with him, and so he’d made the unilateral decision about how and when it should occur. 

How was he any different from Mystra? He loves Tav. Just as Mystra loved him. And he’d deprived her of her autonomy all the same. Just as Mystra did to him. 

“Not like I get much say in anything that happens here.”

The entire reason he’d done this, why he proposed writing the grant he was now on his way to submit, was rendered moot. By himself. From the very beginning, it seems, despite his efforts to do the exact opposite. 

Working on the grant was supposed to protect their potential future, something that would have evaporated if he’d broken up with her without a real reason or, heavens forbid, with a simple, reiteration of their ever-looming reality: that this was just too risky for either of them to continue and it needed to end. But beyond that, working on the grant was supposed to protect Tav. 

Because they are alike. He’s always known it. He remembers the sight of her looking up at him from the floor of her living room on the night they’d discussed the logistics of their situation—no, their relationship , because from the beginning, that’s what it was. They’d always intended on building to something meaningful, something beyond the confines of their bedrooms. 

“I want you to really like me, too, you know? If that’s in the cards, I mean.” 

She’d said it as if he didn’t already, as if there was any question as to whether he wanted her all to himself in every way possible, even then, and he’d reflected at the time that they shared the same tendency for thinking the other could not possibly feel the same way. Since then, he’s noted many other similarities. But there are many ways of being he wishes they did not share, if only because they are ways wrought by pain and self-doubt and the particular pressures of loving someone in the dark. 

She’s a bit broken. Just like him. That’s what happens when one is thrown away, haphazardly. She has not shared that she was thrown away, but he knows she was. Enver Gortash carries on with his job and wife and reputation intact. His life does not seem to harbor the ripple effects of major disruption, just as Mystra’s doesn’t, and with his return to campus in fall, Gortash will have it all as he once did. (Gale hasn’t decided if he will take more permanent actions on this front soon… but he certainly is prepared to.) 

She’s a bit broken, so he tried to protect her from yet another round of sneaking around and hiding and lying and being driven to extreme acts in the face of helplessness. And in the process, he lied to her and hurt her and made her think he didn’t want her when she is all he wants. So she cannot believe his love, she cannot trust that his ill-timed confession was not driven by possessiveness or jealousy or plain desire. She cannot trust him . 

She loves him, but she doesn’t trust him. 

He thinks this hurts more than if she didn’t love him at all. If she didn’t love him, it wouldn’t be anyone’s fault, not sincerely. But she does. He was right in that regard and they would probably be together, right now, walking to campus together in the rain, if he hadn’t managed to ruin things so dearly.

His love is a bit broken and he’s broken her a bit more.

Gale walks into the CoM lobby and calls for an elevator. Aradin ignores him completely, not even glancing in his direction, and Gale recalls guiding Tav away from him and the feel of the soft red dress she looked so delightful and so anxious in, underneath his fingertips. He shouldn’t have inserted himself, it was too obvious. But he still can’t find it in himself to regret it. 

(Gale’s mind wanders for a moment towards her confession to sleeping with someone else and the panic she’d displayed afterwards. He thinks she meant to hurt him… but she’d also seemed to expect something else, something that turns his stomach to think about—so much so that he cannot seem to access the gritty feelings he typically feels at the thought of Tav being with someone else. Regardless, he can forgive it; that there was a confession to make is his own fault, after all.) 

Gale steps out of the elevator and walks towards the Institutional Grants Office. As he turns the corner, he takes a breath and lets it go slowly, anticipating to see Tav for the first time since the last time. But it’s unnecessary. She isn’t there. 

He takes the extra time to calm his rapid heart and then proceeds to Tolna’s office, situated towards the back of the IGO. He passes by her assistant, who jolts in her chair and leaves her desk, probably to make him a coffee that her boss awkwardly insists he be presented with. 

It will only take a moment. He will only have to fake being together for a moment, just long enough for them to double check their application with Tolna and sign the submission paperwork. And then he can ask Tav to please, please speak to him. He still doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He has no reason to believe she is suddenly more open to believing his apologies and his potential explanations, which echo as convoluted even to his ears, but he certainly hopes she is, because aside from throwing himself onto his knees, he has no idea what to say to—

“Gale! Welcome to the finish line!,” Tolna greets him from her desk and gestures for him to take a seat. 

“Has Tav come by yet?” he acknowledges her with a small smile before asking, but cannot return the exuberance as he normally would. 

“Oh! I suppose she didn’t get a chance to tell you,” Tolna says with some surprise, “She had to leave town for some kind of emergency around now, so she came by earlier and handled her bits then.”

Gale’s blood runs cold.

–-

Gale finally finishes reviewing their grant package and signing his forms. Their part is now done. The grant will be submitted in about a week once the Office finishes its paperwork. 

Gale walks slowly down the hallway towards his office.

They should be celebrating together right now. 

He’d sent Tav a text (“Tolna mentioned an emergency. I know things are tense between us currently, but please let me know you’re okay.”) while Tolna stepped out of her office, but she had yet to reply. Dread swells in him, about to burst. He decides to call Astarion once he gets into his office. 

Gale grasps the doorknob to unlock it, but it turns the whole way. 

It’s open.

In his desk chair is a man he’s only seen in photos so far. But enough to recognize immediately. 

“Dr. Gale Dekarios,” sharp, sunken eyes framed by dark hair watch as Gale stands just outside of the open doorway of his office, “My apologies for the ambush, I asked the custodian to let me wait for you inside.”

Gale thinks briefly that if Gortash had not been trying to surprise him, attempting to put him on guard, he probably would’ve flicked the overhead lights on… and not sat in the chair behind his desk. 

Gale steps inside and uses every bit of energy he has to feign ignorance. 

“And you are?”

“How silly of me,” Gortash stands, as if to shake his hand in greeting, but his arms stay at his sides, “I’m Enver Gortash. I’m an Associate Professor in Interdisciplinary Magics. I believe we briefly met once before, at an Arcane Studies Association conference a few years ago. I tend to hang around the outskirts of such gatherings. I suppose I’m a bit shy.”

It’s bullshit. Fiction. He has never met Gortash. But Gortash wants him to believe he has and the confidence and almost bashful quality of his performance manages to make Gale bother to scan his memories again, for such a meeting, just in case he’s right. But it’s false and Gale knows it and he is bothered by how easily he gives in to doubt, even slightly. 

Gortash walks out from behind Gale’s desk and stands at the side of it. Gale glances at the expensive gold watch on his wrist, his impeccably tailored clothes, and his dark hair. 

He says nothing to challenge the lie. 

“How may I help you?”

Strategy: it’s his only real option in the absence of privacy, distance from campus, and open space to burn (or lose) a body in. 

“I’m afraid I’m here with a most humbling and, to be honest, embarrassing request,” Gortash looks at the floor and then back at Gale, “Not without benefit to you, of course.”

Gale eases his satchel off of his shoulder and sets it on one of the chairs in front of his desk. He does not take his eyes off of Gortash. 

“What could I possibly help you with?”

It’s a flavorless question said in a toneless voice Gale can only seem to manage when he’s on the precipice of destroying. 

“Forgive me for my directness,” Gortash preambles, “But you are currently acquainted with a former advisee of mine. Tav Ancunín?”

“I am,” He already knows as much. Gale cannot deny this and would hardly gain any advantage by doing so. But confirming that he knows Tav still feels a lot like exposing his underbelly to Gortash as the man stands over him, a knife at the ready. 

“Tav is something, isn’t she?” Something genuine glints in Gortash’s eyes. It makes Gale’s stomach churn. 

“She is quite the thinker,” Gale states evenly. 

“She always has been,” Gortash’s response almost rides on the back of Gale’s.

They stand in silence for a moment. Gale gets the distinct feeling that the Bane scholar hadn’t meant to be so eager. But he is wary about claiming that small victory. 

What good could possibly come out of Enver Gortash singing Tav’s praises? Let alone genuinely? None. 

“It’s my understanding that you have only recently joined our illustrious faculty here,” Gortash begins, rubbing his large hands together as he speaks, “so I apologize if I am the first person to give you this context… Tav and I did not end our association on the best of terms. But I’m looking to reconnect with her.”

Gortash smiles wryly and Gale tilts his head.

“What do you mean?”

“Well I hate to speak ill of her, especially to a new collaborator, but… she assaulted me. Years ago. It was quite the incident,” Gortash speaks demurely, as if he expects Gale’s sympathy or horror and is not at all intending to make Tav out to be some kind of monster. 

“That’s unfortunate,” Gale would say this through gritted teeth if he allowed himself an ounce of slippage. Instead, his tone is of detached concern, “And it sounds serious. Are you certain it’s prudent to attempt reconnecting after such an incident?”

Gortash watches Gale closely. Something shifts and (false, Gale reminds himself) nakedness comes over his face. “I suppose not. But I’m returning to campus duties after being on leave since then. And I would like to face any potential awkwardness head on.”

“That’s very magnanimous of you. Assault is not so easily forgiven.”

“Perhaps,” Gortash replies evenly, “But as I’m sure you know, Tav is a special kind of person, someone who deserves to not be judged by her worst day. Additionally, she’s about to go on the job market. I would also like to help her there in any way I can, if she’d be amenable.” 

Gale takes a moment to lament on the topic of Tav’s future. He does not like that the moment is right now, when he is most likely to give into the fantasy Gortash is constructing: that he is the most gracious former advisor alive, looking to let bygones be bygones and then some. 

“Then what do you want from me?” Gale asks, a bit unsmoothly.

“I’m appealing to you in an effort to build a bridge, as they say,” Gortash says, “To burrying the hatchet.”

“Not her advisors?” Gale counters, the heat of his tongue wrangled.

“Well, no. They mean well, certainly,” Gortash responds lightly, speaking in the tone of perfect logicality, “But it’s unlikely they’d approve. You know how possessive some advisors can be. Sometimes they become so preoccupied with steering, they stifle instead.”

“And what is it you’re hoping I’ll do differently?”

Gortash smirks. Gale does not like that. 

“I would like to speak with her. I think she might be apprehensive about reciprocating contact if I reach out myself given the terms of her University Return agreement. She’s not technically allowed to speak to me,” Gortash explains, “But also that technically doesn’t apply to me speaking to her, which is a funny complication that really shouldn’t exist in such a prestigious institution’s disciplinary processes, but it does.”

Gortash huffs a laugh again, shaking his head. “I hate to involve you in such a complex drama, but, quite frankly, I can’t imagine a single other suitable person who would even consider serving as an intermediary.”

“Why do you think that is?” Gale’s control slips for a moment and Gortash’s eyes flicker over him, recalculating.

“Tav has few acquaintances,” Gortash’s voice is controlled as his eyes continue to scan Gale, “And ever fewer who weren’t already here during the incident and, therefore, have strong feelings about whether or not we are in contact once more. But with you, and your comparatively objective positioning here, you may be able to see that I have something of value to offer her without getting bogged down in the past. Which means you may help her accept it.”

“And how would you like for me to do that?”

“A straight-to-the-point kind of fellow, aren’t you?” His voice hints at an edge, “I’ll admit, that’s not the impression I got from the academic rumblings.”

“Simply trying to get clear on your expectations so I can be of assistance, if appropriate,” Gale responds evenly. It is the same almost-affectless deference he’d use in the lab with Mystra when he was mad at her too.

Gortash’s eyebrows narrow slightly.  

“I'd like for you to tell her there is a dinner invitation open to her. And I'd like for you to tell her that I have her best interests in mind and that it would be a good idea to speak with me,” Gortash says, matter-of-factly.

“That’s quite the endorsement you’re asking for,” Gale replies.

“Not without recompense,” Gortash reminds with a pleasant smile. He likes this, that they’ve finally reached the stage where they’re discussing terms, “I can offer you my friendship, which comes with some definitive benefits. As my friend, I could connect you with any number of eager donors who would fund your work. No need to run the grant application rat race. And I have many friends on the administrative level, if institutional awards or promotions are more your preference. I also have a number of industry contacts as well, if you’d ever decide to leave the academy.”

“Seems like a lot to offer for delivering a dinner invitation,” Gale replies. 

“An endorsement, as you called it, is no small thing. As I’m sure you know, in the academy, relationships are everything. And if none of that appeals, well,” Gortash’s dark eyes pierce him through the gray afternoon light as he smirks, “I have something else to offer.”

“Which would be?”

“Privacy protection,” Gortash’s smirk wides, “I can keep your secrets. Like friends do.”

Gale tilts his head again. “That would involve giving them to you in the first place.”

“Oh, but I have one.”

For a moment, Gale feels as if he’s still wearing his earring. 

“Would you like to guess which?” Gortash asks.

“That I’m still a bit scared of clowns?” He will not preemptively surrender himself. And he will not leave this saccharin intimidation unsettled. 

Gortash smirks. “That you’re fucking a grad student, who you’ve put on an IMER grant application, no less.”

Despite himself, despite the way hearing it makes him want to vomit, Gale chuckles. Because it’s not actually true, is it? Not anymore and not quite, all at the same time. 

“Laughing?” Gortash’s eyes rise amusedly as he fiddles with the cup of pens on Gale’s desk, “I think I might actually grow to like you, Dr. Gale Dekarios.” 

“So your appeal involves threatening my career,” Gale summarizes flatly, “With something false.”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Gortash waves a pen in his hand as he speaks, “The impact on you, Waterdeep darling that you are? And with someone like Tav as a counterpart? It would be negligible. A blip. For her, however? It would be game over. You understand this.” 

Gale does. Gale understands this well; he has since the beginning. 

“So your appeal to help her involves threatening her career,” Gale restates, “With something false. Is that better?”

“Is it false?,” Gortash smiled teasingly, “You know, I’m the one who first took her to Ophal. The owners have family in Athkatla that I’m familiar with. I did my doctoral training there.”

“And how is that relevant?” He will not preemptively surre—

“Continuing denial is an interesting strategy. Not bad or good, necessarily. Interesting,” Gortash comments, “And not the most elegant, but it could probably work for a while. Until you slip up, in a real way, Dr. Dekarios.” 

Gale files this away for later. Gortash does not have enough to make a definitive case. But he’s clearly watching.

“What exactly would you gain from hurting her?”

“Hm, you’ve moved on to asking for my motive. And to think I expected more after your earlier display,” Gortash says, mild disappointment and sharpness melding into one voice.

“What I would gain is none of your concern. But know that I would prefer not to erase Tav’s remaining chances for a flourishing academic career or make an enemy out of you. Truly, I’d like for us to be friends,” Gortash’s lips curved into a smile once again, “All I’m asking is that you put in a good word for me with Tav. And get her to accept my invitation. I’m only hoping for a conversation. That’s all.”

“That’s all?” Gale repeats sarcastically, “That’s all, under the threat of professional consequences. What’s stopping me from filing a complaint with the University, hm?”

“Tav,” Gortash replies, easily, “Scant evidence or not, she’ll never quite be out from underneath the microscope. It wouldn’t take much more than a whisper to make her final year very difficult for her, even if she’s still granted her degree in the end. She’s a pariah. A problem child. There are plenty of faculty who would be happy to see her banned from the premises and her chance at her degree taken away. That is what stops you from filing your precious complaint, Dekarios.”

Gale scowls and a second shred of genuine pleasure shows itself on Gortash’s face. 

“Again, I’d rather not take such measures and hurt Tav,” Gortash reiterates, “But I have the means. And I’m not asking for much, just a conversation with her.”

A subtle beep sounds from Gortash’s pocket. 

“Ah, it seems I have a meeting to get to,” Gortash reaches into his suit jacket and retrieves a brown card. He places it on Gale’s desk, “That card has my personal cell on it. Let me know when it’s done and when I can expect her to reach out.”

Gortash gives him a chilling, satisfied smile and walks towards the door. At the moment when only inches separate their shoulders, Gale has to restrain himself from sticking a shocking grasp through the man’s neck. 

“And if she won’t?”

Gale can hear Gortash turn around to speak to his back.

“What was that?”

“What if she refuses?” Gale repeats, “Surely you can’t expect her to not object.”

“Objections can be countered. Convince her.”

Gortash closes the office door behind him, leaving Gale standing in the same spot, feeling surety for the first time in days. 

He knows, without a doubt, that he lost. 

–-

It still rains as he leaves the CoM building, hours later. The gray light of the afternoon has left and as Gale walks, he notes the orange lights of the street lamps bleed through his umbrella. 

He wishes, not for the first time, that he’d met Tav a year from now. But unlike his previous ponderings, he wonders if never meeting her at all is truly worse than what seems to have emerged. 

As Gale nears the radius of his wards, he feels a familiar tug on his consciousness. 

He reaches out with his mind’s eye once more and sees her standing beside his open front door. Her pant legs are drenched with rain and the ends of her hair hanging out of the hood of her parka are saturated and dripping.

His steps speed up. He runs through the final street crossing without stopping to check first, setting off a cacophony of honking, but he doesn’t care. And as soon as he reaches her, he grabs her arm and pulls her through the doorway with him.

Chapter Text

Tav usually likes the rain. It makes her feel clean. Hopeful. It washes away the bad feelings. She gets pent up in the sun, under blue skies. 

But after the elevator, she didn’t want to feel hopeful. And she missed the bad feelings when they were gone. She felt less sure without them, less able to believe that leaving Gale behind was strong and not stupid. 

Or maybe it wasn’t the rain. Maybe whatever real anger had possessed her in the elevator was just…  left there. Because all she had when she walked out of the building was an indignant sort of insistence that she was upset with him, that she had to be, and there was absolutely no reason why she should even consider speaking to him before or after Monday. 

Because she was right. She’d been right that Gale had other motives for dumping her besides purely professional gain. And since she was right, she got to be angry about it… right?

But then she considered the issue of Gale’s confession, ill-timed and unprecedented. She’d called it bullshit. And yet when she tried to assure herself of her rightness there, she could find nothing but her waning insistence and the memory of them at Ophal propping it up. 

By the time she got home, she was damp and tired and crying. And she was no longer insistent, not even close. Because she realized thoroughly enough what she’d actually done—that she’d hurt Gale and left him behind when he was trying to do right by her with their shitty circumstances and that it was actually stupid and spiteful and not strong that she’d done so. 

“How long were you waiting out there? Why didn’t you come inside? The door was open!” 

Gale had sent her to the half bath on the first floor to take off her wet clothes and then passed her a stretched out pair of pajama pants and shirt from his alma mater through a crack in the door. Now she’s sitting on his couch as he flits from task to task around her. 

He turns on the fireplace. He goes to the kitchen and comes back almost suspiciously quickly with a mug of hot chocolate. He sits beside her and then gets up again to get her a blanket but not the one on that chair, there’s a softer one and then he comes to drape it carefully over her shoulders before sitting back on the edge of the couch, ready to shoot back up to his feet at any moment. 

How does he manage it? It must be exhausting, to be so full of light. She can’t help but admire the frenetic energy of his care or feel warm now that she is its focus. But she doesn’t really know what to do in a scenario where someone is supposed to be mad at her and instead they’re concerned with how warm and dry and swathed she is. 

She half-wonders what she should be doing with her hands before tucking them under her thighs.

“I hardly waited,” she finally answers, “I just got here.”

He arches an eyebrow. “But you were soaked.”

“Well, I’ve been outside for a while…”

An understatement. Almost all weekend, she meandered through the rain with no destination, getting up on Saturday and Sunday and putting on clothes to walk around, wishing not-so-unconsciously to run into him somewhere like she has so many times in the past. She walked and wished for hours like she wasn’t in pain from all the wandering. When she got back home on Sunday night, Astarion had been in the living room, looking as if he'd been staring at the doorway for several hours even though the tv was on. 

"You're going to hate yourself in the morning."

She wasn't sure if he meant generally or because of how she'd spent her weekend, but she said "I know" anyway. 

"Go take a shower. I'll order dinner and replace your bandage when you're out."

Her shower took longer than usual with the emptiness of her day, weekend having soaked in, bone deep. But Astarion was still up and their dinner arrived as soon as she finished getting dressed for bed. He dabbed ointment along the cut on her palm with clean hands once she sat on the couch and she felt compelled to finally say "it wasn't on purpose."

He looked at her then, something sharp and discerning in his eyes eventually giving way to acceptance. "If I didn't believe you, I would've driven you to rehab sometime this week... And this doesn't mean you're okay."

"I'm not," she shook her head, "but I'm attempting to start fixing it."

"By training for a marathon?" he quirked a fine brow as he covered her shiny skin in a bandage once more. 

"No," she sighed, "by being less of a fuckup. But I haven't managed it yet."

"Try less walking and more facing your problems then? That's my suggestion, anyway."

Monday morning came and Astarion was right. She did hate herself. But she was so restless, even with the soreness of her body, that she walked to campus again and went to the IGO as soon as it opened and when she was done with Tolna, she realized she was actually too scared to see Gale. 

All that time hoping to crash into him in another fit of serendipity only to run like a coward (again) when presented with something definite. 

She’d left campus and sat on a wet bench in a park a few blocks away. It took her hours to gather the courage to face him, only to stop short of his open door in the end. 

Honestly? She hadn’t really expected it to open for her.

“I came to see you. And the door opened, but I was scared. You showed up right after.“ She’d smoked as she sat in the park and isn’t sure whether that was a good or bad decision now. 

On one hand, it had taken two joints to amass enough courage to even walk over here. On the other hand, being honest with Gale, without a good filter or the guise of anger or spite to help her stomp away, is terrifying. It’s like she’s forgotten how to be honest unless there’s a dagger to her throat or she’s high enough. But maybe it’s not an issue with honesty. Maybe it’s that she doesn’t know how to love without pain anymore. And if he won’t hurt her, then…

She shakes the thought away. Regardless of why, there is so much she hasn’t told him—and that is just another reason why she must apologize. 

“Why were you scared?” 

“I don’t know.” It’s a lie. She does. She’s had plenty of time to think on it. He terrifies her. The things he says and feels and does scare the shit out of her. And the things he makes her feel and say and do scare the shit out of her even more so. 

“What about the emergency?” He asks. 

She remembers his text asking after her wellbeing; she’d read it while still sitting on a bench in the rain and felt even more ridiculous than she understood herself to be.

“I’m sorry, I lied. I was scared to see you.” She admits.

“Just now or with Tolna?” Gale asks confusedly. 

“Both.”

Gale sucks in a breath and nods. He understands, she thinks. “But you’re here.”

“I am.”

She has things to say, things she’d spent the last few days trying to fit together into coherent sentences. She wants to say them now but she never quite got it all together and so all the things she’s been practicing fall away when she tries to grab them, like rain through a street grate. 

Thunder rolls in the distance and she feels the rumbling in her throat.

“I’m sorry, Gale,” her voice trembles and she grits her teeth when he reacts. He shouldn’t have to comfort her through something as basic as an apology. But, as if in direct opposition to her thoughts, he moves closer to her and places a gentle hand on her back, sliding underneath the warm weight of the blanket he draped over her shoulders.

“Whatever for?” he breathes.

“Are you kidding me?” She chokes it out with difficulty, “I was awful to you on Friday. You told me you love me and you called out that I love you and I threw it in your face… I’m kind of surprised you’re even speaking to me right now.”

It’s still novel to her, that he loves her. She’s accepted it. She doesn't know how. Or precisely when. But somewhere between raindrops and miles and hours, she stopped deferring to her skepticism. At some point, it just stopped convincing her. How could it not, beside the burning memory of Gale's sincerity?

She’s constructed a lot of scaffolding—reasonings and logics to explain away Gale’s care and his words and his love and what was plain to see if she hadn’t been averting her gaze at all costs; and it's not all torn down yet, not even close.  Still. This feels real, if not natural. And it’s such a simple explanation for everything he’d been and showed her this semester: He loves her. And she knows it well enough that she knows, even in the light of her cruelty, he loves her still. 

But loving her and wanting to speak with her—or be with her—are separate things. Related, but separate. And in the chasm between them, she’s treading air and gravity, wondering if she’s going down or up. As for where she stands on these matters, well…

She knows how she feels. She knows what she wants, as she has for a while now. She just isn’t sure if she can manage it.

“Tav—“

“I mean, really. You would never tell me something like that if you didn’t mean it… even if dick touching did occur,” Tav rolls her eyes at herself, the frown on her face quivers, and she uses the sleeve of Gale’s shirt to wipe her face. 

“I’m also sorry for that, by the way,” it comes out of her like a whisper. This one haunts her and she knows why. “You told me to wait, when I was touching you. And I didn’t.”

“Tav, no,” Gale rushes to reassure, sliding his other hand to her chin. Her eyes heat again, simmering with new tears, as he turns her face towards his. 

He’s so fucking gentle. And she’d sought to hurt him. For being audacious and stupid enough to love her. 

“I’d have to be dead to not want to be touched by you,” Gale huffs a laugh, “And even that feels too definite.”

Her humorless chuckle sounds like a dry sob.

“And you were right. I broke up with you. You had reason to hide your feelings and question mine. And you were also correct that…” Gale swallows, committing to the words and to looking her in the eyes, “there was another reason.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

“No, Gale,” she shakes her head, “I just mean that… I don’t need to know. The reason.”

He blinks in rapid succession. “Tav—“

“Seriously. I don’t need to know. You don’t need a reason to begin with. And there are enough reasons to go around anyway, like your job and my still-pending degree,” she sniffs and waves a hand vaguely at their metaphorical mess, “I accept that you did what you needed to do for yourself at the time. I do wish it happened differently… but your reasons are your own.”

There was a short period, right around the time she first met Gale, when she would’ve found his present extended quietude to be out of character. But it’s not. She has rendered him speechless in enough contexts, sat with him in enough silences, to know he is capable of being without speaking. Sometimes, she suspects, he even prefers it. Because while he brims with words, even more than that, Gale is all meaning. 

When he slides closer to her and touches her chin and presses his mouth to hers, she finds it is an even better response than she’d been hoping for. 

He sighs into her mouth and it goes straight down south, where her heating blood congregates. When he pulls away, it isn’t for air, but to speak.

“I’m the one who owes you an apology. Not the other way around,” he says quietly. 

“You’re already forgiven,” her response chases the end of his. Because he is. 

“I still owe you an explanation,” he continues, “A lengthy one, in fact.” 

“Maybe. But you’re already forgiven. So can it wait? After a few more kisses?” 

Gale breathes out in awe and the warm scent of tea and mint brush her face. 

"I don't deserve you."

"I don't scratch the surface of what you deserve. You deserve the entire sky. The Heavens. And every ode and flower beneath them...  I love you, Gale,” she says.

It’s unburdening. Almost easy. 

She kisses him again, a slow press and pull away, and when she opens her eyes again, his eyes shine with the glaze of unshed tears. 

“Say it again,” he whispers, “Please.”

“I love you. I’m in love with you,” she touches his cheek with the fingers of her still-bandaged hand.

She brushes his tears away as they fall. 

“I love you.” She kisses him again. 

“I love you.” Another.

“I love you, Gale.” One more. 

When she starts to move away to give him some breathing space, she only has a moment to notice that he’s trembling before he pulls her back to him. This kiss is a short burst of desperation, of need, and it makes her want to crawl into his lap. She almost does. But then he’s speaking again, serious and frantic at the same time.

The desperation, the need, is not for her. It's to tell her.

There’s no preamble. No lead up. He doesn’t explain what he’s explaining, he just tells her, so quickly that she knows this is the only way he could’ve done it. 

She’s caught so far off guard and is so disturbed (again) by Enver’s name coming out of Gale’s mouth that it's hard to follow along at first. But she manages. Gale tells her of Enver waiting for him with the lights off in his office, the false concern, the voiced desires to “help” her, and the incentives Enver presented for Gale’s assistance before his threat of blackmail. 

The entire time he speaks, he watches her closely. His eyes dart all over her face, as if he’s looking for signs that the words will take her apart. But while Gale knows her well enough to know she loves him, he is less acquainted with the version of her that remains tethered to Enver. His return to campus in the fall may have shocked her, but it was not because she thought he never would. 

She has never, not for one second, thought Enver was fully done with her. 

So she won’t fall apart, from Gale’s words or a stiff breeze or otherwise. These are old battlegrounds. While she wouldn’t call herself hardened, she is familiar. And that counts for a lot where Enver is concerned. 

It’s almost simple.

“So he’s going to report us if I don’t go to him,” she summarizes. 

“Well, he’s technically threatening to report us once he has proof if you don’t go to him. Because he doesn’t seem to have any,” Gale corrects her while eyeing her carefully and her lip twitches, despite the graveness of the situation. 

“Well. Okay.” 

Tav stands up, feeling a sense of something adjacent to calm fall over her as the soft blanket slides off her shoulders, and walks towards her sneakers in the foyer. 

“Tav.” 

She turns her head to glance at him briefly as she pulls a sneaker on and he’s standing up next to the couch, looking at her with wide eyes.

She hears him take quick footsteps towards her, so she takes her other shoe in her hand and unlocks the door to open it and quickly leave… but it doesn’t budge. 

Of course. Fucking wizards. 

“Gale. Open the door,” she says firmly. But it has no bite. No teeth at all. 

“A snowball has a better chance of surviving the Hells than that door has of opening right now,” his voice wavers and she can hear the undercurrents of desperation and panic.

She leans her forehead against the smooth door frame and her shoulders sag. She sighs, but nothing is released.

“If he reports us, you could lose your job.” She closes her eyes and presses her forehead lightly to the door frame as she surrenders more of her weight to the wall, “And you would never be able to apply for IMER funding again. Ever. My mind is made up. Open the door.”

“If you think I’m going to even consider letting you near him, and alone, you’re sorely mistaken.” These words are stern and pleading. 

“Gale, please.” 

“No. I will not let you do this. Perhaps you still underestimate my love, but surely you can’t think for one second that I care so little about you, that I would let you go to him. I won’t,” he refuses. 

He steps into the foyer, but she doesn’t move, still leaning her face on the trim around the front door. 

She’s so tired. 

“I don’t underestimate it, Gale,” she says into the trim.

“You don’t?” his voice is all tentativeness and hope. 

“No. But I can’t be responsible for ruining your life,” she says into the wood, “Not when you’re just getting it all back.” 

“Tav…,” he sighs, “how could you ever ruin my life?” 

A shadow comes over her as he draws closer. 

“I should’ve stayed away from you,” she says quietly, “You needed a friend, a real friend, not me. I never saw you that way. I always thought you were…” 

She sighs and the throat shakes like an autumn leaf.

“I shouldn’t have told you that you kissed me while you were drunk. Now we’re here and…,” her voice breaks, “I think… I think Enver broke me. And now he’s back. I can’t—“

Gale comes to her side fully then. He pulls her into his embrace and she wraps her arms around his waist and lets him hold her up. She’s so tired and he’s warm and he smells like Gale and she wants to be consumed by him and not Enver. 

But she made her choices long before this moment.

“He won’t get anywhere near you. Not while I’m breathing.” Gale speaks in a low voice and settles his chin on her hair.

“He already did,” she feels him stiffen. Because he knows what she’s going to say. 

“He got to you. He knows about you and about us. For all we know, he knows I’m here right now, with you. Please,” she looks up at him with shining eyes, “let me do this.” 

“Tav, no,” his arms tighten around her, “I won’t.” 

“We don’t have a better option. And this… this is my mess. I need to fix it.” 

“This could never be your responsibility, Tav,” he lowers his head to look directly into her eyes, “That man’s wretchedness has nothing to do with you.”

“You don’t understand…” 

Maybe Enver’s cruelty isn’t her responsibility. But regardless, they have unfinished business. She guaranteed that he would come to her, even years after the fact, when she stained the carpet in Sarevok’s office with his blood. And now Gale might pay the price. 

She may not be responsible for Enver’s actions. But this is still her mess.

He needs to understand this. So she makes a decision.

“I have to tell you something. You won’t look at me the same, but I owe you the truth, especially now…”

He is still holding her in the foyer. She savors his smell, his warm, strong arms, and the way he looks at her. He loves her. She loves him. And still—it may be the last time she gets this close. 

“I went on leave because I had to,” she begins. 

“It was required after I… hurt Enver. Really bad. Like… his face was all bloody and I broke… so many things—“ she chokes a bit and Gale’s hand moves to rub her back. 

It gives her the strength to tell him the rest…

“I know. I know, my love,” Gale says. 

She shakes her head. “No. No, you don’t get it—“

“Hallwood told me.” 

…Ironically, she doesn’t get the chance.

“What?” 

“Hallwood told me the Monday after Ramazith’s party,” Gale holds her and speaks slowly and clearly, so there is no mistaking his words, “And if I hadn’t already known, I would’ve found out today when Gortash told me.”

She tries to pull away then, like a firecracker went off in her face, but Gale won’t budge. 

“Tav, it’s okay. Look at me, my love.” 

On some level, she knows she's panicking. Drowning. On the verge of throwing up. She feels like she's trying to breathe through plastic, like she's stuck in a garbage bag big enough for her body. But Gale's firm direction reaches her through static. His lips touch her hair, her face. His hands massage the meat of her arms, bring feeling back to a dampened husk. 

"Is... is that why you broke up with me?" she breathes, when air lets her suck it in again.

She'd said she didn't need to know. She'd said it didn't matter, that she'd accepted his reasons. She's making a liar out of herself. But she needs to know. She does. 

Gale does not leave her waiting. “I broke up with you because I thought being together and sneaking around was going to take you back to that place again, the place you were in with Gortash, and I didn’t want that to happen. I was terrified that I was going to hurt you the way he did.” 

“You would never,” she says immediately, fervidly.

“I’ve hurt you this semester,” Gale counters. 

“There are continents between that and what Enver did to me, Gale,” he seems to soften at these words, “Realms of difference… Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks. 

He stiffens again. “Because I’m also broken, Tav.”

Gale sighs and pulls away from her. Or he tries. She stops him at the wrists and he seems confused, but he doesn't try to pull away again. 

She tries to catch his eye but he looks down, away from her.

“Instead of just talking to you, I thought coming up with a plan to get us through the next year would save us. So I lied to you and proposed writing the grant and I didn’t really give you a choice in the matter. And I’m such a fool that I didn’t even realize my deception until you called me out on it on Friday.” 

“I’m so sorry.” He’s ashamed, "You deserve so much better." 

“You’ve known what I did all this time…,” she whispers, “and you still love me.” 

His eyes snap to her. “Of course, I love you. How could I not?”

“You ended it… because you were worried about me,” she says. 

“Yes,” Gale affirms, “but it was a terrible course of action—“

“It wasn’t because you stopped liking me,” she interrupts.

A torrent of questions no longer needing answers fade away, withering on the vine. 

“Tav—I’ve missed you every day since I ruined us. Every day. I've wanted you every day,” Gale cradles her face again. He’s trying to make it sink in. He wants her to believe him so terribly.

“And it didn’t scare you,” she says, in the basket of his hands, “It didn’t scare you that I hurt him like that.” 

It’s not a question. She hasn’t been asking questions. She knows what she needs to know now, at least well enough. But Gale answers again anyway.

“You could never make me fearful of you. I’ve never felt as safe as I do with you."

She waits for disbelief to anchor her to something more skeptical. But it never materializes.

She's not a safe person. She has beaten a man until he was soft and covered in lifeblood. She has been careless with Gale's feelings. And yet...

"You're insane, Gale Dekarios. An absolute madman."

It's surprising, the laughter that bubbles up in both of them then. It is the kind of laughter that can only emerge in the wake of understanding, of acceptance. But her mirth quickly gives way to tears. Her sobs are borne of needless fear and the realization that it was needless, melding with visceral relief that this is not the end and that she has not doomed their chances with her past decisions.

Gale holds her. He wipes away the tears that emerge once more and she has the sudden feeling that if she does not kiss him, she'll die. So she pulls him down by the top button of his shirt for a kiss. And when he whispers against her lips ("Loving you is the most sensical thing I've ever done") before sliding his tongue into her mouth, she does not bother waiting for disbelief. It's salty and wet because she hasn’t really stopped crying and she is grateful for the coming opportunities to catalog these special flavors.

When they part to breathe again, they are caught by another bout of laughter. It’s nervous and light and giddy and they are weightless. Among all the kisses they’ve shared before, this one is different. 

It feels like a first time. 

“What do we do now?” she asks, wiping her eyes with the too-long sleeve of her borrowed shirt, "About Enver."

“I love you,” Gale says, “Do you still love me?” 

“I do. Nothing has changed from the couch a few minutes ago,” she breathes a small laugh, “But that doesn’t mean it’ll be easy.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Gale shakes his head, “But it means we have the proper motivation to figure it out. Together. I have a few ideas about how we might protect ourselves. But you know him better than I do and we need to decide on everything as a team.” 

“Okay,” she nods. 

They can do this. Maybe. If they fail, well… she’s not sure. But he’s here and so is she and they’re in love. 

The odds are what they are. They will try anyway.

“We’ll figure it out together,” Gale smiles at her and she feels sparks dancing all over her skin, “But for now… would you stay with me for a while?” 

“You want me to stay?” 

“I want you to do much more than stay,” Gale breathes and then coughs self-consciously. She grins.

“But yes, I would like for you to stay. Will you?” 

“There's nowhere else I'd rather be.” 

The sparkle of his eyes... He may grace everyone’s sight, but the light that lives in him shines for her. 

Hand in hand, they return to the couch. Gale and Tav huddle under the soft blanket, limbs tangled in limbs, and they listen to the thunder pass them by, rolling off into the distance.

Chapter Text

It doesn’t happen right away. 

For all the kisses and touches they’d exchanged in his foyer, they avoid his bed that first night. They don’t go to his bedroom at all, actually. After they tearfully tear through months of misunderstandings and secrets, they stay on the couch. They wrap around each other and whisper to each other and exchange soft caresses, simmering in libidinal heat, and it would drive Gale mad, crazy enough to grab and consume her, if he wasn’t so exhausted. 

She falls asleep on him with her face against his undershirt and her no-longer-bandaged hand on his lower back, fingertips tucked just under the waistband of his briefs. He’d casted Cure Wounds after unwrapping her palm and hissing sympathetically. The delicate curve of the angry line in her skin turned a light pink—closed, painless, and soon to scab. When he was confused about the partially healed result, she’d informed him.

"One of my quirks," Tav joked with a pained humor, "I'm a bit resistant to healing magic. Not sure why. Still, this is ... Thank you."

Her last words before losing consciousness are that she’s glad to be where she is. 

In the middle of the night, she pads into his study and finds him hunched over his tome-covered desk. His laptop is settled on top of an open book printed with small text and his notepad is covered in cursive reflections. She's tired and lingering at the entrance of his study and he's not sure why she's all the way over there still, but he bids her to come to him. He pulls her to sit on his lap and she asks twice if “this is okay?” before relaxing only slightly. It will take time, he thinks, for her to uncoil and so he doesn’t pester her to lean back, to set her deadweight on him as she would another seat. 

He asks if he disturbed her when he got up from the couch and she shakes her head no, mumbling something about nightmares before asking about his research. It will take a while to imbue the gem in his locked drawer with Teleport , but it starts here. He knows the spell well, can cast it more easily than most, but this is for Tav. While he does not know how or why, he knows that she does not have access to her magic; if she did, he would teach her the spell. But she doesn’t and they have unearthed enough truths in the last twelve hours that he is not inclined to knock on that door anytime soon. He would rather put his mind to making sure she can eventually reach his home, unseen, regardless of the state of her own sorceress abilities. 

He explains the stages of enchantment, the relevant spells, and, with some hesitance, the physical and mental drain of the process. The endeavor to make it a permanent tool for her, in particular, will sap him of his strength, if only temporarily. He thinks of hiding this from her for a few moments before brushing the impulse away. There is a chance that he will be… off , for days or even weeks, after finishing the enchantment. Moody. Withdrawn. More prone to nightmares. Weak. He can't quite hide that from her and he shouldn't. He also finds that he doesn't really want to.

She is silent for a bit, pondering his books and his notes and his words and then she asks. 

“Are you sure about this?”

And he is. He tells her he is, that he harbors no doubts, and she nods. She slides off his lap and goes downstairs. When she comes back, he is re-engrossed in his research, but the mug of tea she brings him is just what he’s been wanting besides her company She falls asleep in the armchair in the corner of his study and does not wake up until sunrise. 

--

She wakes up and they have breakfast and they lay on his couch for a few hours more. He spends every minute wanting to take things further, but Tav has not slept particularly well and he does not want something as simple as a lack of rest to diminish what could be their first time… coupling. 

(Gale doesn’t know if he’ll ever stop being worried that Tav will dump him after scraping the bottom of the barrel of who he is, fundamentally, like Mystra did. But he is still trying to care less about the perfection of every interaction he has with her. He is trying to be less polished and more reflexive. It is the only way she will fully know him and he finds this to be a worthy goal. But there are some moments he is… highly reluctant to let fall as they may. 

Their first time having penetrative sex is one of them. Sue him for being a romantic, if you must.) 

Before he teleports them to her bedroom, Tav is scared, although she tries not to let it show. He asks her if she’s done this before and she hasn’t and so he decides to cast with her in his arms. He tells her to count backwards from 5 and when she gets to 3, he says the simple verbal component and they are in her bedroom. Arcane shimmers float from their pressed bodies into free air and before the last moment that she is lit up by cool purple light, he has the overwhelming thought that magic suits her better than anyone he’s ever seen. 

It is quiet in the apartment when they first arrive. When the light of his magic dissipates, they fall into the silence, leaning against each other, still standing up. But then a loud groan from somewhere outside her bedroom jolts them from their intimate staring at each other. Tav runs towards it, seemingly driven by something more than passive concern. He follows close behind down the hallway and bumps into her when she stops short in the opened doorway of Astarion’s room. 

“Do you mind, darling?”

“Sorry!” Tav closes the door behind her and Gale only manages to catch the slightest glimpse of Astarion, as naked as the day he was born, tied up in blood red rope with a fully-clothed Shadowheart sitting on top of him.

Tav walks quickly back towards her room, away from the muffled sounds of Shadowheart’s laughter, and he shuts her door behind him. 

Tav’s thoughts occupy her as she sits on her bed with her back to her headboard, fiddling with the bottom hem of his shirt. 

His clothes also suit her. This thought almost distracts him from Tav’s flustering, but the charming hue of her embarrassment easily conjures thoughts of her other colors. Specifically, the pretty pink of her—

“Don’t your meetings start soon?” She asks with a distracted frown. 

She’s right. They do. He should go home and take a (cold) shower and head to campus. But first. 

He sits on the edge of her bed. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, not quite serious and not quite joking. He knows she’s fine, but she also seems… not. 

“Yeah I—that just caught me off guard,” but she looks at him with a cautious, embarrassed kind of expression and he wishes he could cancel everything and unwrap her from the soft cotton vestiges of his alma mater. 

“Okay,” he says simply, tucking a dark ringlet behind her ear. She surprises him, turning her head and kissing his palm as he pulls away. 

“I’ll come tomorrow, probably in the evening. I’ll text you with plenty of advance notice before I appear in your room like a thief in the night,” he grins and she smiles too, in a shy kind of way that is entirely within character but that still surprises him when it happens. 

He likes it, her sometimes-tendency towards diffidence; it is a precious contrast to the self-assuredness he sees from her in less personal contexts. There isn’t a hint of timidness in their academic or cultural discussions. But there are some things, like talking about her feelings for him or finding her friend topping her other friend, that make her blush… and it turns him on immensely. 

He gives her a kiss, which he intends to be a goodbye in a perfectly chaste fashion but that definitely bleeds into i’ll be thinking about you in the shower. She follows his lips until he stands up beside her bed, preparing to teleport home, and then he asks. 

“Would you ever want to try?” he probes, with a small glance and hand wave (with a still tingling palm) towards her door

It’s vague, but she knows what he means. The rope. The surrender. The control.

She looks at her lap and frowns momentarily. It’s not quite what he intended when he asked. Of course he’d just been hoping for her genuine answer, but still.

“Maybe. But not any time soon, I don’t think…” It sounds to him like she’s avoiding saying no. Perhaps she’s misinterpreted his curiosity for eagerness.

“There’s no rush,” he responds, “We have time to get there or to decide we don’t want to.”

Her face softens. She nods too. 

“I love you. I’ll see you soon,” he says.

As he recites the verbal incantation for his exit, Tav starts to say something back. The words don’t come home with him. 

--

“Your birthday. It’s coming up, right?”

The question elides the fact that they both know that she knows that his birthday is coming up in a few weeks. She’d been there just a couple of minutes ago as he’d received a text from his mother about the day, with the full date written in the message (why had his mother written it? As if he didn’t know his own birthday?). In plain view on his locked phone screen, it was fair game, really. 

He is sitting on her couch while she lays her head in his lap. They’ve finished dinner and now they’re digesting after cleaning up. An unremarkable movie illuminates her face with shifting colored light and he looks down at her as he twirls the coils of her hair around his fingers. 

They have done this before. He likes that. 

His phone buzzes on her coffee table with a reminder of his mother’s unanswered text and he gives Tav an unimpressed look as she laughs through her nose. 

“Yes, Tav. As we both know that you well know, my birthday is at the end of this month.”

Breezing by his refusal to indulge her feigned ignorance, Tav pushes forward. 

“Sooo… what would you like to do? Not asking you to plan or anything, but is there something you’ve been wanting to try since you got here?”

Gale looks down at her, the entirety of her. She’s wearing an oversized, long sleeved shirt and floppy sleep shorts that end above her mid-thigh. They are the same shorts he’d fantasized about pulling down with her bent over her kitchen counter so long ago. Her soft, shapely legs end in socked feet, propped up and shifting idly atop the armrest on the other side of the couch. He does not hide his thorough gaze and by the time he looks back at her face, adorned by a halo of curly hair, she is blushing again.

She was talking about his move to Baldur’s Gate. But if he ignores that fact then, yes, actually—there is something he’s been wanting to try, quite ardently. And fine, he’s tried it before, but only once and he thinks that, despite everything else that should take priority, he’s maybe just always been trying to get back to that moment since it ended and he woke up alone in his bed in delirium. 

“Would you like to go away with me?” 

The question comes from some unconscious place he’s trying to cultivate. He doesn’t often speak without thinking, but he finds no issue with what he’s said. He wants to whisk her away, somewhere no one can bother them, and familiarize himself in a different setting. 

"Away?" she asks.

"Yes," he answers, "For a few days or maybe a week. Somewhere we can be alone."

Her eyebrows rise and she worries her bottom lip with her teeth before answering. 

“I would… but I have to work.”

“On your dissertation? You don’t need to be here to do that.” 

“I don’t,” she agrees, “But it’s more than that. I’m gonna have to meet with a few clients. I usually do freelance writing during the summer.”

“Do you not get a summer stipend?” 

“Nope,” she drums her fingers against her stomach self-consciously, “I teach for my stipend during the year. But I’m not approved to do that during the summer. So I freelance.” 

Gale is temporarily sucked in by his curiosity. “What do you mean you’re not approved?” 

“Well,” she looks away from him, “after the incident with Enver, I wasn’t allowed to serve as an instructor for a bit. My advisors got that amended for my school year stipends, but the University argued my summer teaching appointments were ‘less vital’, so I’m still not eligible to do summer courses.”

Gale feels himself scowl much more deeply than he should around Tav, at least with regards to this. And he thinks, for nowhere near the first time, that Gortash’s death may not fix everything for Tav, but it would certainly make things better. 

There it is again. That most dedicated, most dangerous version of himself. 

Smaller, softer hands take the tightening fist at his side. 

“I would go away with you if I could, though,” Tav says, sincerely. She kisses the knuckles of his fist and he feels himself harden and soften. The anger dies away, gone under her cherishing lips, and his blood rushes away from his brain towards somewhere much baser. 

“You know,” his voice is gruff when he starts speaking and he clears his throat, “I could always cover your expenses. You wouldn’t have to worry about the trip… or rent.”

Her eyes widen momentarily and then she chuckles, “I don’t think so.” 

“Why not? 

“Are you serious?” She gives him a look like he’s missing something obvious. 

“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Tav,” he reminds her of this and she softens. 

“Okay, maybe you’ve never had to think about this,” she says knowingly, “but getting into a situation where I’m that dependent on you financially while we’re still figuring out our whole… deal— it’s a recipe for disaster. And we have enough to deal with.” 

He wants to roll his eyes at the use of the word “deal” for their relationship; it seems he will have to spell that out for her soon. Yet, while her concern makes sense to him, on some level… there is something deeper she’s not voicing explicitly. 

“Are you concerned I’ll come to resent you for it? Or that I’ll hold it over your head? Something to that effect?” he probes. 

Her feet shift awkwardly on the armrest. “Yeah, kinda. And… there’s always a chance that we break up. And in that scenario, I would have to scramble to make rent and the rest of my bills.”

Ah. He knows she’s right, in a pragmatic sort of way. She has to think about the worst case scenario for her (and Astarion’s) wellbeing. But the (in his opinion, nigh impossible) chance of them breaking up, laid out so matter-of-factly, hurts to think about. He understands now, why she’d buried it to start with. 

“Well… what if I gave you the money you need for the summer upfront. Then, whatever happens, you’re taken care of.” 

She blinks rapidly with eyes as wide as he’s ever seen them. 

“I could do it now on my phone if you have a rough estimate in mind. Although, with the paper trail… I should probably go to the bank tomorrow and take it out in cash—“

“Oh my gods, no,” she covers her face, smothering nervous laughter, “Absolutely not.” 

“Why not? You could deposit it at your leisure. I could help you hide it or fortify your door, if you’re concerned about the possibility of a break-in… Actually, I should probably deal with your door regardless. It’s quite flimsy.”

“Gale, I am not letting you give me thousands of dollars, let alone in cash , because you want to go away for your birthday.” 

“First of all, I want to go away with you ,” his emphasis makes her blush intensify…

He almost growls.

What is happening to him?  

“Secondly, I’ve yet to hear an objection on your end that cannot be managed with a bit of foresight and planning and communication. And trust , which I think we have and will only get better at,” he says sincerely, “And lastly— what’s wrong with cash?” 

He can see something shifting in her expression. She’s running out of reasons. But his question makes her shift uncomfortably, head still in his lap. 

“It’s a bit... ‘sugar baby’-esque, Gale,” she says awkwardly, “Don’t you think?”

He scoffs. “How so?” 

She quirks an eyebrow at his challenge. “For starters, you’re older than me,” he scoffs again at that and she laughs through her nose.

“A professor at the university I attend, no less,” she pokes his unimpressed expression in the cheek, “And now you’re offering to take me on a trip and pay for my lifestyle in cash.”

“I said your expenses —“

“So that’s your rebuttal?” she grins cheekily.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m only 8 years older than you.”

“And in a few weeks, it’ll be 9 years,” she walks her fingers along the front of his shirt playfully, “But not to worry, dear. I have a thing for older men.” 

She giggles ferally at her own comeback and the movement reminds him of his rapidly tightening pants. 

“Anything to say, Dr. Dekarios?” she teases. 

Gods below. That really should not turn him on. 

He blames her. 

He looks over the length of her body again, wriggling in mirth at her own teasing, and the intensity distracts her from her laughter.

“I think you should let me take care of you.”

Her breath hitches slightly and her giggling dies away. She notices that he notices, but she still retorts smartly, “You’re not exactly helping your case, you know.” 

“Perhaps not,” he says evenly, “I’m not sure I particularly want to now.”

“Oh?” 

“That’s right, my love,” Gale slips his hand out of hers and trails it slowly down down down her torso, between her breasts, until his fingers are playing with the waistband of her shorts. 

“Gale,” she breathes. Her stomach rises and falls with deeper inhales and exhales. If his spine could bend in such a way, he’d bite her there. 

He slides his hand lower to cup her mound through her clothes, “I would spoil you in so many ways if you’d let me.”

“Ohh…”

His fingers rub her through her bottoms and she arches her back slightly. 

“I’m also not opposed to you calling me daddy. Not in the slightest.” 

“You’re a madman,” she breathes again and moves her hips against his hand. 

“So you’ve said before. But you bring that out in me, my love. And I think you like it, in fact.” 

“Gods…” they spend a few moments without speaking. The sounds of their heavy breathing and the friction of his hand against her shorts and the sounds of the world outside rush in to fill in the space. Eventually, Tav asks:

“What if it’s too much?” Her eyes close and her knees fall open for him, “Too soon?”

It’s a valid question made precious by the sumptuous spread of her legs and the roll of her hips.

Logically, he knows their feelings and commitments should be given time and space to grow around each other, to deepen outside of the frenzy of the past semester and the continuing melodrama of their past relationships…

But he already knows he would give her everything, anything, despite how he’s trying to reign himself in. Now that she’s his, in reality and perpetuity (if he has any say in the matter), he doesn’t think he can stop himself from giving her as much as she’ll take. 

It’s already hers, in his mind.

“I’ve been waiting for this, to give you everything I can,” he replies, filled with an honest hunger that makes his hands shake. He presses the heel of his palm into a certain spot and moans with her. 

“If your mind was not so suited to scholarship, and if I was not so sure you’d abhor it, I would be tempted to turn you into a kept woman right this second.”

“I-Isn’t ‘kept woman’ just a nicer title for ‘unwed mistress’?” 

“Yes. But you’re already married, my love… which most aptly makes me the ‘homewrecker’, as some might say,” she laughs in a surprised shout at this and it makes his skin tingle again, like he’s been brushed with feathers.

“And in the process of wrecking your home,” his lips quirk at the phrasing, “I would move you in and buy you whatever your heart desires and then some, indulge your every request and take you on vacations and sing your praises to every person we come across.”

“Mm,” it’s a short, delicious sound at the back of her throat, “Poor Astarion.”

“It’s his own fault,” Gale grins, “If he did not want me to steal his wife and love and spoil her, he should have picked another—someone besides the woman I’ve come to crave in more ways than all the mathematicians in Faerûn could account for.”

She opens her eyes to look at him in bleary, pleasure-struck wonder.

“Gale...”

“I love you,” he responds, “…And I think you would look exquisite covered in oil, getting massaged and fondled by me until you’re a slippery, mindless mess in a fancy hotel room miles from all this madness. So you should let me steal you away. It is for my birthday, after all.”

She laughs with her full body then and he takes a moment to appreciate the jiggle of her full chest, hidden away by her shirt. 

“I think that’s firmly back in sugar baby territory, Gale.”

“What difference does it make to me if you call yourself my sugar baby… or my sweet girl?” he presses down with his full hand again and she chases the pressure with her hips.

Gale has played many different roles as a lover throughout his life. Typically, he leaves this up to his partner; he’s not picky, he likes pleasure, and he’s very adaptable. 

With Mystra, there was a favor towards having him submit. And he’d liked that. Towards the latter half of their relationship, illusion magic took more of a role in their sex life. And that was also fine with him. Their physical intimacy was not even in the top fifteen problems with what they had, but he certainly felt consistent pressure to prove his worth, and his gratitude that she’d chosen him, during sex. He enjoyed it all the same, but still. 

“Gale,” Tav moans and laughs breathlessly, “those are not the same thing.”

Touching or being touched by Tav actively takes over his brain in a way he has not experienced in over a decade. When she touches him, he feels cherished. Adored. Even before he realized she loved him, it certainly always felt like love. It was there, as warm as her mouth, as singular as the moon guiding the tides.

And when he touches her… gods. He wants to claim in a way he has never felt. He finds that, beyond just giving her pleasure or worshiping her, he wants to wipe her brain clean until she can think of nothing but what he’s doing to her. He wants to make her dreamy and pliant, with everything he has. And in an incredibly derivative line of thought, he wants to make the rest of the world fall away until there is only her and him, if only for a little while.

“Perhaps not. But will you let me take care of you anyway?” Gale asks in a low voice, reveling in the incredible heat of her in his palm. 

She pauses for a moment before nodding quickly and he finally slips his fingers under the waistbands of her shorts and underwear. He sucks in stolen breath—even the delicate hairs on her mound are wet. He moans at the back of his throat at the feeling of her all over his fingers.

He’s missed this. She’s so slick and warm to the touch and the sounds of her squirming and breathing are his sweetest dreams.

“Please.”

“Still so polite,” he breathes, “Say it again.”

“Please, Gale,” she pleads.

“Again,” his fingers tease at her entrance and she rocks her hips.

“Please, my love,” she says desperately, with her eyes clenched shut. 

Something comes over him then. He slips in two fingers and starts at a brutal pace. 

He’s not going to tease her anymore. She’s fucking soaking his hand and she hasn’t cum from someone else’s attention in as long as he has and he’s not a monster . 

They’re both panting. The sound of his fingers is... It’s been too long since he last heard it, the filthy squelch of her wetness, of her want for him. Tav grabs onto his hand that’s been in her hair all this time and her breathing quickens.

He angles his fingers just right until he feels what he’s looking for and Tav tries to trap his hand with her thighs.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” she says, throaty and gone.

This won’t take much longer at all, it seems.

“You feel so good, my sweet girl. You’re truly beyond comparison, inside and out,” Gale wishes he could kiss her but he can’t so he settles for praise that does not begin to scratch the surface of how he feels as he works her into a puddle with his hand.

“Gods, I love you. And I love when you squeeze like that. I know you want my cock so badly.”

“Yes,” she nods rapidly, “I—fuck.”

Something rumbles in Gale’s throat. Their first time will not be on her couch, not if he can help it, but the things she does to him… 

“I know, my love,” he growls, “I know. I can feel you. I can feel your sopping hole clenching around my fingers. You’re so good to me. You’re so perfect. Made for me and my fingers and my tongue and my cock.”

He slips in a third finger and Tav’s legs shake and stiffen. She’s there, right on the edge. It is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. She is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And he wants to make a fucking mess of her. 

“G—“

“That’s right, my love. Let me take care of you. Let me make you cum.” 

His thumb is at her clit, rubbing her the way that made her cry out last time, and he feels her clench and tense up around him. Her breath shudders and she squeezes and bends her knees, trapping his hand as she cums. He can’t fuck her through it, can’t hold her legs apart from this angle, but he can feel it all, down to the gush of wetness that follows.

“Holy shit...”

Tav comes down from her climax slowly, blissful and exhausted and red-faced and out of air. She’s still catching her breath, and his fingers are still inside her despite  being free to move, when the sound of a key going into a lock makes her jolt. His wet hand drags over her soft stomach before he pulls it away and he smirks at the knowledge of how she’s sitting in soaked underwear. 

He looks down into his lap and sees he’s very obviously hard. But the only thing more inconspicuous than the bulge in his pants is laying a pillow over the bulge in his pants.

So he casts Reduce on his crotch. And then he starts planning his birthday trip as Astarion pretends to be surprised to see him. 

--

He finishes his designs for Tav’s teleportation token on Thursday. He works on it the whole day, forgoing two meals and another visit to her apartment, but it’s worth it. He even manages to get Ramazith on the phone to talk over his schematics; the older wizard provides useful advice, although Gale does have to pretend he has somewhere else to be once Ramazith wants to discuss the earring’s “origins” in more detail.

Soon. But not now. 

From here on out, fashioning the token will primarily be a matter of ensuring he has the proper materials and not overextending his capacity at each stage of the enchantment process. 

He updates Tav over the phone and despite her anticipation, she sounds… not sad , but occupied. When he asks her what’s wrong, she says “it’s nothing”, that she’ll “probably feel better in the morning” and he doesn’t prod further. Whether or not she’s right about feeling better tomorrow, she is not hiding, not really. And that’s all that matters. He can wait.

The next morning, Gale goes to his standing therapy appointment. Isobel remarks on his good mood; it’s in thorough contrast to how he was last week, before he accidentally told Tav he loved her in an elevator and ruined things and before she came to him and put them back together. 

There is a lot to recount—even without the illegal parts. 

Isobel listens, as she always does. Her questions are framed exactly to give some of the vague points room to breathe and he is incredibly thankful for this. Towards the end of the session, she digs into the dissonance of his motivations just a bit more.

“Before, you thought you were protecting her by not being with her. What do you think changed?” 

Isobel laces her fingers together on the notepad balanced atop her crossed legs and waits patiently. She is not afraid of awkward silences. Gale suspects she even likes them. 

“I think…,” Gale considers the nakedness of his next words, but they are the only true response, “I generally have a hard time believing anyone having proximity to me is of benefit to them.” 

“You still believe that?” Isobel asks. Not challenging or incredulous. Just clarifying, as always.

“I think I do,” Gale admits quietly, “But I tried to act accordingly here and it only made her miserable. It only made things worse—in just about every way.” 

“That’s some pretty clear counter-evidence,” Isobel says.

“It is,” he nods. 

“I wonder,” she says, as if she’s actually wondering and not a trained psychologist, “if you might leave yourself open to such counter-evidence in other areas of your life.” 

--

It finally happens when he sees her that evening. He teleports to her apartment and brings her and her weekend bag back home with him. She’s a bit dusty and sweaty; she’d lost track of time, getting carried away with some house cleaning driven by her current discontent, if he had to guess, and wanted to get out of her apartment more than she wanted to shower in her apartment. She’s quieter than normal, the way she was the night before on the phone, but she still sits at the breakfast nook and talks to him while he preps their dinner. 

He has not made pasta from scratch in years, but it comes back to him easily. There is a chicken roasting slowly in the oven. A pudding and wafer dessert cools in the fridge alongside the pillowy filling for their pasta. Dough for soft bread rolls rises, to be baked in the second oven soon.

He has plans for them tonight. They will enjoy dinner and then they will go up to his study where he’s set up an ungodly number of pillows and candles and rolled out a long, luxurious cushion he got in Amn, big enough for two or three people to roll around on. He has planned a celestial illusion for them to gaze at together. And when the time is right, when they are embraced and speaking quietly in private darkness like so many times before, he will ask her to consider him as her partner (“boyfriend”, at the age of 35, is a bit emotionally loaded for him). 

Regardless of title, he will ask her to accept him as hers alone and to be solely his as well. If all goes right, he will make love to her for the first time under their own private tapestry of stars. 

Tav’s responses die down as he gets the pasta dough together, but he doesn’t mind. He is too nervous to mind, too focused on getting things right for once. After a few minutes of silence, she speaks. 

“Gale?” 

“Yes, my love?” he looks up to see her standing on the other side of the island he’s working on. He likes the way she looks here, perfectly accented by the dark wood and emerald green tile of his kitchen. She was meant for jewel tones.

“Are you sure you’re okay with what I did?” She asks in a hurried, firm voice, like she’s been working up to the question for a while. 

He pauses in confusion. “What you did?” 

“What I did to Enver. Hurting him, I mean,” she looks like she’s holding her breath. 

So this is what’s been bothering her.

Gale wipes his hands with a beige towel and looks at her seriously. 

“I will say this as many times as you need to hear it. But I’m hoping this level of clarity will put some of your doubts to rest for good,” he pauses to make sure she’s still listening. 

“You could’ve done worse. And I would still love you,” he says slowly, clearly. 

Her mouth falls open slightly.

“You can’t mean that,” she says tentatively. 

He frowns. “Do you really doubt me?” 

“No,” she shakes her head, “I don’t. But…” 

She lets the sentence trail off, seemingly not sure of what else to say. He looks at her for a long while, but then returns to his dough, sensing that she could need an extended moment to process. She does not doubt him, but there is still doubt to be accounted for. 

After a period, he hears her moving towards him, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, letting her make her approach in her own time. He is setting the pasta dough aside to rest when a finger hooks on one of his belt loops. She pulls him in and kisses him, slow and sweet. There’s an absence of any heat until she moans into his mouth and then he feels like he’s just under boiling. Right when he begins to maybe consider skipping ahead in his itinerary for the evening, she pulls away from him. 

“What did I do to deserve you?” she asks, looking up at him with dark eyes behind glasses. 

“You know, I was just asking myself the same question not so long ago,” he replies. 

He cannot remember ever feeling so… matched in his feelings. To some small, but not negligible, extent, Gale has always felt like he was chasing other people’s regard in relationships. Maybe that’s his type: people who don’t like him as much as he likes them. 

But Tav… it is quite possible that she—

She gives him one last peck and leaves to take a shower with a new bounce in her steps.

When she leaves, he’s tingling all over and he feels the telltale tenseness of arousal. And his hands get clumsy. He gives himself a minor burn while he checks on the chicken. He ends up with a small, but deep cut while prepping the aromatics for the sauce and he heals it away, but not before getting blood on his shirt. 

He goes upstairs to change. And when he enters his room, Tav exits his en suite bathroom at the same time.

She's wearing his dark purple bathrobe.

And there isn’t enough room in the chest for her.

While the robe is just big enough to close in the front, it hardly covers her breasts… which are still wet from her shower. And her skin is still flush from the heat—she likes her showers almost scalding, like he does. Her hair is pinned up to avoid getting wet but errant, wet pieces fall around her face and neck.

He swallows. Before he can stop himself: 

“That’s my bathrobe,” he says with no accusation. 

“It looked soft,” she says evenly, but the wiggling of her fingers at her sides betray her nerves, “I hope you don’t mind.” 

“You look soft,” he murmurs mindlessly, trying not to fall to his knees at the mere sight of her, “And what’s mine is yours.”

She bites back a smile and walks the few steps between them until he can feel the shared heat of their bodies. He cradles the back of her head with his hands and their kissing starts out sloppy and ends up filthy. He would not kiss her on the street like this—not in Baldur's Gate and definitely not in Waterdeep and probably not even in some far off place where no one knows them. It's open-mouthed tongue stroking and it has them both moaning openly into each other. She rakes her hands down his back and sides over his shirt. He wants to devour her. 

“I think I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life.” His voice shakes. Or maybe it’s his entire body.

She takes his hands in hers, dragging them slowly over her half-covered breasts to reach the loosely knotted tie of his bathrobe. 

“You have me,” she says against his neck before sucking at his skin. 

He’s definitely panting now. He pulls her closer by the soft tie, feeling like he’s going to drop dead under her tongue. “I had a plan, you know—to make this perfect.” 

“So did I,” he can feel her grin against his jaw, “I heard you coming up the stairs.” 

“You heard me?” his mind jolts at this, but slows in the fog of his pleasure.

“I did. I had clothes in the bathroom with me,” she punctuates this by nipping at the skin of his neck.

“Ah!” the delicious pain of her teeth shoots straight to his dick, “You had clothes in the…?”

He trails off as his brain connects the dots. 

He spins them around and walks backwards towards his bed, guiding her along by two greedy handfuls of her ass. He sits on the edge and she climbs over his lap. 

The bottom half of his robe spreads as her legs do. She straddles him on her knees and he can see the meat of her plush, damp thighs and the soft, dewy apex between. He goes back and forth with himself for a few moments about whether to take his robe off of her or leave it on, but then his fingers undo the knot. 

He wants to see everything. 

Heavens. She’s a vision. He tries to find another word, one less loaded, to describe it, but she looks… fertile. Her full, generous breasts. Her wide hips framing the soft swell of her stomach, shading the delicate thatch of hair of her mons. Her thighs, gods her thighs— two perfect, luscious bookends to the warm plot of divinity in between. 

With her straddling him on her knees, he is eye-level with her breasts. He licks the space between them with the width of his tongue and whispers a prayer of gratitude into her skin.

“And you wonder how I know about your thing for my tits,” she teases. 

“My thing for you, my love,” he corrects distractedly.

She smiles down at him, humored, but he is practically intoxicated by the proximity of her lush, naked body, still air drying in the neutral temperature of his room. She smells like his soap. His hands roam over her dewy thighs, her ass, and her round hips, groping and squeezing everywhere, and moaning with her in gratification. 

He pants over her right breast with hot, heavy breaths and she shivers as he licks her nipple lightly. Her fire is best stoked here with a gentle touch and so he will start this way, running the tip of his tongue over her with the slightest pressure… 

“You look so hot when you do that,” she murmurs. 

…until he can’t take it anymore. And then he suckles her peak as his thumb caresses with the other, relishing the heavy weight of her breast spilling out his hand.

Someday, maybe someday soon, he will ask her to make him a cunt with them. The thought of cumming all over her chest from thrusting into the soft, warm pocket between her breasts makes him groan into her skin and thrust once into the air that still lingers between his pelvis and hers. She’s not putting her weight on him and he needs to change that. 

He teases her other nipple with the tip of his tongue and works both of them up into a deeper frenzy. She runs her fingers through his hair and scratches his scalp to his beard and back again, humming and sighing above him. He massages her ass with both hands and finds he really wants to be suffocated by her, to forget anything outside of her, and want is hardly any different from need at this point. 

“Would you sit on my face, my love?” 

She watches him dazedly from above and swallows as he reddens her skin with his hungry suckling. 

“I-I've never done that before,” her cheeks burn like the splotches on her chest.

It was not within his plan for the evening to have them try anything unfamiliar during their first time; hesitance and nerves are only hurdles to all-consuming bliss in this particular context, with his particular love. 

But he wants to gorge himself on her.

“Are you open to trying?” He lavishes her nipples with his tongue again in-between words, in the spirit of pure indulgence, “I’ve thought of you sitting on me so many times... I want you to let me eat your perfect cunt while you ride my face to your heart’s content.”

Gale’s hands drift from her ass to grope her flaring hips. He squeezes her round curvature, testing the feel of her in his grip…

…Perhaps he’ll have her ride something else, as well. Later. 

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Entirely. Beyond a shadow of a glimmer of a doubt,” he murmurs against her breast.

“Okay then,” she breathes. 

He shifts further back onto the bed and lays his head down on a pillow while she crawls on her knees towards his face. She pauses with her legs  on either side of his shoulders and looks down with a smile. 

“You know, you really are beautiful. I almost feel bad covering your face up,” she jokes at him fondly, tenderly and he feels his cheeks heat up as if the words are the most scandalous thing he’s heard today, like he didn’t just say he wants her to slide her pussy all over his face. 

And then she shifts further up and settles over him, holding onto the top of his cushioned headboard for balance. She hovers above him until he wraps his arms around her thighs and pulls her cunt flush against his mouth. 

She’s soaking wet. And his mouth is watering. The heady scent of her mixed with his herbal soap has him licking her with the flat of his tongue and slurping filthily, consumed by desperation befitting a condemned man. 

It’s even warmer and softer underneath her than he thought it would be. The fingers threaded in his hair are a divine anchor. He sucks her clit lightly until she squirms and then he eases the pressure, drawing little circles around her sensitive nub with his tongue, dipping occasionally to lap at her entrance.

“Fuck, I’ve missed your tongue,” she moans, still clinging to his headboard with one hand.

He groans into her, approving, and her hips twitch in his hold. 

“My tongue has missed you, my love,” he says, muffled and not sure if she understands. He turns his head to bite the pillow-soft inside of her thigh and chuckles when she jumps. 

She gets the message. 

He starts to suck her clit in earnest. He knows well enough what she likes now and what it takes to push her over to bliss and so he prepares himself to suck for as long as he needs for her to convulse above him. He feels his chin get wetter and wetter as he sucks and he also feels himself getting drunker and drunker and somehow calmer; surely it’s some combination of the lack of air he’s getting and all the blood from his brain currently residing in his pants, but it feels incredible. 

She shakes above him and tugs his hair and he moans into her again as he works her with his tongue. She trembles as she starts to grinds down on him with purpose. He can feel it, her wetness and her restlessness, the chase of her hips; she wants him inside of her, but he’s adamant about making her cum at least once before indulging her that way. 

He doesn’t think he’ll last very long otherwise.

He slips two fingers into her hot silk and groans at the incredible lack of resistance, the snug fit.

Yeah, he’s not going to last long at all. 

She starts a grind against his fingers and he presses the flat of his tongue against her clit again, aiding in her search for pressure. She’s panting and whining now and he knows that she’s at the edge. 

She starts to squirm and then, very suddenly, she swings her thigh out of his grasp, toppling over to fall onto her ass beside him on the bed. 

“Are you alright, my love?” He can feel his sweaty hair cool on his scalp as he sucks in breath, a bit overwhelmed from the sudden change in temperature. 

He turns his head to look at her, still dazed and oxygen deprived and on his back. She’s red from the chest up, sitting on his bed with jumbled legs. 

“I want to hear you,” she breathes, “I need to hear you.” 

For some odd reason, his heart slams harder against his chest at these words. He’s not quite self-conscious about how his mouth runs during periods of emotional or physical intensity, but he's not not self-conscious about it. 

He noted all those weeks ago that she seemed to like that, the filthy words he spews when he turns into a simple, cock-brained mortal man, and that it was something of a grounding force for her, but still. What a delightful surprise.

He moves finally, grabbing a pillow and placing it behind her. 

“Lay on your back,” he says, and she does. She pouts when he stands up, but she becomes transfixed as she realizes he’s getting undressed. He takes his time, needing the moment to get his racing pulse under control, but he feels like he may explode underneath her gaze. 

When he discards his bloodied shirt, she slips her hand between her legs. He can see it clearly, the way she rubs her clit at the view of him disrobing and he cannot help the sound that rumbles in the depths of his throat. 

“Spread your legs for me,” he says, “I want to see you.” 

Her legs slide away from each other as he undoes his belt and his pants. In the light of the early evening, he can see it: the shine of her fingers, the puffy redness of her labia, and the pinkness of her slippery folds. She rubs steady, consistent circles around her clit with one hand and uses her other to spread her lips for his view. 

He can see everything and he doesn’t dare look away, not even when he’s sliding his underwear off. 

“I love watching you touch yourself,” her chest heaves as he speaks, “You have no idea what it does to me, to see you want me so desperately.” 

He grips his cock in his hand and strokes slowly, carefully; he’s almost painfully hard at this point and he doesn’t want to cum in his own hand, but they're looking at each other while they touch themselves and it is hot and he doesn't know if he wants to stop.  

She says something; it’s so fast and full of breath that he needs a moment to process its meaning. But when he does, he smiles and stop stroking. 

He knows what she said. But he asks her to repeat it anyway. 

“C-call me your sweet girl.” 

Hearing it again sends what has to be the last bit of blood in his brain, to his dick. He grasps his cock at the base and breathes, laughing a bit in his effort to keep himself from cumming, and when he feels less like a shaking leaf, he crawls back onto his bed, over to her. He settles on his knees, right between her spread legs. 

Her fingers pause on her clit, but he urges her on. 

“Don’t stop. I want to watch my sweet girl touch herself for me.” 

She gasps and resumes her ministrations. He gathers spit in his watering mouth and bends his head to emit it gently, letting it fall onto her fingers and the hot skin of her cunt. She moans and spreads his saliva over her sensitive nub, like a healing balm. 

“That’s right. Just like that. Rub my spit all over your clit, my love.” 

Tav draws circles around her clit faster and her breath quickens. He thought he was content to just watch, but now he's right in front of her and can feel the heat radiating off the apex of her thighs as she chases her climax.

He takes his hand off his aching cock and pulls her thighs over his. In this position, her hips are tilted upwards and he can see everything and in a maddening proximity. He could slide into her so easily like this. But he won’t. 

He takes the hand she’s using to spread herself open and moves it down to her entrance. 

“Finger yourself for me, sweetness. Give me a preview of what my cock will look like inside of you.” 

He spreads her with his thumbs as she slides two shaking fingers into her hole. Her head falls back, eyelids shut, and he wishes he had more eyes. He wants to look at the sight of her fingers pistoning in and out of her cunt, with his thumbs spreading her open, but he can’t look away from her face and her scrunched up brows and her red skin and her well-kissed lips opening soundlessly. 

“You’re doing so well. You’re being so good for me,” he intends to tease her, but the words come out too adoring, too enamored with her. He doesn’t quite mind though, not when the smallest, quietest “fuck” in the world leaves her lips. 

“Does my sweet girl want to cum now?” he asks and smiles at her immediate nodding and the shakiness of her breath. 

He looks down then, transfixed by the movement of fingers and shine of liquid ecstasy for a moment. 

“Allow me to assist…” 

He mutters the familiar syllables under his breath and feels a  vibration come over the fingers on his right hand. He runs them over her thigh and her eyes snap open. 

“May I?” He asks. 

“Please.”

He teases her, running his buzzing fingertips up her thigh and over her mound, dancing on the soft skin of those tender places. And as he does, he gently moves her hands away from her cunt. He places one on the bed and brings the soaking wet fingers of the other hand, the one she’d been fucking herself with, to his mouth. 

She watches him, dumbfounded, as he lavishes her fingers with his tongue, and whines something helpless and impossibly turned on when he begins to suck. 

He puts his buzzing fingers to her clit then. She jumps, having been distracted by her fingers in his mouth, and he holds back one of her legs with his free hand as she shakes around him. 

He’d wanted to watch her make herself cum at some point, he thinks, but now, with his fingers pressed around her perfect little nub, he can't remember why. 

“Don’t chase it, my sweet girl,” he massages the inside of the tense thigh he’s restraining, “I have you. Just let yourself fall.”

“I-I can’t,” she shakes her head even as she bucks her hips against his fingers. He is reminded of the first time they did this, the only other time they’ve been in his bed. 

She needs to hear him. 

He lowers himself until his bare chest is against hers. His cock is trapped between the two of them, pressed against her plush mound, and he kisses her as his vibrating fingers slide along the length of her slippery folds. 

He licks and bites her jaw, surely leaving something that will bloom darker later and then he settles his lips beside her ear. 

“I know you can,” he responds. He sounds husky. He can barely recognize his own voice. 

“You tried to resist me last time. And you came on my fingers, right in this very spot. Because you’re mine,” Gale bites her earlobe, “Your perfect heart and your perfect body are mine.”

She keens and he leaves his buzzing fingers on her clit now. He sucks her earlobe into his mouth for a moment, feeling so intensely driven to ruin her that he’s losing his mind. 

“And after you cum on my fingers, I’m going to fuck your sweet cunt with my cock until you forget everything but me, that you belong to me ,” he punctuates this with a filthy rut, his cock pressing down on her mound.

“Oh fuck,” Tav shouts before crying out again, finally falling into her pleasure. The friction on his cock from her squirming body is almost good enough to end him right here and he finds himself trying to recall the last three articles he’s read to douse the raging fire of his blood.

He keeps his spelled hand on her, groaning at the slide of her cunt against him as she rides out her orgasm. Eventually, she pushes at his hand weakly as the vibrations tip into overstimulation and he takes pity on her, ending the simple cantrip. 

Tav looks red and dazed, like she’s been saturated and wrung out. 

He tells her to open her mouth and she does, letting him lick into it and suck her tongue lightly. When he pulls away to kneel between her legs again, a string of saliva connects their mouths until it doesn’t and he can hardly wait a second longer to slide into her. He wants her just like this: almost out of her mind, unspooled, and drunk off her climax. 

But then he realizes. 

“Shit.”

“S’wrong?” She murmurs, barely moving her lips. 

He’d left his box of condoms upstairs, hidden somewhere within easy reach of the cushion they were supposed to make love on. 

He sighs raggedly, “I neglected to leave any condoms here. I have to—“

“M’on birth control,” She opens her bleary eyes and looks at him, “and I always use condoms with other people.”

Gale’s brain short circuits. “I— Are you—“

“Want you to cum in me,” she finishes with a dreamy moan. 

He holds his breath for a moment, feeling certain he’ll explode if he doesn’t. Tav squeezes her legs around his waist, trying to get him closer, and this pulls him out of his stupor. 

“Please, m’love?” She looks up at him with still-dazed eyes, arms thrown above her head, and his heart clenches. 

“I would never deny you,” he swallows, “but I’m just not sure I’ll last very long at all, and especially without something to dampen the feeling of…” 

Gale trails off with a shaky breath. She smiles at him, warm and slow and languid. 

“We’ll make it last some other time.”

The familiar words focus him. He notices it now, the undercurrents of anxiety and fearful desperation guiding his actions so slightly, melding so well with the desire to make her forget, if just for a few moments, about anything outside of him and the pleasure he’s giving her. 

He’s acting like this is the only time he has with her. Because he doesn’t want to lose her. He’s so desperate to keep her, he forgets that she’s his—even as he tells her as such to deliver her to her climax. 

“Come, be closer,” she says, squeezing her thighs around him weakly. 

He lets himself lay on her again, front to front, and she moves her arms to curl around his neck loosely. She scratches the back of his scalp and he shivers under her fingers, into their kissing, and he can feel her smile against him, sweet and slow like molasses. 

It has a cooling and heating effect on him. He feels safe here, under her touch and over her body, but the proximity and the slowness brings his hunger back to the forefront the longer they do this. 

His cock is right against her cunt now that he’s pressed against her, steady in the secure valley of her thighs. She’s as hot as a brand against him, warmer and wetter than he’s been dreaming, and he finds himself grinding against her. His cock, nestled between the puffy lips of her pussy, slides along her clit over and over as he rolls his hips, making them both sigh and tense and shake at the filthy slip. 

“Feels so good,” she whispers into his mouth, “You’re everything. Please fuck me.” 

And if it isn’t the sentiment “You’re everything. Please fuck me” that gets him to pull away completely, grab a strategic pillow, turn her onto her stomach, and slide into her as he straddles her thighs, it’s the deeply embodied sensation that he’ll really lose his fucking mind if he doesn’t. 

“Oh fucking Hells…”

He doesn’t know which one of them says it, maybe both of them do, but he can barely think to parse out those details. He loves her, so so much , for so many reasons , and now he can add the hot grip of her cunt to that list.  He wants to feel it in all seasons, in all moments, at all levels of intensity and leisure, heat and luxuriation, and he feels like his heart is going to explode with the intensity of this want.

“Oh, oh,” she says on repeat. He coaxes the whiny little sounds from her with every intentional thrust. 

It’s exactly what he wants. She’s not screaming, not at the speed he’s going. No, he’s forcing himself to stay slow, to take his time with deep, long strokes instead of chasing his orgasm in the depth of her body…

But fuck, he’s probably going to cum soon anyway. It’s just too good. His lovely, sweet Tav takes him so well, like he knew she would. She fists the sheets and arches her back and lets him in deeper and when he grabs her ass and presses forward, changing the angle slightly but significantly, she lets out his name in a high pitched gasp.

“Gale!” 

“Too much? Does it hurt?” He sounds strangled and he is . There is so much feeling under and over his skin and he’s struggling to not succumb to it completely then. 

“No , no no no—“ she shakes her head and he feels relief and fondness shoot him like an arrow at the shake of her curls.

I love you, Tav, he almost says, I love you so much I think it might save me.

But he doesn’t.  

“Perfect,” he growls, “My perfect girl. Now stay still and take my cock while I love you, okay?”

“Okay okay okay,” Tav clings to the word like sanity as he thrusts into her with more haste than before. Her volume builds as he continues, stoking the fire of her orgasm in a frenzy. And even though she repeats her (not quite) assent to staying still like a mantra, she still tries to writhe between his legs. But she can’t. He’s still straddling her and he uses his weight to hold her down, shaking in earnest now from his exercised restraint. 

Sweat drips from his body onto hers and soon her back and ass are glittered in shiny drops of his exertion, leaving trails in their wake as they’re diverted from the force of his hips against her.

She starts to fall apart from his careful thrusting and the feel of her clench around him—

I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

—sends him into freefall. He tries to hold his breath, to catch himself, but he can’t. And then he relents. She seizes around him, like a vice, as she climaxes and he cums with a shout as she pulses around him and milks him for all he has. 

He falls over her, hardly stopping himself at all with his tired arms. But he grinds for a little longer into the place where they are still joined, where they will come together for as long as she’ll let it be. It’s slicker and warmer with this seed melding with her essence and he feels something like peace and disturbance coming to duel inside of him as he finally stills.

He tries to distract himself with kissing her neck. He wants it to pass. He wants peace to win. But the longer he waits tries to make it perfect, the longer it seems like it won't be until he tells her. So he tells her, the way he's been wanting to. 

“I—” 

Or he tries. 

He chokes on the other syllables. Tears prick at his eyes and he feels his nose burn. Fuck, not now, he starts to panic, even in the still-present muddle of delicious exhaustion. Not now. Please don't do this now —

“I know.” A soft hand reaches for him blindly and weakly grasps onto the sweat-soaked hair it can reach. 

“I love you too,” she says, slowly and jumbled, letters melding into one long sound. 

She loves him too.

Peace wins. 

--

Sometime later, he tries to get up. He's been laying over her back the entire time. It can't be comfortable, but she protests, half-asleep, when he moves. 

"Dinner," he explains dazedly, "I have to make sure the chicken stays moist." 

When he pulls himself out of her completely, she sighs and murmurs something like "hurry back". But he doesn't leave right away, temporarily stuck standing and ensnared by the evidence of their coupling and the red marks blooming on her ass from the tight grip of his hands and the red friction from his beard on the insides of her thighs. 

Eventually, he pulls himself away with a shaky exhale.

He checks on the chicken, bastes it again, and then returns to his room with a warm, damp rag. He could use prestidigitation, but he doesn't want to. Not for this.

She doesn't jump when he begins to wipe between her legs. She only hums, like he's kissed her on the cheek. 

"Feels good," she sighs.

"I could run us a bath," he offers quietly, unwilling to break the spell between them. 

She seems interested and then he is too gratuitous with the towel he's using to wipe her, enough that her breaths turn heavy and her raw thighs tense. 

--

He somehow manages to keep the chicken from getting overcooked. But they do not eat dinner until very late.

It is worth the wait. 

Chapter Text

She knows it can’t be nighttime, not yet. She and Gale had woken up earlier in the day and she doesn’t feel like she’s slept more than a few extra hours. 

She’s still naked from when he took his shirt off of her hours ago. He’d gotten her off with his fingers as they kissed before being interrupted by a call from his mother. Tav sent him out of the room to take it before falling back asleep. 

But now she’s awake again. Because she can feel eyes on her. 

She blinks into the utter stillness of Gale’s room. It’s too dark to make anything out without her glasses on.

There is something about darkness in a contained space that Tav has always struggled with. The absence of light becomes its own kind of atmosphere when you think about it a little too hard. Tav always does, always has, and she has to take a moment to steady her breathing before working up the courage to move.

She moves her hand slowly to the table on her side of the bed and she pulls the chain to the ornately shaded lamp atop it. Once she blinks to adjust to the light, Tav reaches out for the glasses on the nightstand with shaky fingers and puts them on before taking a deep breath and quickly sitting up to look at the rest of the room. 

She can hear that her scream sends Gale running from somewhere else in the house. But she’s too busy in a staring contest to tell him her life isn’t in any grave danger.

At least, it shouldn’t be. 

“Tara,” Gale says with frazzled exasperation, “I told you to let Tav sleep!” 

“It’s one in the afternoon and I’m visiting, Mr. Dekarios. Surely Ms. Ancunín won’t begrudge me wanting to make her acquaintance,” Tara responds without looking at Gale, her golden green eyes still looking into Tav’s. 

She obviously knows about Tara, Gale’s best friend, companion, and the tressym he summoned when he was ten. She just thought that she’d be wearing a shirt when they first met instead of clutching Gale’s pricey sheets to her chest. 

“Um, hi. I usually wear more clothes than this,” she tries to joke. 

“I would hope so,” Tara’s face gives nothing away. And even if it did, there’s a good chance she wouldn’t be able to parse it. 

“Tara, why don’t you give me a moment with Tav? I’ll be along in a few minutes,” Gale fiddles with a pair of disposable gloves in his hands.

“I suppose I can do that. With any luck, your seat is still warm.”

Tara hops from her perch on the base of Gale’s four-poster bed frame and moves with some urgency. Gale closes the door to his room behind her and comes to sit on the bed beside Tav. 

“I’m sorry about that, my love. Tara arrived a few hours ago, entirely unannounced. She’s been keeping track of the academic calendar, it seems,” he chuckles and wrings the gloves in his hands for a moment before frowning. 

“I told her to wait. I know how hard it is for you to get rest. Next time, perhaps I can—“

She cuts him off with a kiss. 

Maybe she should be more worried about what her breath smells like, but after experiencing Gale licking the sweat off the back of her knees and the sour skin behind her ear in the wake of too much exertion and not enough showering, she suspects it would largely be a waste of concern. 

He’s just so… Gale. Sometimes so much so that it makes it hard to think because she’s so focused on controlling herself. But she doesn’t have to do that, not now. Not anymore. Not here.  

He’s hers. Charming, verbose, awkward, opinionated, beautiful Gale who swallows the sun for breakfast every morning is hers.

The day before yesterday, she’d spoiled his careful plan to solidify their relationship. But he still asked her that night if she would consider him as her exclusive partner (he did not seem to be fond of the “boyfriend” title). 

He did it somewhere in those precious late hours shared by Friday and Saturday as they shared a bowlful of the pudding dessert she told him she was fond of, that he made for her. They were still mostly full from dinner but wanting something sweet and in the middle of passing a single spoon back and forth, taking turns at deep scoops for getting all the dessert layers, he told her.

He said that she does not make him forget life before her. She does not cover it, the pain, like a new layer of sediment. No. Rather, she rights every horrid thing that came before her. She gives meaning to what once felt like senseless suffering and misfortune. Because it was what he had to endure on the way to her. And now that he’s here, with her, he doesn’t want to waste another day not being entirely hers.

In the moments after emphatically reciprocating and before tearing each other’s minimal clothes off, she kissed him, his tongue tasting of cinnamon and vanilla. 

Now, as he tries to talk around her lips, he tastes like black tea.

“Wha— Are you—“ 

Gale wants to ask her questions, probably to know for certain that she’s fine ( she is)   and that she’s not scared of meeting Tara ( she isn’t… completely ), but he quickly relents to her tongue and mutters something that makes a telltale click happen in the direction of the door. 

“Tara is adorable. Very fluffy,” she says against his neck, “But I’m assuming she would claw my eyes out if I tried to pet her?”

“Oh!” Gale practically squeaks when she bites him where his neck and shoulder meet, “You know, it is going to be very difficult for me to ah—sustain a conversation about Tara with your current activities.”

Tav pulls back with a dramatic pout and then grins at the imprinted redness on Gale’s neck. At her face, he touches his neck and likely feels the lightest ridge left behind by her teeth. He could heal it. They both know it. But he leaves it, giving her an incredibly distracting look that scrambles her brain. He breathes a laugh. 

“And yes,” he smiles apologetically, “She would absolutely respond negatively to you petting her at this time.” 

“Tell me more stuff to not do. Give me some tips. I want her to not smite me with her magical tressym powers.” 

She pokes at his chest playfully, egging on a correction of Tara’s arcane talents. But she’s nervous. And from the look on Gale’s face, he knows it. 

When did that happen? When did he start knowing things like that?  

He takes her hand and laces their fingers together. 

“You need only be yourself, Tav,” he says simply, “With who you are and the way you love me, Tara will accept you.” 

He squeezes her hand. She knows he’s being honest, that he believes this. But Tara strikes her as someone who can see through the skin, right to the core of a person. And it's not because she’s a magical creature, but because she is someone who has loved and protected Gale and staved off his loneliness by virtue of her existence on this plane, with him. 

Tav wants to believe that, as Tara looks through her, the tressym will find the love she has for Gale and the lengths she would go to preserve him. But there are many other things within her to see too and some of them are… not so good. 

“Okay. I will ‘be myself’. Very original advice, dear,” she jokes and Gale only looks at her fondly, stroking the naked vulnerability she has tightly wrangled underneath the surface for now. 

“Well, I should shower and rejoin the land of the living, then. I’ve kept her waiting long enough.”

Tav pulls back the sheets, and slides off the bed to stand on confused legs.

“Wait,” Gale grasps her arm and keeps her from making any further moves.

Gale’s cheeks are red and his breath is labored and oh. He wants her. 

“There’s no need to rush,” he breathes as he gently pulls her to stand between his legs. 

“She’s been waiting for me to wake up,” Tav reminds, even as she doesn’t really resist, “This isn’t rushing so much as it's catching up.” 

“Regardless,” he smiles at the correction, “I’ve also been waiting to see you, you know.”

“You have?” 

“I have. And what a sight you are, my love.” 

Gale’s hands pull her by the hips and then she’s back on the bed, straddling his legs as he sits on the edge of it. He pushes her hips down lightly and she comes to fully sit on his lap as his hands roam to touch and squeeze. 

There’s just something about the feeling of his clothes on her bare skin, the way her legs open for him in this position… 

Gale looks down at the spread of her thighs, the parted lips between, and exhales lowly, like he’s steadying himself. 

“But Tara—“ 

“She’s an old tressym needing a refresher course on patience. This will be good for her,” he punctuates this by pulling her closer for a long, decadent kiss. 

“ Fuck—okay. Mm, but you’re gonna have to be quiet. She’s not far.”

He laughs a bit into her mouth, “We both know that is not one of my strong suits. But let’s give it a go.” 

In the end, Gale fails miserably enough, early enough, that Tara comes back to scratch the outside of the door before they get very far. But it’s almost worth it, for how flustered she leaves him as she scurries off to shower. 

—

Breakfast (lunch?) with Gale and Tara is illuminating. It isn’t often that she gets to freely observe how Gale interacts with other people, but she always ends up finding some new little facet of him through the contrast. 

With Tara, Tav learns a little bit about what Gale must have been like as a child. He isn’t anymore, but Tara still shepherds him along and expresses concerns that echo those of a time since passed. 

She prods him to open the windows and let in fresh air, to be careful with his kitchen knives, and to wear his apron before he makes a mess of himself. And she reminds him to eat before his food gets cold in the middle of a story he gets caught up in telling—a detailed account of the time he made lunch for his first non-adolescent crush, a dragonborn apprentice at Blackstaff studying alchemy, and how Morena and Tara crashed the affair and made him so frazzled that he burned his muffins and slipped in the kitchen and smacked his head into concussion. 

Tara’s ears twitch with something like guilt once Gale gets to the part about his injury and he reaches out to her spot on the dining table (because she’d insisted he set the table properly for her first post-visit meal) to give her a gentle scratch on the head. There are no hard feelings there, if there ever was. 

And then Tav doesn’t get to watch in the way she wants to anymore. Because the interrogation begins. 

“So, Ms. Ancunín…,” golden-green eyes cut through her again, “where are you from?” 

—

Tav gathers her laptop and a few books she’s been wanting to read from Gale’s study. It’s later that night, after lunch and dinner and dessert and the Waterdhavian duo’s attempts at teaching her to play lanceboard. She doesn’t learn much—too many pieces, too many movements to remember, and it's all far too slow—but Tara seemed to approve of her genuine attempts. 

Her weekend bag sits on Gale’s desk, open and mostly packed for the shortest trip of all time, tied for the top spot with every other cast of Teleport. 

“There you are.”

Gale stands in the doorway to his home office, backlit by the light in the hallway, looking like something holy. Tav had excused herself to pack when the conversation turned to more mundane updates on assorted Waterdhavian acquaintances. 

When she turns to Gale fully and reveals her occupied hands, he quickly steps over and takes her cargo and leads them a few steps away to her bag. 

She feels something delicate brush her insides. 

Gale’s love is so freely given. He tells her he loves her multiple times a day. When they are apart, which they haven’t been for very long lately, he sends her plenty of reminders that he’s thinking of her. He praises her endlessly, as he always has. The way he touches her… she’ll get distracted going down that road. And he’s spending all of his free time working on the token, which will quite literally sap him of vital energy in its creation. 

He does not let a single aspect of his desire or his care for her lie in secret, unseen or unexpressed. It’s a wholly new experience—

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay? It’s…,” he checks his watch and rolls his eyes, “not as late as I was hoping, I suppose. But I would always savor more time with you, my love.”

—And it’s interesting. Because she never would have thought there’d be anything in Gale that reminds her of herself. But the precious space of time between walking to his house in the rain and right now has shown her differently.

Right now, in the doting glory of his love, he has a striking kinship with who she was years ago, when she was 22 and she threw her entire being into loving someone without a single doubt about whether it’d be worth it. Confessions beneath and over every sentence. A transparent bursting heart. Gossamer hands, so quick to soothe or sate or savor. 

“Tav?” Gale calls out to her quietly. His eyes are like two glittering ponds, reflecting the light pouring in from the window behind his desk. 

Had she looked like that? Back then? Had her eyes ever shined like Gale’s, overflowing with condensed light and love? Had she ever been so beautiful?

“I do want to stay,” she admits, “But Tara has missed you. I want her to get some one-on-one time with you.”

And she wants to show Tara that she cares about Gale’s existing relationships and the people (and tressym) who already love him. There needs to be space for others who came before. 

She will do this right. 

Gale’s eyes soften. “You don’t need to leave for our sakes.”

“I don’t need to, you’re right,” she agrees, “But I can and I think I should. Do you understand?” 

She asks gently, like there is a chance he could be upset with her. But Gale only replies “I suppose I understand…” with a feigned petulance that is so heavy handed, it makes her laugh. 

He places her laptop and the books from his library gingerly into her bag. It’s an unnecessary level of care, but that’s how Gale often does things where she’s concerned. 

Sometimes, it rankles her, that he can love in a way that seems out of her reach—even after Mystra and all that time and its abrupt end. She feels it happen now. But even as something in her snaps its jaw at such gentle treatment, it is also becomes more and more confused at its viciousness towards an act of consideration. 

With enough time, she thinks it will finally lay down and give up and let her accept and give as freely as Gale does. She is looking forward to it. 

But first, they will need to get through the summer to the fall. And, possibly, after.

If their grant application is funded, they’ll have to put their relationship on hold until the end of their award period, which is next spring. They could be banned from receiving IMER funding ever again if they’re found to be involved while working as co-PIs. And as prospective co-PIs, they could still get in trouble. But with summer comes distance from campus and eyes and watching that allows them to indulge.

While Tav doesn’t really care about being banned from IMER funding herself, she is unshakably firm on Gale maintaining his fundable status—just as firm as Gale is on not letting her expose herself to Enver for their sake.

If their application isn’t funded, then they will file paperwork with the University’s Human Resources Office in the fall. If their relationship is documented through the proper channels, Enver cannot realistically threaten them with it. (They’ve jointly decided to put aside the concern that, in the absence of blackmail, Enver will escalate the means by which he attempts to see her alone… for now.)

They won’t know which path to follow until August at the earliest. A couple of months… 

It’s a lot of time to screw things up. 

“You know, I learned a lot about you today that I probably should’ve known already… I’m not sure how that happened,” he smiles awkwardly and zips her bag up with a flourish only to go back and fiddle with the zipper. 

Hm. 

Tara asked her many questions—from where she grew up (“We moved around a lot, but we settled in Beregost when I was in high school”) to whether she had any siblings (“Three… we don’t speak often”) to her relationship with her mother (“We don’t speak at all”), and more recent developments, like her post-dissertation plans (“Well you know how the academic job market is…”), and even kind of overly personal things, like the last time she’d gone to the dentist (“Maybe… four years ago?”). 

Gale knew these things already—all of them. And yet here he is, still fiddling with the zipper of her bag.

“What do you mean?” she asked. 

“Like… you were a semifinalist in your city’s spelling bee when you were ten,” Gale puts on a mild tone, “Or that you used to study magical constructs and you first got into them because you had a crush on a teacher in middle school.”

“We were living in a pretty small city at that time. It was all very ‘big fish in a little pond’. And what can I say?” she says wryly, “Looks like I have a type.” 

Gale rolls his eyes, but his grin remains. 

It hasn’t been very long, but she sees that Gale takes well to not just love, but intimacy. Knowing. He’s always treated her like she was something special, including and beyond having feelings for her. He’s always remember and cared and tended and loved. But intimacy with her, knowing her and acting in that knowingness, is different. New. 

He rolls his eyes at her more often now, always punctuated by something that makes his delight with her transparent and obvious. He scratches her back when they lay down together at night and doesn’t shy from using his blunt nails. He hums little songs as he works or cooks or paces in thought and doesn’t stop when she’s nearby or in the room. He teases her when she gets food on her shirt and tells her they’d both be happier if she would “relent to spending more time topless”. 

Knowing suits him. It makes him sillier and surer and less afraid and she likes that. 

He asks her something, but she doesn’t catch it from underneath her thoughts. When she asks him to repeat it, he gives her a little smile, like he knows what she’s thinking, before he echoes himself.

Hells, maybe he does. 

“Do you ever miss it?” he asks again.

“Miss what?” 

“Constructs. That kind of work,” Gale clarifies, “It’s what you came to grad school for, apparently, but I couldn’t have ever guessed. You don’t talk about it… do you miss it at all?” 

She fiddles with the edge of a stray paper on Gale’s desk before taking a seat on the deep window sill. 

She shrugs, “Certainly a lot easier to get funding on that side, but I’ve managed just fine and I like my work now.”

“That’s not the same as not missing it,” Gale says sagely.

“No, but it’s true. I like my work now, even with its difficulties. I’ve always cared about stories and it feels right that I work on them now. And honestly… even if I really missed it, I don’t think I’d ever go that route again,” she says. 

“Why not?” 

Tav hesitates. 

She knows the answer. All of her best ideas, her proudest moments, almost every good memory of doing construct work happened with Enver. And in the end, he made it so she could not lay claim to any of it—not even for her own pondering, because the pain is still too large and blackens the inside of her like a cancerous mass.

She doesn’t want to talk about this. She doesn’t like talking about Enver in Gale’s home and she doesn’t like talking about him here, in particular. She loves Gale’s study, likes seeing him in the stained glass lamp in the corner and the dark green walls and the piles of books on the floor. They have spent precious time in this room…

Speaking his name is like letting him into a place where she usually feels safe. She feels his presence gathering above them, day by day, like thickening smog coating the ceiling, as their relationship becomes more and more concrete and they must plan and strategize for their future. 

Gale sits in his desk chair and wheels the short distance over to her perch on the window sill. His legs bump against hers.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I could never know enough about you, but I understand that some things are not always worth the cost of telling,” he says. 

He’s giving her an out. It’s a generous out, considering he’s asking a pretty innocuous question; the only reason it’s difficult to answer is because of her. 

But… Gale is asking. And it seems to her that he’s asking in part because something about today made him feel like he doesn’t know her as well as he thought he did. And she’s worried about what that small speck of doubt could become if given the chance to proliferate. 

Maybe she’s being overly vigilant. Regardless, she wants him to know. 

So she tells him, even though she doesn’t want to do it here. She tells him about the project she and Enver worked on together during their time away, the one he took credit for and erased her contributions from in every way he could, the one that the City’s Department of Municipal Protection was currently considering for its own uses. 

The original design was less “oversized living armor prepared to kill muggers and surveil citizens” and more “community guardian”. She’d envisioned it as the kind of presence that could provide first aid or exchange needles or help lost kids or get homeless people into shelters when the temperatures drop dangerously low. But she was young and stupid and she hadn’t thought for a second that there was any danger of an entity like the DMP getting their grubby hands on it—so long as it stayed between her and her collaborator. 

Gale looks at her as she speaks and she finds that it’s not the worst thing to look back. She just has to accept how painful this is, how skinless she feels telling him about something that still brings her great shame and having him form thoughts in turn. 

She wishes she could read his mind. So capacious… what does he think of her right now? It was all only a few years ago. What is six years, in the grand scheme of things? Nothing. Gale did twice that with Mystra. Maybe he questions her judgment, her ability to make the right decisions and take the right precautions and trust the right people. Gods know she does. 

Gale hums. He leans back in his chair and looks up, pensively. And because her love needs no prompting, he connects the dots he has. 

Gale asks if this is why she hurt Enver. 

“Not entirely. But yeah, it was definitely part of it,” she replies. 

She used to be confused about Gale’s lack of judgment or hesitance about her assaulting Enver. To think that he would still love her if she’d done worse… she hadn’t understood it. At first, she’d chalked it up to an instance of delayed reaction on his part or sheer dumb luck on hers and, regardless of which it was, she’d been thankful for that. 

But then she thought a little harder. Maybe Gale is like her in other ways too. As she would do anything to preserve him, maybe he would do, or condone, the same…

She looks over him as his head is still tilted upwards in thought. He’s particularly resplendent like this—the strong line of his nose, the curve of his lips, the sharpness of his jaw and the exposed skin of his beautiful neck. The special quality of the view from below Gale is partly why she could hardly stay off of her knees in those even earlier days. 

“What are you thinking?” She asks, nudging his leg with a toe. 

He looks at the ceiling still, talks into the air of the room. 

“Many things. I love you. That wasn’t what I was expecting. I’m grateful you told me. Your brilliance knows no bounds. And I despise Enver fucking Gortash.” 

Of course. She should’ve known he wouldn’t judge her. (When will it go away? That senseless fear?)

“Mm. I do love it when you’re vulgar.” 

Gale breathes a laugh. “Best not to let Tara hear me. She hates it when I curse.” 

They both chuckle lightly, hoping to not summon Tara from wherever she’s slinked off to for the time being. 

Gale quiets completely first. 

“Would you ever… challenge his sole ownership over it?” 

She shakes her head and Gale lets the subject drop. She is grateful that he probably already knows why and won’t make her elaborate: She has no proof. No clout. And a documented assault on him. It would be pointless, energy-intensive, and fruitless. 

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” she asks. 

“So many things,” he admits, “but I think you’ve had to share enough today—enough so that it may interfere with your cool and mysterious persona if anyone were to find out.” 

“You’re literally the only person who has ever called me cool,” she snorts. 

“As far as you know,” he replies with a tilt of his chin.

She rolls her eyes with some amusement before her shoulders droop tiredly. “I swear I’m not trying to be mysterious. Some things are hard for me to talk about, like this one, and I may need some grace around it, but if you ever wanna know stuff like the spelling bee or my crushes on my teachers, you can always ask. You’re good at sharing openly, but I'm not great at doing it unprompted.”

“‘Good at sharing openly,’” he repeats, smirking, “That has to be the nicest way anyone has ever told me that I talk too much.”

“I like the amount you talk,” she volleys back, “And I like when you know things about me.” 

“Well I’m flattered…,” he says, looking at her in that way he does sometimes before his lips touch hers. 

Her stomach reflexively tightens in anticipation. 

“Also: crushes? You had crushes on multiple teachers? Am I just some kind of fetish to you, Tavelle?” 

She laughs. She likes the way her full name sounds on his tongue, enough that she’s considering asking him to eschew the nickname. And she likes it when Gale teases her, when he makes fun of her in that spitfire, theatrical way of his.  

“You’ll never know,” she winks at him.

Gale scoots even closer in his chair and picks her legs up, placing them over one of his thighs. 

And she likes that they’re fully touching now. She thinks that when it comes time for her and Gale to be in front of other people, people who only know them as colleagues or professor and student, it will be hard to remember to not seek out his touch. 

The way his fingers dance over the skin of her shins now makes her think maybe he’s going to try to get her to stay. 

“…You should stay the night.” 

When did that happen? When did she start knowing things like that? 

“Gale.” 

“I promise I will not delay in bringing you back tomorrow morning, my love. Tara and I will still get the entire day to ourselves and you will make it in time to see Shadowheart for breakfast and we get to have another night together.” 

He pleads his case expertly. It’s an easy thing for him to do, when he anticipates her rebuttals so well. 

“What a thorough addressing of concerns,” she retorts, “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were planning on convincing me to stay for some time now. But you would never do such a thing, would you?” 

“Oh, but I would,” he says this in a low voice, abandoning any pretense to press his fingers into the meat of her calves. 

“Gale!” She laughs openly. 

“I am many things, but I am hardly coy, my love.” 

She knows now that she will stay. But he sounds so sweet as he endeavors to convince her, feels so good as he touches her with barely restrained hunger. 

Why would she ever say yes on his first attempt? 

—

They don’t go to sleep until late, and even then it is only because Tara insists. 

They take a shower together as they planned in their moment alone earlier, intending to finally enjoy each other in private. But they do not do more than idle touching and kissing, suddenly exhausted after leaving the bright light of the documentary Gale insisted they watch (and then abandoned halfway through to tell her about Tara’s longstanding feud with a neighborhood seagull). 

Tav wakes up only a couple of hours later. 

She’s being watched. 

The darkness is thicker than last time. Soon, she’s thinking about it too hard and she needs a moment to steady her breathing before working up the courage to move.

She reaches for the chain to the ornately shaded lamp and pulls. She fumbles with her glasses for a moment as she blinks to adjust to the light and then she has them on. She takes a deep breath before quickly sitting up to look at the rest of the room.

There are towering windows hidden by heavy curtains. She feels confused at the fact that they’re covered. Candelabras are lit and the fireplace on the other side of the room is aflame.  A man stands in front of it with his back to her, wearing dark slacks and a dark button-up. 

He turns around then and greets her with an exceptionally soft smile. She feels her blood turn to ice.

“Hello, flower.”

She blinks and Enver walks towards her in that unhurried way he always has. Her heart slams in her chest. She shouldn’t be here. She turns to look for Gale. He is there, in bed with her. 

But he is not whole. 

Her shaking hands touch his head and she watches it roll away, off into the inky blackness of the floor. His body begins to melt, crumbling and liquefying at the same time into red viscera and clumps of wet dust. 

She screams, but there is no sound. The vibration is absent. Her vocal cords should rattle. The back of her tongue should hurt. 

She feels a hand come over her neck and then it yanks—

“Tav!” 

Light floods her eyes and when it ebbs away, she sees a hazy Gale looking down at her in concern. He ceases his shaking of her shoulder.

“Mr. Dekarios, is Ms. Ancunín alright?” 

She hears Gale and Tara speak, but it doesn’t really register. She’s behind glass again. 

“She’s had a nightmare, but she’ll be alright.” 

“That sounded serious… She doesn’t appear all together.” 

Gale sighs. “Yes well, she needs a few moments. I’ll take it from here, Tara. Thank you for checking in.”

“Of course, Mr. Dekarios… Rest well, Ms. Ancunín.”

Gale lets her stay curled over the edge of her side of the bed until her breathing evens out. And then he pulls her to him. Her body obeys, helping him along, and then she’s laying perpendicular to him with her head on his stomach. 

Gale says nothing. He massages her scalp lightly with one hand and she watches him. 

Her words come out hoarse. “Tara thinks I’m a weirdo now.”

This surprises him, so much that he laughs despite the concern on his face. The pinch between his brows is blurry without her glasses, in this dim lamp light, but it’s there. She wants to smooth it out with the pad of her thumb like she’s taken to doing lately. 

“But she also wished you good rest, so perhaps it's still an improvement overall,” he jokes breathlessly, hardly a beat late. 

It is not her first time dreaming of Enver. Not even close. It is also not her first time dreaming of Enver and Gale at the same time. She is used to this. Really. Once she swims up from underneath the water, moves around the wall of glass, in the wake of her nightmares, she can breathe just fine. Usually. 

But it is her first time having a dream that vivid and awful in Gale’s bed. She feels like she’s lost something she can never get back. 

“I’m sorry for waking you both,” she murmurs. Her throat hurts.

“No harm done, my love. Would you like some water?” 

“No,” she shakes her head against his stomach, covered by the soft cotton of his sleep shirt. 

She doesn’t quite feel… real yet. Sometimes, it feels like her nightmares keep her even as her consciousness shifts back to what is outside of her head. She feels the phantom claws of this one in the back of her head. 

Maybe water would help. Or talking about it. But that’s not what she wants. 

“Can I touch you?” she murmurs. 

Gale’s brows shoot up and then furrow.

“Are you sure? I don’t know what you were dreaming about but it sounded… raw,” he swallows, “Maybe you should take some time first.” 

She shakes her head. 

“I want…,” she swallows a sudden bout of nerves, “I need to be here with you.” 

Gale looks at her then, a soft face made hazier by her continuing lack of glasses. 

“Okay,” he gives in, “As long as that’s what you need.” 

“Will you be able to stay quiet? You were awful at it earlier.” 

He breathes a laugh and wipes a hand over his face. “Honestly? No. I don’t think I can. I can cast Silence if you’d like, although it would mean we couldn’t hear each other or outside of our little bubble. I’m not entirely fond of—“

“How do you feel about being gagged?” she interrupts and sits up, to take off her borrowed shirt and underwear. 

Gale’s face goes red. His eyes drift to her naked body and then back up to her face in a hurry, shyer than she’s seen him in days.

“I—I am very amenable to it.” 

“I figured.” She knows he is nothing if not open-minded and adaptable. 

She begins to fold up her underwear neatly and then stops to look at him. 

“May I?” 

He looks from her to her underwear several times. He knows what’s happening but is still a bit surprised about where their post-nightmare night is going and she finds that there are few better sights than Gale anticipating her next move, the way she can see his internal calculus firing through his eyes.

“Open your mouth.” 

After the briefest pause, Gale opens his mouth wide and lets her push her black underwear inside, crumpled in a messy fistful. 

“There you go.” 

She doesn’t mean to make it sound filthy. Honest. But it is. And both of them look at each other for a long moment afterwards.

She doesn’t usually… The extent of her history of being in charge during sex is with a guy she fucked regularly and had unrequited feelings for in undergrad. He sometimes wanted her to hold him down and finger his ass. She liked it. But even then she wasn’t leading. Not really. He never surrendered to her.  

What’s happening now is not that. And it’s really not so different from how she and Gale usually have sex. They are more concerned with pleasure than they are with power dynamics—usually. She thinks. And this is very much that—about pleasure. She wants to feel real and she wants him to feel good. She just also wants him to bite down on her underwear when he feels compelled to ramble and moan loudly. He’s loud. He always is. She just wants him to be quiet. She just needs him to be quiet…

Gods. He looks so hot like this. Hair falling around his face. Wide, sparkly eyes. Heaving chest. Mouth full of her panties. 

“Is that okay?” she asks quietly, “If you stop liking it, you can take it out.”

He nods for her and says a brief muffled something reminding her of a typical reassurance, crinkling his eyes at her fondly. 

She feels the sudden, intense, and unfamiliar urge to sit on his face and rub her cunt all over him. 

She pushes it away. 

She reaches for the waistbands of his pants, pausing for a moment to backtrack and kiss his cheek. It’s tender and he presses his face against her mouth, drags his nose against her skin as she pulls back. 

Tav slips off Gale’s pants with his help, leaving him in his dark green briefs. His cock strains against the soft fabric. There is a small spot soaking through it and she feels compelled to lean down and press a kiss to it. 

She kneels between his spread legs. And then she bends to kiss him. It would be chaste if it wasn’t for the location: close mouthed, short, and she doesn’t linger. But when she looks up at him, he’s entirely still and his hands are fisting into his shirt. 

She kisses the wet spot again, with her open mouth breathing hot air on him, and Gale shifts his hips.  You would think she’d been working him up for a while, the way he moves, but no. Maybe it’s the gag. 

She kisses him again and he groans softly. She rubs her lips and then her cheek against the fabric covering his cock and Gale’s hand shoots out to touch her hair. He wants to grab and pull; she can tell in the way his hands shake as they caress instead. 

With growing hunger and thoughts of his full mouth, she licks the wet spot with the flat of her tongue, dampening it further. She looks into his eyes as she does it and goodness—he’s just an avatar of lust with long eyelashes.

She adores him. So dearly. He makes her want to crack open her old journals and read the pained passages of love she desperately wanted but could not reach, and annotate the differences between what she wished for and what she has now. She didn’t know to dream for so much, for him. She didn’t know what she was missing, what she was waiting for. 

“I love you,” she says softly.

It catches him off guard. And when he tries to say it back around her underwear gag, it’s as silly as it is sweet—so silly and so sweet that they both take a moment to laugh as softly as they can and the view of Gale staring at her lovingly as he quiets down again, her panties in his mouth, makes her say it again. 

“I love you.” She chokes on the words this time. She doesn't expect to, but she does and then she starts to cry. 

Gale hurriedly scoots up from leaning against the headboard to hold her. She kneels between his spread legs as they hug, tearing and sniffling into the crook of his neck with her arms wrapped around his shoulders. He rubs her back soothingly and nuzzles the side of her face in lieu of comforting words soaking into her underwear before they can reach her. 

It shouldn’t turn her on, something as simple as being comforted. She’s literally crying. And her nightmare continues to tinge some of what’s happening with the need to make sure that she’s real and that Gale is alive and whole…

But they’re skin to skin except for his dampening underwear and he's warm and she’s never, ever not wanting him.

She’s still crying as she slips her hand into his briefs and starts to stroke him. 

“Mmf!” Gale makes a sound of surprise near her ear. 

“Sorry,” she breathes, “Should I stop?” 

He pulls his face away from hers to look at her with watering eyes. He looks down at her hand, still in his briefs, still applying delicious pressure around the head of his cock, and looks back at her teary face with a dumbfounded expression. 

His eyes roll back when she gives him a long stroke and squeezes under the head of him again. 

“Nnf,” Gale groans around her underwear as she touches him the way he likes best.

“You like that? Me, stroking your cock while I cry?” 

What is happening to her right now?  

Her thumb rubs over the dribbling slit of the head of his cock and Gale’s head falls back as he nods.

“Mmpf.”

“Thank the gods you’re as fucked up as me,” she breathes and she feels Gale’s stomach shake with a laugh.  

His arms are still around her. But now he’s holding her ass with one and has the other wrapped around her upper back, keeping her breasts in contact with his chest. She feels the soft body hair on his chest brush against her nipples as she shifts against him to touch as much of his body as she can. 

His stomach. His sides. His thighs. They tense for her and shake as her nails glide over them and she whispers in Gale’s ear. 

“You’re so beautiful. I love how you sound with my panties in your mouth.”

The hand on her ass squeezes, digging the pads of its fingers into her soft flesh. 

Gale has many different kinds of touches. And she likes all of them. Many of these touches are totally appropriate and friendly, like the steadying hand at her back when she almost trips over her own feet. Others bleed into doting, like when he tucks her hair behind her ears. And then there are the ones that are anything but appropriate and friendly—the squeeze of her hips, an arm around her waist pulling her in closer, a strong grip on the softest meat of her inner thigh, the press of his fingertips on her calf, hungry kneading on her ass…

These are her favorite of his touches. Even beyond the ones that are kind and caretaking. These touches—the ones that tell her this fragile mortal body of hers belongs to him—are special. Those touches are just for her. And they’ll only ever be for her until they’re dead and after, as long she has anything to say about it. 

She takes a calming breath against the skin of Gale’s neck, still stroking him with her hand. She wants to enjoy this—him. She doesn’t want to think about the opacity of the future.  

“You’re being so good to me, letting me do this.” 

She lets go of his dick for a moment to touch herself. Gale makes a muffled whine that ends at a much higher pitch once she grips him again, her hand now extra slick with arousal from between her legs. 

The sound of her stroking Gale’s cock with her slippery hand makes the warm pool at the bottom of her stomach, burn. 

Gale makes a muffled, garbled noise that she recognizes. He’s telling her he loves her. 

“I love you too.” 

His hips jerk into her fist and both of Gale’s hands drag over her skin to grip her hips and squeeze and pull. He wants contact, more contact than her hand, and he wants it now. He’s been moaning against her underwear in his mouth, humping into her slick grip as best he can, and now he’s looking at her with those eyes that hold fucking galaxies, practically begging for her.

“Get on your back.”

Gale quickly moves lower on the bed before laying down and she straddles his hips, sitting her cunt right over the underside of his cock. 

“Fgh,” Gale’s eyes roll back again at the pressure and the heat and the wetness of her.

“Is this okay?” she says with deceptive evenness, meaning to poke fun at him. 

Gale looks up at her and begins a stream of muffled somethings until she starts to slide her cunt over the length of his cock. And then he quiets, returning to the heavy breathing, pussydrunk, thoroughly debauched Gale from a moment ago. His soft brown hair is fanned out on his pillow in an almost romantic way. His golden skin is red from the chest up and wet with sweat under her fingers. His big brown eyes beg and thank her. The bulge of his stuffed mouth hits her with a pang of pure, undiluted want. 

Oh how she adores him.  

She steadies herself with her hands on his chest and she slides. It feels so good and she takes one of her hands from his chest to gently thumb the head of his cock as she grinds back towards the base of him. It’s wet and lewd and it’s killing Gale, who grips her hips hard enough to bruise, but tries as genuinely as he can to let her do what she wants with him while shaking like a leaf.

He deserves to be rewarded. 

It wasn’t her plan to actually participate, to get any direct pleasure out of this than the delight of seeing Gale cum. What she’s doing now is already more than what she’d set out to do. But lingering fears have lost out to desire, specifically the all-consuming desire he makes her feel, and now she wants to ride him for all he has. 

She’s real. And he’s whole. And now she wants to wring him dry. 

“Thank you for letting me use you,” she breathes softly.

She feels a short reassuring squeeze on her thigh in response as lifts her hips. She moves onto the head of his cock, sinking down onto him and swallowing her groan as she looks at Gale. 

“Gods. You’re a mess,” she says quietly, unsteadily. 

He is. Sweat sticks pieces of hair to his forehead. He’s breathing so heavily that it teeters on the edge of too audible. He probably can’t even hear her through it. 

She clenches around him, unbidden, and the savory deliciousness of her stretching around him comes back to the forefront. Gale throws his head back against his pillow, exposing his delicious neck. 

They are flush together, bottomed out. She rocks her hips against him, unwilling to pull back too far. He’s thick and he feels good, fucking splendid at this angle. And then Gale begins to moan like he’s in heat.

It is far too loud. 

She slaps a hand over his mouth, wincing a bit at the impact. But his eyes roll back again and his hips roll against hers before he restrains himself again and she almost laughs at how much he seems to like when she’s rough with him. 

(She recalls a moment in his kitchen a few days ago, while they leaned over the island, arm to arm, and looked at old pictures from Gale’s Blackstaff days she’d found in a box in his living room. She’d brought them to him as he made dinner and he’d delighted in giving her context for each one. Late nights of research. Messing with the enchanted armor that guarded sensitive hallways. Sitting on the roof of the clocktower at night and competing to make the most convincing stars. Then she’d made a comment about having sex on a roof once and he’d wrapped his arms around her tightly from behind, teasing (“So that’s what you’re into.”) and she’d replied (“Yeah. That and roughing up nerds.”) before pushing them both away from the island roughly until Gale’s back banged up against the fridge. 

She’d meant to playfully bully him, but his groan had made her worried. It wasn’t until she was cumming from his hand in her pants, her back to his chest, with his other hand groping her breast under her shirt, that she realized he’d liked it. A lot.) 

He still has the presence of mind to look up at her apologetically for his volume with those big brown eyes of his. But then she starts to grind against him again and his eyes roll back and he can’t keep himself from moaning against her hand, against her panties. 

Fuck, she’s close. 

“I-I’m close.”

Gale moves a shaking hand to her clit and looks up at her. ‘May I?’

She nods and he draws little circles around her with his thumb. As best as he can. She’s squirming now. 

“Fuck, Gale—” his thumb speeds up, gliding easily with the slippery mess between them.

Her thighs shake and she starts to lose her rhythm as she clenches around him. She falters, falling over him and barely bracing with her free hand. 

“I-I don’t think I can—“

Gale moves quickly, rolling his hips with purpose. 

He’s been waiting for permission all this time and it shows. He grips her ass with the hand not rubbing her clit and moves carefully, rocking inside of her to keep her feeling full of his thick cock. 

It’s enough. More than enough. She tenses and her knees squeeze Gale’s hips. She puts her other hand over her own mouth just before she comes apart completely, wracked with full body shuddering.

Gale makes a muffled, garbled noise that she recognizes again as she cums around him. She’s still clenching when he pulls her down to lay on him fully, chest to chest. He braces himself with his feet before proceeding to pound into her. 

It’s sloppy and nothing like before or usual. She’s learned he likes to take his time and take her apart with precise, measured thrusts, that he hoards her climaxes like a dragon would loot. Now? He’s just fucking her, chasing depth and friction and the warm, snug grip of her cunt, chasing the visceral act of filling her with his cum.

It’s great. 

She takes her hand away from her mouth and puts her gasping lips next to his ear. 

“That’s it. Use me, my love.”

His arms tighten around her back, keeping her anchored as he fucks into her with filthy slaps of skin against skin.

“I love you so much. I want you to use me forever.”

His thrusts take on a new kind of desperation as she whispers in his ear. Rougher and deeper. Through delicious pain, she tells him he’s beautiful, that she’s never going to let him go, that she wants him to claim her in every hole she has—

Gale buries himself deep inside of her and finally cums, groaning into her hand past her underwear. He thrusts and holds her impossibly tight through it and she moves against him shallowly as he begins to still. She feels him fill her with his spend. It’s warm. She feels a blanket of utter calm fall over her as he softens slowly inside of her. 

She kisses his ear and his neck and his face before lifting her hand off of his mouth, putting her fingers between his lips, and removing the damped, crumpled bundle of panties therein. 

Gale takes a few breaths before turning his head and kissing her. When he pulls back, he looks like he wants to say so many things, like he’s filled with infinite words, beyond enough to fill libraries of precious sentiments she would happily sit to read through.

But at that moment, he only says three. 

—

“Where would you like to live?”

He asks her later, after they’ve cleaned up and sneaked a snack from the kitchen and laid back down. 

She looks up from his chest at his face. He's relaxed, but anticipatory. His hand is under her shirt, caressing her back with distracted fingertips.

“What do you mean?” she asks. 

“When we settle down. Not after you graduate, but further down the line. Where would you like to live?”

It’s a question with many assumptions built into it—that they will be together, that they will be together further down the line, that they will ever be free and prompted to make such a choice. She’s not sure if it’s likely. But she wants it to be. She wants these assumptions to hold. She wants it more than she’s ever wanted anything and it is terrifying to know that she will have to fight for it.

And it won’t be easy. Enver and his plans. Mystra and the scars of her presence. Herself, the person who ate the girl at 22 and sometimes has a rabid animal where her heart should be.

She wants it. She wants to win. She wants her answer to matter.

Gale looks at her, anticipating patiently still. 

Does he know? Can he read it off her face? Does he understand that he is the first thing in so long that she is letting herself want—letting herself have? Does he know how scary that is for her? 

She can feel him writing on her back with the pad of his finger. He does this now, often, on scraps of skin that he finds ripe for the taking. Sometimes, it’s short. Sometimes not. This one lingers. He takes his time with the letters and then his hand rests on her skin when he finishes. 

She will never know what that says. Gale has fun refusing her these small bits of knowledge. But she can guess, can’t she? She thinks so. 

A lump of emotion materializes in her throat. As she swallows it down, she feels Gale’s hand rubbing her back lightly. 

“I… I would go anywhere with you,” she says, voice thick with other words, even more vulnerable words.

Gale looks at her with a softness that makes her eyes water. 

Gods... He makes her want to write poetry.

“I feel the same…” he begins and then his soft smile stretches to a grin.

“...But I am genuinely curious about any locations you may have in mind. I, for one, would like to be somewhere with contrasting seasons—ack!”

Gale squawks at her sharp poke to his chest and then laughs as quietly as he can. 

“You fucker,” she mutters as she massages the sore spot, “I was having a moment.”

He takes the fingers rubbing where she’d prodded and kisses them.  

“Your fucker, dear. Just yours,” his lips move against her fingers, her wrist, the inside of her arm, “Allow me to make up for my gravest transgression.”

She does. And then he does. 

-

-

-

A few days later…

The actual problem with cash, which both he and Tav neglected to enumerate, is that it is awful to hold as much of it as he’s holding on his person. 

He should’ve just gone home directly from The Counting House, but he really didn’t want to make a second trip outside once he gets back home—he’d much rather get right to work on the token with what he has. So now he’s at Sorcerous Sundries with approximately three months of Tav’s expenses in his bag of holding and he feels incredibly paranoid about it. 

He’s not really worried about getting mugged; he’s an archmage, as everyone knew he’d be as a child. He should be able to incapacitate anyone trying to rob him unless Baldur’s Gate has ridiculously skilled and hardy criminals. But still.

It just feels… unwise. 

Gale waits at the back counter for the sales associate to return. He’s picked up quite a few of the things he needs to ensure the purity and readiness of his primary components, but he’ll need to place an order for the rarer items. It’s not ideal—he’d like to have everything he needs on hand now. But the associate said it wouldn’t take long at all to arrive at his home and the shipping is free, so it could be much worse. 

His paranoia creeps back to the forefront so he stands with his back to the counter. He scans the first floor of the store for any suspicious characters, but finds that the typical criteria for suspiciousness is too ill-defined to be useful. There is a man, tall and handsome and reviewing the titles on a bookcase, who is already looking at him when Gale glances, but when the man only gives him a polite smile in return, he returns it and looks away feeling very silly. 

The sales associate returns with a receipt for his purchase and tracking information. Gale thanks them and turns around to leave before turning back and asking if they have a certain volume on alteration that he thinks would be useful for his project. The associate checks and then points him to a bookcase across the room. 

As he moves towards the shelf, his paranoia rises again. He finishes crossing the room, about half-full with other patrons, and finds what he’s looking for, just off the center of the shelf in front of him. But Gale doesn't pick it up right away. Instead, he pretends to continue searching before casting a surreptitious glance to his right.

He doesn’t expect to find anything, not actually. His paranoia is often just that—an irrational response resulting from a perception of external circumstances. After all, he has killed. He has ended lives. He has been targeted. Being wary of his surroundings, especially when he’s carrying so much godsforsaken cash on him, is normal. Natural. This is what he tells himself as he begins to look.

But then he sees it. Barely in his periphery, he can see a man with combed back brown hair standing too still, looking too closely in his direction. 

His heart begins to pound. He grabs the book he was looking for and turns around sharply to face the man, but walks straight ahead, as if he were only headed towards the register to buy one last thing. Gale glances in the man’s direction as he passes with a polite smile on his face, but he turns away just a bit too quickly. 

Ah. 

Gale goes to the counter to pay for his book and then goes to the restroom. He places his purchases in his bag of holding, uncomfortable amounts of cash now far from his mind, and casts Sending to message Tara. 

‘Delayed. Think I’m being followed, will explain. Tall, pale, medium brown hair, thick eyebrows, hazel eyes, forehead wrinkles, hoop earring on right. Sorcerous Sundries, 1:47pm.’

Gale sends the missive and gets a prompt reply from Tara (worried and demanding a future explanation, but helpful, always helpful) as he slips into a bathroom stall at the sound of footsteps. Once that person finishes and leaves, Gale follows behind, exiting the store and walking outside onto the lively street. 

For the next few hours, he takes his time around Baldur’s Gate’s commercial district. He stops into two different cafes before buying a drink. He visits every bookstore he sees and walks through all the aisles. He walks into a tailor and asks about his rates. He even stops into a jewelry store and wonders about the kinds of things Tav might actually like to wear. And then he sits at a fountain in the middle of a park for an hour, drinking his coffee and pretending to read while taking note of the people moving and not moving around him. 

In addition to the pale, brown haired man, there is a fair-skinned woman with ashy blonde hair and blue eyes who shows up at the first coffee shop and the third bookstore. She sits an uncomfortable distance away from him in the park. 

Gale eventually stands and walks down a set of steps leading to the tunnel underneath a pedestrian bridge. Under only the watch of years of graffiti, he teleports to his study. 

Gale puts his bag of holding in a drawer of his desk and seals it before quickly writing down everything he can remember from what he saw while he was out. He writes down times and descriptions and errant observations that may not actually be useful, but are still better documented and not subjected to the unreliability of mortal memory. 

An insistent tug on his mind’s eye and knocking on his front door pulls him away from his documenting. He's been ignoring it, too preoccupied with making sure he wrote down everything he possibly could to care about who is visiting unannounced. When he sees who it is, he stands too quickly and feels the blood rush to his head. (Perhaps he’s been writing for longer than he thought.)

The knocking ceases as he makes his way downstairs. It brings no surprise. He can feel her as easily as she can feel him. 

Before he opens the door, Gale hesitates with the knowledge that doing so is as close as he can possibly get to inviting a dragon into his home. But he opens it anyway. 

He doesn’t really believe in coincidences. Not anymore. 

She turns around to look at him. She’d been facing away from his door, looking at the street, as if she hadn’t been knocking only moments ago. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“We need to talk,” Mystra says. 

–

END OF ACT ONE