Harley appreciates that he does not comment on her marked face, so she doesn't comment on the tremor in his hands or the fervor in his eyes.
She hums a little and repacks her trinkets. Stands again to strap the bag back to her thigh. The gloves remain on the table.
"Funny thing, I nearly forgot I even had those," she says airily as she rolls the ring between her fingers. She produces a small mirror from a pocket and slips the ring on. Her fingers swipe over her features, changing the makeup look to something less overtly clownish but still just as gaudy. Bright red lip, mismatched pink and blue eyeshadow, tattoos covered, and a more natural flush to her skin. She doesn't need to touch with the ring on, but she likes to do it this way. Helps her focus.
The gnawing thing in his chest aches to be fed, and he nearly snatched the
gloves like something feral. He doesn't want anyone to see him like that,
though. Tara must sense it, because the gets to her feet.
"Well, I'll just put these away, shall I? Keep the table tidy," says the
Tressym primly. She takes the gloves in her teeth, then disappears
elsewhere in the house.
A moment of silence follows. He still can't fathom that this stranger would
help him and ask nothing in return. "Thank you," he says, voice sounding
too loud in the quiet space. For once, he doesn't have the words to convey
the depth of his feeling.
He should probably lie, but he doesn't. "Not unless it becomes imperative for the safety of me and those in the immediate vicinity," he replies. He can't tell her everything, but he may as well be as honest as he can. "But, with the gloves on hand, that shouldn't be necessary."
She reaches a hand for her bag, then reconsiders when she remembers the way he stared at the magic items before. She folds her hands primly around the tea cup instead.
"I'll leave one with Tara when I go, hm? Since she seems to run the house."
"I wouldn't say she runs it," Gale answers, but doesn't argue with the notion that he leave the stone with Tara. He understands. He wouldn't trust himself either. "I'm sure she'll be happy to hold onto it for you."
"That's not particularly healthy," he replies, but he has no place to talk. His palid face and the bags under his eyes are no match for hers, but they are there. Two mage hands appear to do the work of pouring her another cup of tea. "But far be it for me to deny a guest."
He looks startled that the sentiment popped out of his own mouth. He puts his hands up, as defensive as placating. "Ah, I don't mean anything untoward by that! I would never, that is to say, proposition someone in a vulnerable moment. Merely that I do have a guest bedroom, and I hate to think of anyone without somewhere safe to sleep. It's a little cramped, but comfortable, and better than any doss-house. You consider it compensation for the gloves."
At least the pallor is hidden beneath all the blushing.
Gale opens his mouth. Closes it again. Pantomimes a fish on dry land for a moment longer.
Then he gets a look, a little spark in his eyes, that marks him as less flabbergasted and more stubborn and rebellious. "Technically speaking, any humanoid creature is... fuckable." Not a word he would have chosen, and he turns a little redder for having said it, but he also won't be cowed by a mere word.
She grins at his fish impression, which is truly spot on. He could have a future as a very niche actor, if he likes. And the mean edge is smoothed off her when he rallies and meets her bullshit on her level.
"Ahh, technical fucks. The most wizardly of all fucks."
He considers countering that wizards can do things that would make an
ordinary climax seem little more than a sneeze, actually. But then he
remembers who he is and that she is a guest and a near stranger, so he
doesn't say that, opting instead for a mild, "Indeed."
"Good." He nods, satisfied. "The bed has clean sheets, just mind the books
stacked in there please. I've also got a tub that you can use, should you
feel so inclined."
A bed. A bath. She gets a hungry look not entirely unlike his own when he saw the magic items. She yearns for any sort of creature comfort, but even as she nods again she looks to the door like she might have to escape a trap.
She gulps the second cup of tea, coughing as it scalds her throat, and stands from her seat.
"Careful," he says, but she's already chugging, and it's too late anyway. He winces.
"I'll show you," he says. As he stands, mage hands clear away their dishes from the table, but he's already turning towards the stairs. Even from the glimpses she gets peeking into rooms they pass, there are books everywhere. Shelves are full, but so are surfaces, with books and scrolls stacked carefully into every nook. Once they arrive at the bathroom, it seems to be the only place free of books, but it's still a little cluttered. The claw foot tub takes up most of the space, but there are also shelves with labeled soaps, lotions, and potions of various kinds. There are fluffy white towels and a bathrobe on a hook. Some sort of vining plant hangs from a hook over the window, though it is limp and dying from neglect.
"If you leave your clothes outside the door, I'll clean them with prestidigitation. If you're not comfortable with that, well, I don't have any clothes that would fit you, but you could borrow some all the same, if you'd like. You're welcome to help yourself to anything else you like, of course."
Harley starts stripping down before he even finishes speaking, so if he doesn't make a quick exit then he will see more of her tattoos. She doesn't care either way. There is nothing in her point of view but the bathtub and herself.
She stays in hot water until she feels dizzy, then stays in for longer just to make sure she really makes the most of it. When she eventually emerges, her skin is scrubbed raw and pink all over, and she is bundled up in the soft robe. Gale didn't ask for anything in return, but she'll bring bullshit magic trinkets as often as he likes after this.
She wanders the house until she finds Gale or, better, Tara since even Harley's tenuous grasp of self preservation knows better than to aimlessly snoop in a wizard's home.
"A dying plant is a little on the nose for a breakup depression spiral, don'tcha think?"
He sees more than he means to, but much less than he could, fleeing the room the moment she starts to undress. Mostly all he gets is the blurred impression that she's not merely pale-faced and that she does have other tattoos. That's enough to set him blushing, but at least she doesn't see it.
"In here, dear!" Tara calls shortly after Harley has left the bathroom, because her feline hearing is superior to Gale's.
By the time she's finished, at least Gale has had time to properly dress in a simple but well made top and trousers. He's brushed his hair and combed his beard and feels a lot more publicly presentable. Harley finds them in what must be a study, judging by the desk. There are so many books and scrolls, more densely packed than through the rest of the house. There is other magical detritus around the room like crystals, tools, and a small statue of Mystra. There are also display cabinets, conspicuously empty.
"I am not... not... and anyway, I just haven't had time to take care of it," he protests.
Harley rolls her eyes with a loud scoff and pads away on bare feet. She comes back with the plant cradled in her arms and marches through the study to the balcony, where she sets the plant on the small table and settles down to check the damage.
She already watered the soil in the washing room, but some of the dead growth needs to be cut back for the poor thing to regrow. She pulls a small folding knife from the robe pocket and gets to it.
"If you're spending all day and night locking yourself in your house, then you've at least got to take care of the things that live in it." She jabs the point of the knife in the air toward him with a flourish. "Including you!" She tilts the blade Tara's way next, carving a question in the air. "Right?"
The knife is folded away and tucked back into the pocket. She spends a moment finding the best sunny spot for the plant, then brushes her hands together and stands with her hands on her hips.
Gale's brows furrow and he frowns, watching as she drags his neglected pothos into his study (what if she gets dirt on the books!) and begins to prune it. "It's merely a house plant! Nothing of particular consequence."
"I knew I liked her when I met her," Tara says, purring so loudly that it sounds like the rumbling of some machine. "She has a point, one I've been trying to make myself, though it falls on deaf ears."
"I've been listening," Gale protests. He makes a show of leaning away from the knife, though it's nowhere near him at all. "And I am doing fine, all things considered." He doesn't offer to explain what all those things to be considered are, though. Tara sighs heavily.
Gale stands, smoothing out the creases on his thighs and trying to regain the air of a proper host. He almost points out that it's a ridiculous time to go to bed, closer to the midday meal than sunset, but then he remembers that she had said she often doesn't sleep. Besides, he had slept a good portion of the day away himself, who was he to judge anyone else for their off kilter sleep schedule. "Yes, right. Follow me."
The bedroom that he leads her to isn't large, but it is well appointed with a plush looking bed stacked with blankets and a folded pair of much too large pajamas, a side table holding a carafe of fresh water along with a plate of bread and cheese in case she's hungry, and an armoire that she will find full of books instead of clothes if she decides to go snooping. "It's not much. I don't get many visitors these days, but hopefully it will suffice." He stands awkwardly in the doorway, not sure exactly what he should be doing with himself. Leaving, probably. "Well! I'll, uh, be back down in the study if you need me. Please let me know if there's anything else you might require."
Harley has Tara on her side, so Gale might as well consider the argument settled for now. He can't possibly hope to stand up to the both of them.
She trails through the house after him, pausing a couple times for a better look at some knick knack or other and then having to jog the few steps to catch up. Once her basic needs are met, she will certainly be a horrible little snoop.
The spare bedroom is nicer than anywhere she's been in recent memory. She rocks back on her heels at the doorway, like she's second guessing this all. It's entirely too good in the kind of way that must mean a trap.
But her stomach growls loudly at the sight of food, because she gets a meal about as often as she gets to sleep, and her treacherous body steps through the door entirely without her brain's input.
Once again, she does not wait for him to leave to start changing. It seems to be her preferred way of saying that his presence is no longer needed and that he can kindly fuck off.
She eats half the bread and cheese, packs away the rest in her satchel for later, and spends way too long trying to decide what to do with the door. She doesn't want to be bothered, so she closes it. She doesn't like being trapped in a room, so she opens it. There's a lot of fretful pacing before she settles on leaving it open just wide enough for Tara to fit in, and stacking books to fall and wake her if the door is pushed open any further. When she's done with that, she throws herself onto the bed with a satisfying fwump and wraps herself in a blanket cocoon.
All together, she sleeps a solid thirteen hours. The kind of deep, desperately needed sleep that leaves her totally disoriented on waking and fighting the blankets.
It's. Embarrassing.
She changes into her own clothes, double checks that nothing was taken from her bag, and tries to sneak out.
Passing by the study on her way out, Harley spies Gale asleep with his face on a scroll, drooling a little and muttering nonsense. The candle on the desk burns so low that at first, it's hard to notice Tara, asleep in the space between his chest and his lap. Apparently they weren't particularly worried about the potential of her thieving or causing other havoc, or maybe they were simply too tired to care.
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She hums a little and repacks her trinkets. Stands again to strap the bag back to her thigh. The gloves remain on the table.
"Funny thing, I nearly forgot I even had those," she says airily as she rolls the ring between her fingers. She produces a small mirror from a pocket and slips the ring on. Her fingers swipe over her features, changing the makeup look to something less overtly clownish but still just as gaudy. Bright red lip, mismatched pink and blue eyeshadow, tattoos covered, and a more natural flush to her skin. She doesn't need to touch with the ring on, but she likes to do it this way. Helps her focus.
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The gnawing thing in his chest aches to be fed, and he nearly snatched the gloves like something feral. He doesn't want anyone to see him like that, though. Tara must sense it, because the gets to her feet.
"Well, I'll just put these away, shall I? Keep the table tidy," says the Tressym primly. She takes the gloves in her teeth, then disappears elsewhere in the house.
A moment of silence follows. He still can't fathom that this stranger would help him and ask nothing in return. "Thank you," he says, voice sounding too loud in the quiet space. For once, he doesn't have the words to convey the depth of his feeling.
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She finishes her touch ups and slips the pocket mirror away. She leans on her elbow and watches him for long, uncomfortable moments.
"Well," she says eventually. "In your own time, then. If I leave you with a sending stone, are you going to break it?"
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"I'll leave one with Tara when I go, hm? Since she seems to run the house."
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"Mmyeah, she does. Now, how about one more cup before I go, sweetheart? It's tea instead of sleep for me today!"
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"It's not easy finding a place to metaphorically hang my hat. I don't get lucky every night."
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He looks startled that the sentiment popped out of his own mouth. He puts his hands up, as defensive as placating. "Ah, I don't mean anything untoward by that! I would never, that is to say, proposition someone in a vulnerable moment. Merely that I do have a guest bedroom, and I hate to think of anyone without somewhere safe to sleep. It's a little cramped, but comfortable, and better than any doss-house. You consider it compensation for the gloves."
At least the pallor is hidden beneath all the blushing.
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She is tired.
She does need a safe place to steal a few hours of rest.
She does not have to be an asshole about this. But she will.
She scoffs in offense and her mouth twists into a tight frown, just to add a button to the performance. "What, you don't think I'm fuckable?"
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Then he gets a look, a little spark in his eyes, that marks him as less flabbergasted and more stubborn and rebellious. "Technically speaking, any humanoid creature is... fuckable." Not a word he would have chosen, and he turns a little redder for having said it, but he also won't be cowed by a mere word.
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"Ahh, technical fucks. The most wizardly of all fucks."
She nods.
"For the gloves. Seems fair enough."
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He considers countering that wizards can do things that would make an ordinary climax seem little more than a sneeze, actually. But then he remembers who he is and that she is a guest and a near stranger, so he doesn't say that, opting instead for a mild, "Indeed."
"Good." He nods, satisfied. "The bed has clean sheets, just mind the books stacked in there please. I've also got a tub that you can use, should you feel so inclined."
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She gulps the second cup of tea, coughing as it scalds her throat, and stands from her seat.
"Where?"
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"I'll show you," he says. As he stands, mage hands clear away their dishes from the table, but he's already turning towards the stairs. Even from the glimpses she gets peeking into rooms they pass, there are books everywhere. Shelves are full, but so are surfaces, with books and scrolls stacked carefully into every nook. Once they arrive at the bathroom, it seems to be the only place free of books, but it's still a little cluttered. The claw foot tub takes up most of the space, but there are also shelves with labeled soaps, lotions, and potions of various kinds. There are fluffy white towels and a bathrobe on a hook. Some sort of vining plant hangs from a hook over the window, though it is limp and dying from neglect.
"If you leave your clothes outside the door, I'll clean them with prestidigitation. If you're not comfortable with that, well, I don't have any clothes that would fit you, but you could borrow some all the same, if you'd like. You're welcome to help yourself to anything else you like, of course."
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She stays in hot water until she feels dizzy, then stays in for longer just to make sure she really makes the most of it. When she eventually emerges, her skin is scrubbed raw and pink all over, and she is bundled up in the soft robe. Gale didn't ask for anything in return, but she'll bring bullshit magic trinkets as often as he likes after this.
She wanders the house until she finds Gale or, better, Tara since even Harley's tenuous grasp of self preservation knows better than to aimlessly snoop in a wizard's home.
"A dying plant is a little on the nose for a breakup depression spiral, don'tcha think?"
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"In here, dear!" Tara calls shortly after Harley has left the bathroom, because her feline hearing is superior to Gale's.
By the time she's finished, at least Gale has had time to properly dress in a simple but well made top and trousers. He's brushed his hair and combed his beard and feels a lot more publicly presentable. Harley finds them in what must be a study, judging by the desk. There are so many books and scrolls, more densely packed than through the rest of the house. There is other magical detritus around the room like crystals, tools, and a small statue of Mystra. There are also display cabinets, conspicuously empty.
"I am not... not... and anyway, I just haven't had time to take care of it," he protests.
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She already watered the soil in the washing room, but some of the dead growth needs to be cut back for the poor thing to regrow. She pulls a small folding knife from the robe pocket and gets to it.
"If you're spending all day and night locking yourself in your house, then you've at least got to take care of the things that live in it." She jabs the point of the knife in the air toward him with a flourish. "Including you!" She tilts the blade Tara's way next, carving a question in the air. "Right?"
The knife is folded away and tucked back into the pocket. She spends a moment finding the best sunny spot for the plant, then brushes her hands together and stands with her hands on her hips.
"Right! I'm very tired! Bed, please!"
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"I knew I liked her when I met her," Tara says, purring so loudly that it sounds like the rumbling of some machine. "She has a point, one I've been trying to make myself, though it falls on deaf ears."
"I've been listening," Gale protests. He makes a show of leaning away from the knife, though it's nowhere near him at all. "And I am doing fine, all things considered." He doesn't offer to explain what all those things to be considered are, though. Tara sighs heavily.
Gale stands, smoothing out the creases on his thighs and trying to regain the air of a proper host. He almost points out that it's a ridiculous time to go to bed, closer to the midday meal than sunset, but then he remembers that she had said she often doesn't sleep. Besides, he had slept a good portion of the day away himself, who was he to judge anyone else for their off kilter sleep schedule. "Yes, right. Follow me."
The bedroom that he leads her to isn't large, but it is well appointed with a plush looking bed stacked with blankets and a folded pair of much too large pajamas, a side table holding a carafe of fresh water along with a plate of bread and cheese in case she's hungry, and an armoire that she will find full of books instead of clothes if she decides to go snooping. "It's not much. I don't get many visitors these days, but hopefully it will suffice." He stands awkwardly in the doorway, not sure exactly what he should be doing with himself. Leaving, probably. "Well! I'll, uh, be back down in the study if you need me. Please let me know if there's anything else you might require."
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She trails through the house after him, pausing a couple times for a better look at some knick knack or other and then having to jog the few steps to catch up. Once her basic needs are met, she will certainly be a horrible little snoop.
The spare bedroom is nicer than anywhere she's been in recent memory. She rocks back on her heels at the doorway, like she's second guessing this all. It's entirely too good in the kind of way that must mean a trap.
But her stomach growls loudly at the sight of food, because she gets a meal about as often as she gets to sleep, and her treacherous body steps through the door entirely without her brain's input.
Once again, she does not wait for him to leave to start changing. It seems to be her preferred way of saying that his presence is no longer needed and that he can kindly fuck off.
She eats half the bread and cheese, packs away the rest in her satchel for later, and spends way too long trying to decide what to do with the door. She doesn't want to be bothered, so she closes it. She doesn't like being trapped in a room, so she opens it. There's a lot of fretful pacing before she settles on leaving it open just wide enough for Tara to fit in, and stacking books to fall and wake her if the door is pushed open any further. When she's done with that, she throws herself onto the bed with a satisfying fwump and wraps herself in a blanket cocoon.
All together, she sleeps a solid thirteen hours. The kind of deep, desperately needed sleep that leaves her totally disoriented on waking and fighting the blankets.
It's. Embarrassing.
She changes into her own clothes, double checks that nothing was taken from her bag, and tries to sneak out.
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Aaaaand SCENE