He throws both hands up in exasperation. "I've seen healers and chirurgeons, there's nothing they can do for this," he tells her. "It's... it's a magical orb!" That's an oversimplification, but it will do for the sake of argument. "Of course the solution is going to be magical in nature!" He shakes his head. It's not as if a chirurgeon could open him up and there, near his heart, would be a nasty little black pearl of malevolence, as easily plucked out and disposed of as a splinter. Nothing in his life could ever be so easy.
"Yes, well, I may not be able to replace that exact ring, but I'm sure it wouldn't be too difficult to find something of a similar--" He stops talking as suddenly as if he had run into a wall once the rest of her words catch up to him. His blush strikes his cheeks first, but keeps marching south through the wilds of his beard before conquering his neck as well. He sputters, tries to say at least three different sentences at one time, then drinks some of his tea to cover while he takes a moment to think. It's still too hot, but at least his burned tongue gives him something to narrow his focus. "If I were going to propose, or even talk about proposing to someone, I'm far too much of a romantic to bring it up offhandedly over breakfast." No, there would be moonlight and flowers and poetry. He grins, "Besides, you've given me far more rings thus far than the reverse. Ought I to expect a proposal from you in the near future?"
"You haven't seen me," she shoots back. She's part of this now, and already proven that she is perfectly willing to ruin shirts. Gods above and below, are there no limits to her villainy?
Harley sits back and enjoys the sputtering and blushing with a triumphant grin. He really is the best to tease. She laughs when he turns it back around on her and, horrifyingly, slides out of the chair to sink to one knee beside him. She takes one of his hands in both of hers, looks up and him with eyes full of love and hope, and asks the most romantic question.
"So we doing this or nah?"
Apparently, a bath and a good rest were all she needed to get back to being a general menace.
"Yes, and you mentioned seeing a doctor. Are you secretly a doctor, Harley? A healer, chirurgeon, or cleric?" Some part of him wouldn't be all that surprised. Harley is constantly surprising him. He huffs, waving his fork dismissively, and it might as well be a white flag, because he knows he's lost this argument. "Fine, I'll show you the mark. When we're done eating, you can look your fill, though I'm not sure what good it will do."
When Harley drops to one knee, Gale is at least a little prepared for the obvious next step in her shenanigans. He hums, as if he's genuinely considering it. And for a moment, he can't help but actually imagine it. It wouldn't be so bad, would it? Truly and officially sharing his life with her? He'd like to be married to someone who really loves him someday, he thinks. The thoughts only last a moment before he shakes his head a little to dispell them. Absolutely ridiculous. Pathetic, even. He doesn't even know her last name. And anyway, who in their right mind would want him, a disgraced wizard with a bomb in his chest? As soon as someone shows him an ounce of platonic affection and he's losing his mind. He might not even have a 'someday' to be married on, if he can't solve his problem. He would not be a husband, merely a burden. "Afraid not. I take a bit more wining and dining to woo. Not to mention, you haven't even met my mother." He grins at her and tugs at her hand to help her up. "Maybe another day."
"I'm not secretly a doctor just because you never thought to ask. Lots of people know."
Harley raises a brow and wonders when he will finally accept that she is, truly, the most amazing person in the world. She can do it all.
She sighs with overblown drama at his rejection after she laid her heart on the line. "Aw, dang! Okay, I'll ask again next week." She pulls off the disenchanted ring and slips it on his little finger. "You can keep this anyway."
He raises his eyebrows, lowering a forkful of food that was nearly in his mouth. "Are you a doctor or healer?" He's genuinely not sure whether she's joking. He tends to lean toward assuming that she is, because it would be more embarrassing to think something genuine that she meant as a joke than the reverse, but he's never completely sure. "Can you really blame me? You're hardly forthcoming with details about yourself and your life, and I don't want to press where the intrusion would be unwelcome." As always, he is well mannered.
"I-" but it's already on, and it does fit his pinkie finger, so he has no excuse to take it off. It has lost most of its value when he divested it of its magic, so there's no real reason not to accept. He huffs a little laugh. "Alright. We'll revisit it next week," he says, not actually expecting them to do so, because of course she's only kidding.
"It's more your style anyway." And it does suit him. A simple, thin silver band with a tiny chip of pale purple stone.
She takes the seat across from him again and leans her elbows on the table. "I'm a lot of things, Gale," she coos with a flutter her lashes, "including your future wife." She winks and blows him a kiss, then takes up her fork again. "But yes, I am really a doctor."
She pushes a berry around her plate like it's trying to dodge the subject. "The details are mostly bad." She shrugs, doesn't look at him. The pity is the worst part and she doesn't want to see it from him. "You're sad enough about your own stuff, so what's the point of adding mine? I've already dealt with it."
"Simple?" he asks, jokingly. Nearly everything she's seen him wear thus far has been of good quality, but simply made, nothing ostentatious. He lifts a hand to rotate the ring around his finger until it has made a complete circle. He doesn't know it yet, but this will become one of his common fidgets, the same way he unknowingly toys with his earring.
"Do you work more with spells or scalpels?" She really is a little bit of everything. "I'm not going to be thrilled if you propose cutting me open, just so we're clear."
He frowns, feeling like he's done harm in even bringing it up. "They say that joys shared are doubled, but troubles shared are halved. Anyway, sometimes people tell each other about themselves because they care? It can't all be bad. Being a bard and a doctor aren't bad." Both things he had discovered quite on accident. "How about something easy to start. What's your name? Your full name, I mean. Are you hiding some atrocious middle name?" Is Harley Quinn your birth name, or something you came up with later? That's what he's really wondering, but he supposes she'll tell him as much as she'd like and nothing more anyway.
"I mostly don't work," she non-answers. "Thought you'd figured that one out already." She does a lot of awful things, and even her legitimate jobs are questionable. Gale is a gentleman of great pretensions. She's certain he would not approve.
"My full name is Harleen Frances Quinzel. I'm sure you now see why I abbreviate."
He waves her off, "You know what I mean. If you want to be involved in... this," he puts a hand over the mark on his chest, "I've got to know what your skills are."
He sits back, shaking his head with a smile. "No, I like it. Harleen. Harleen," he tests it out with his typical precision, like memorizing a new word in a foreign tongue. "Thank you for telling me. You know my name already, of course. Gale... Dekarios." Saying it all together like that feels like admitting defeat, like Gale of Waterdeep is already dead, leaving behind his useless, powerless shadow. He tries not to let on, though, keen to prove that he isn't so sad about his own problems that he couldn't bear to hear hers. "Though..." It feels important to offer something in return for this piece of information, even though she already knows his worst secret. "No middle name. My middle name was my father's surname, but as far as I'm concerned, he took it with him when he left."
She sighs, since he seems determined to stay on topic. She sets her fork down and leans back in the chair with her arms folded over her chest. So they've reached the interrogation stage of the relationship.
"My focus is on trauma responses, mental and physical." A pointedly arched brow at his clearly traumatized self. "And there's no way you go through what you're going through without significant strain on several processes. Even without considering magical effects." If he keeps pressing then she'll have to find a copy of her doctorate thesis and hit him in the face with it.
She ... doesn't know how to feel about hearing him say her name. Nobody has called her Harleen in years, and almost never a friend. It's like he's talking about someone else. She doesn't know that woman anymore.
"I think it's a family name? But I don't know for sure. Doesn't matter."
Gale raises his eyebrows. It's not exactly what he expected her response to be. If anything, given the type of jobs she seems to take (as much as he knows about them, anyway), he had expected her to specialize in field medicine, the type of thing one uses to keep themselves and their comrades conscious through the end of the battle. He hadn't really expected her expertise to be in handling the aftermath of the battle.
"Tara has said much the same," he finally replies. "So, you mean to repair my mind, then?" He doesn't doubt her expertise now that she has responded sincerely, though he's not sure she'd be able to help with his trauma any more than his orb. Maybe he is just an irreparable mess. Maybe he deserves to be.
"You're right, it doesn't matter. Family is who you chose. Sometimes, family is feline," he says with a big grin, because of course they both love Tara. "But it's just your name now, and I am glad to know it."
She holds up both hands in surrender. "I don't mean to repair anything. I just want to examine your current state. I'm not making any promises, and I can't officially take you on as a patient and stay friends. There have to be boundaries, and I'm not good at boundaries. That's why I don't--"
She runs a hand across her eyes and back through her hair. A muscle in her jaw jumps as she clenches her teeth. There's a deep history lurking just beyond what she's saying and giving voice to it feels like reopening scars.
"I was his doctor before I was his lover."
There. The first incision. At least she doesn't have to worry about when and how it will come up now that it's over.
She clucks her tongue and crosses her arms again.
"So what do you want to drag out next? Sad childhood?"
Gale isn't quick enough, or maybe just skilled enough with social graces, to keep the surprise off his face, but when it goes, there is no pity or revulsion left behind, just a little sadness and understanding. "I was her student before I was her lover. Maybe neither of us are very good at boundaries," he says, voice soft and careful. He doesn't talk about this, particularly not like this, with anyone but Tara, and rarely even then. It's blasphemous. Worse, it's pathetic. "It's something you learn, though, with practice, I should think. And I care very much about your friendship, above all else. So wherever you mark a boundary, you may trust me to mind it, I swear it."
He pushes his plate aside and reaches across the table, tugging one of her arms free of the other so he can take her hand. His grip is firm; he doesn't treat her like some fragile thing on the verge of shattering. "I don't want to drag anything. Tell me what you would, and keep anything you'd rather not tucked away."
She doesn't resist his pull on her hand or flinch away at the surprising strength behind his grip. Surprising for a wizard, anyway, let's not be too generous. She just lets go of a quiet sigh and meets his eyes. There's no sorrow or pain in her gaze. She won't let him see it, not in this moment. These things that happened before have to stay separate from the person she is now. It's how she can carry it.
"But you still want to know, and better to know it from me than let you imagine tales to fill in the gaps. So. Next question, if you would."
"I can imagine a great many things, often simultaneously, about anything and everything."
He shifts, and he gets that look, the gears obviously turning in that big thinky brain of his. "I have no intention of interrogating you." He taps a finger against his teacup, hands always seeming to long for some sort of motion when they're not busy casting spells. "However, if we were to take turns? That might be a more fair exchange of information. So, what do you want to drag out of me next, Harleen?"
He laughs, a little surprised. Curiosity is perhaps his greatest strength and his biggest weakness. He wants to know everything about everything all of the time. Living any other way is something he can hardly imagine. "Alright, Harley you shall remain, then. Hm, you could ask my birthday, so you know when to give me a nice gift?"
That shove feels like a victory, and he beams. "What can I say? I'm insatiable, I suppose." The orb is, anyway, eating all his gifts in more ways than one. "My birthday is the seventh of Tarsakh. I was born during a particularly terrible storm, and that's where my name comes from."
It's really not fair that he has such a sweet smile. How is she supposed to keep being dramatic and miserable when he's so cute? Awful. Put him in jail.
"Mine is the twentieth of Flamerule, and my birthday present better be huge."
Of all the gifts she's given him, his favorite is when she looks like that.
"With standards like that, I bet you've had some truly abhorrent mixed drinks. I've had my fair share of those, though. At Blackstaff, most of us learned rather early that you could use a fabrication spell to turn just about any fruit juice, honey water, or similar into alcohol, but there was no accounting for the flavor of the finished product. It was tradition at parties for everyone to combine their concoctions in one cauldron that we would all drink from. Stuff of nightmares, if I could remember half of it." He points at her like she got the answer in a pop quiz correct. "Got it in one! Preferably dry. I can't stand an overly saccharine alcoholic drink."
She laughs. His rambling tangents are usually charming, at least in her opinion. It would be pretty hard to spend time with him if she didn't like listening to other people so much.
"Probably because you got burned on those horrible party drinks. I like anything sweet." She reaches across the table to boop his nose. "Like you, for example."
She can't let corny line go unsaid. A reflex, perhaps, or a curse.
He tilts his head to the side then nods. "Maybe you're right and I was scarred by horrible party drinks." Gale had never actually considered it before, but then again, she makes him think about a lot of things he never considered before. "They're much worse coming up than going down."
Once she's already booped him, he swats at her hand. She's joking, she's joking, she's joking. He sets mage hands to clearing their dishes and stands. "If you're done eating, I suppose now's as good a time as any for you to, ah, perform your examination." Oh no. He'd meant to change directions, distract himself, but hadn't considered how embarrassing the prospect of taking his shirt off would be, and now he can't unsay it.
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"Yes, well, I may not be able to replace that exact ring, but I'm sure it wouldn't be too difficult to find something of a similar--" He stops talking as suddenly as if he had run into a wall once the rest of her words catch up to him. His blush strikes his cheeks first, but keeps marching south through the wilds of his beard before conquering his neck as well. He sputters, tries to say at least three different sentences at one time, then drinks some of his tea to cover while he takes a moment to think. It's still too hot, but at least his burned tongue gives him something to narrow his focus. "If I were going to propose, or even talk about proposing to someone, I'm far too much of a romantic to bring it up offhandedly over breakfast." No, there would be moonlight and flowers and poetry. He grins, "Besides, you've given me far more rings thus far than the reverse. Ought I to expect a proposal from you in the near future?"
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Harley sits back and enjoys the sputtering and blushing with a triumphant grin. He really is the best to tease. She laughs when he turns it back around on her and, horrifyingly, slides out of the chair to sink to one knee beside him. She takes one of his hands in both of hers, looks up and him with eyes full of love and hope, and asks the most romantic question.
"So we doing this or nah?"
Apparently, a bath and a good rest were all she needed to get back to being a general menace.
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When Harley drops to one knee, Gale is at least a little prepared for the obvious next step in her shenanigans. He hums, as if he's genuinely considering it. And for a moment, he can't help but actually imagine it. It wouldn't be so bad, would it? Truly and officially sharing his life with her? He'd like to be married to someone who really loves him someday, he thinks. The thoughts only last a moment before he shakes his head a little to dispell them. Absolutely ridiculous. Pathetic, even. He doesn't even know her last name. And anyway, who in their right mind would want him, a disgraced wizard with a bomb in his chest? As soon as someone shows him an ounce of platonic affection and he's losing his mind. He might not even have a 'someday' to be married on, if he can't solve his problem. He would not be a husband, merely a burden. "Afraid not. I take a bit more wining and dining to woo. Not to mention, you haven't even met my mother." He grins at her and tugs at her hand to help her up. "Maybe another day."
She's Barbie.
Harley raises a brow and wonders when he will finally accept that she is, truly, the most amazing person in the world. She can do it all.
She sighs with overblown drama at his rejection after she laid her heart on the line. "Aw, dang! Okay, I'll ask again next week." She pulls off the disenchanted ring and slips it on his little finger. "You can keep this anyway."
And he's Galenough
"I-" but it's already on, and it does fit his pinkie finger, so he has no excuse to take it off. It has lost most of its value when he divested it of its magic, so there's no real reason not to accept. He huffs a little laugh. "Alright. We'll revisit it next week," he says, not actually expecting them to do so, because of course she's only kidding.
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She takes the seat across from him again and leans her elbows on the table. "I'm a lot of things, Gale," she coos with a flutter her lashes, "including your future wife." She winks and blows him a kiss, then takes up her fork again. "But yes, I am really a doctor."
She pushes a berry around her plate like it's trying to dodge the subject. "The details are mostly bad." She shrugs, doesn't look at him. The pity is the worst part and she doesn't want to see it from him. "You're sad enough about your own stuff, so what's the point of adding mine? I've already dealt with it."
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"Do you work more with spells or scalpels?" She really is a little bit of everything. "I'm not going to be thrilled if you propose cutting me open, just so we're clear."
He frowns, feeling like he's done harm in even bringing it up. "They say that joys shared are doubled, but troubles shared are halved. Anyway, sometimes people tell each other about themselves because they care? It can't all be bad. Being a bard and a doctor aren't bad." Both things he had discovered quite on accident. "How about something easy to start. What's your name? Your full name, I mean. Are you hiding some atrocious middle name?" Is Harley Quinn your birth name, or something you came up with later? That's what he's really wondering, but he supposes she'll tell him as much as she'd like and nothing more anyway.
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"My full name is Harleen Frances Quinzel. I'm sure you now see why I abbreviate."
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He sits back, shaking his head with a smile. "No, I like it. Harleen. Harleen," he tests it out with his typical precision, like memorizing a new word in a foreign tongue. "Thank you for telling me. You know my name already, of course. Gale... Dekarios." Saying it all together like that feels like admitting defeat, like Gale of Waterdeep is already dead, leaving behind his useless, powerless shadow. He tries not to let on, though, keen to prove that he isn't so sad about his own problems that he couldn't bear to hear hers. "Though..." It feels important to offer something in return for this piece of information, even though she already knows his worst secret. "No middle name. My middle name was my father's surname, but as far as I'm concerned, he took it with him when he left."
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"My focus is on trauma responses, mental and physical." A pointedly arched brow at his clearly traumatized self. "And there's no way you go through what you're going through without significant strain on several processes. Even without considering magical effects." If he keeps pressing then she'll have to find a copy of her doctorate thesis and hit him in the face with it.
She ... doesn't know how to feel about hearing him say her name. Nobody has called her Harleen in years, and almost never a friend. It's like he's talking about someone else. She doesn't know that woman anymore.
"I think it's a family name? But I don't know for sure. Doesn't matter."
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"Tara has said much the same," he finally replies. "So, you mean to repair my mind, then?" He doesn't doubt her expertise now that she has responded sincerely, though he's not sure she'd be able to help with his trauma any more than his orb. Maybe he is just an irreparable mess. Maybe he deserves to be.
"You're right, it doesn't matter. Family is who you chose. Sometimes, family is feline," he says with a big grin, because of course they both love Tara. "But it's just your name now, and I am glad to know it."
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She runs a hand across her eyes and back through her hair. A muscle in her jaw jumps as she clenches her teeth. There's a deep history lurking just beyond what she's saying and giving voice to it feels like reopening scars.
"I was his doctor before I was his lover."
There. The first incision. At least she doesn't have to worry about when and how it will come up now that it's over.
She clucks her tongue and crosses her arms again.
"So what do you want to drag out next? Sad childhood?"
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He pushes his plate aside and reaches across the table, tugging one of her arms free of the other so he can take her hand. His grip is firm; he doesn't treat her like some fragile thing on the verge of shattering. "I don't want to drag anything. Tell me what you would, and keep anything you'd rather not tucked away."
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"But you still want to know, and better to know it from me than let you imagine tales to fill in the gaps. So. Next question, if you would."
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He shifts, and he gets that look, the gears obviously turning in that big thinky brain of his. "I have no intention of interrogating you." He taps a finger against his teacup, hands always seeming to long for some sort of motion when they're not busy casting spells. "However, if we were to take turns? That might be a more fair exchange of information. So, what do you want to drag out of me next, Harleen?"
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"The first thing I want is for you to not call me Harleen. And other than that, hells, I already know you. What else would I even need to ask?"
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"I give you gifts all the time, and still you ask for more!" She taps his new ring for emphasis. "Alright. Tell me your birthday, you greedy man."
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"Mine is the twentieth of Flamerule, and my birthday present better be huge."
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"Anything I don't have to pay for. And yours is red wine. Full-bodied, I'd guess."
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"With standards like that, I bet you've had some truly abhorrent mixed drinks. I've had my fair share of those, though. At Blackstaff, most of us learned rather early that you could use a fabrication spell to turn just about any fruit juice, honey water, or similar into alcohol, but there was no accounting for the flavor of the finished product. It was tradition at parties for everyone to combine their concoctions in one cauldron that we would all drink from. Stuff of nightmares, if I could remember half of it." He points at her like she got the answer in a pop quiz correct. "Got it in one! Preferably dry. I can't stand an overly saccharine alcoholic drink."
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"Probably because you got burned on those horrible party drinks. I like anything sweet." She reaches across the table to boop his nose. "Like you, for example."
She can't let corny line go unsaid. A reflex, perhaps, or a curse.
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Once she's already booped him, he swats at her hand. She's joking, she's joking, she's joking. He sets mage hands to clearing their dishes and stands. "If you're done eating, I suppose now's as good a time as any for you to, ah, perform your examination." Oh no. He'd meant to change directions, distract himself, but hadn't considered how embarrassing the prospect of taking his shirt off would be, and now he can't unsay it.
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