She goes a little cross-eyed trying to look at his stupid handsome face as he leans in to kiss her forehead. Dummy doesn't even realize he missed her lips. Silly wizard.
"It doesn't matter what's inside," she protests, oblivious to the levels of juicy subtext waiting to be unpacked in that line. "It's from you because you were thinking of me and you're so, so, so nice and you don't even have to be!"
But, even though she knows she will love whatever he gave her, she does open the present anyway. She carefully unpacks every item, lines them up along the desk, and just ... looks at them. For a very long time.
Harley just stands there, beholding the items from the box with wonder, and he thinks maybe he should have gotten her better things if she was going to be so enamored of receiving a gift. The cosmetics set isn't even really a gift so much as a restitution. The alcohol was a simple callback to earlier today, when she said she preferred it sweet. Has no one ever cared enough for her to show her that they did? He could have been much more impressive, he thinks, and should have really put more effort into it.
Or maybe not, because then she might have cried, and he doesn't ever want to make her cry. He comes up behind her to wrap his arms around her middle, a sort of backwards hug. "A promise like that cannot be considered binding when made while inebriated," he points out, dropping his chin to rest on her shoulder. "Besides, you haven't even met my mother," he adds in what will become a common refrain during her obviously teasing marriage proposals.
She leans back against him and brings her hands up to squeeze his arms. She wants to be wrapped up in him. He should hold her forever. Her head tips back onto his shoulder.
Gods damn it all, she really will have to meet Morena.
"Where does she live? I'll go meet her right now."
She should kiss him, but her mouth was recently on a stranger and Gale deserves better than that. She needs to brush her teeth first at the very least.
"Do you want to be married someday? Is that something you can see for yourself?"
He laughs. "My mother is most assuredly asleep right now. She has a business to run and doesn't keep the same odd hours her only child does. I doubt she would take very kindly to being awoken in the middle of the night." Except, it's been so long since he's gone to see her, maybe she wouldn't care at all. Guilt is a slim blade he slides into his own heart, even though he tries to argue to himself that it's for her own good. He's briefly glad that Harley is facing away, because he has never been good at keeping his emotions off his face, and even drunk, she'd be too perceptive to miss it.
"Hmm? Oh. I don't know, actually. It's not really something you consider with a goddess. You can promise yourself to them for your whole life, but they can't ever do the same, so..." So it had never been in the cards with Mystra, and anyone before Mystra seems long ago and foggy. "I'm not sure I ever really considered it in depth. I suppose it would just depend on what my beloved wanted." That has been the guiding light in all his relationships, really.
Harley makes a vague grumbling noise. She can't explain why his answer gets under her skin, but something about it... Yeugh. He should be allowed to learn what he wants and then want it for himself.
Maybe she hates it because it's too familiar.
Her hands run over his arms in gentle, careful strokes.
"Well I want it, and I'm gonna keep asking. So hurry up and get on board."
"Ask me again next week, we'll reconsider the matter then," he jokes, not realizing what he's helping to begin. "So, you... weren't angry with me earlier, then?"
It happens so fast that for a second, Gale is left just sort of flapping his hands, unsure how to respond. At least it turns out to be muscle memory, even if it has been a long time since anyone kissed him on the mortal plane. His hands land on her waist and tug her closer. He kisses her back in a way that proves that tongue is good for more than just wagging all the time. She is warm and eager and... and...
And she tastes like alcohol. And he is a cad.
He doesn't push her away so much as step backwards with his hands still on her waist, like they might snap back together magnetically otherwise. "You've been drinking," he declares.
His hands are on her waist pulling her against him and his tongue is in her mouth and her head is spinning. She should have kissed him this morning. She should have kissed him a hundred times by now.
Then he moves away, but she's not ready to let him go yet so she moves with him. Her hands clutch at his shirt.
His face scrunches up in deliberation, the crease between his eyebrows becoming a canyon. That 'please' nearly snaps the last thread of his resistance. The want aches almost as badly as his arcane hunger. His fingertips press into her hips, and it's hard to tell whether it's to hold her or keep her at a distance. "Are you sure?" It's not clear whether he's asking about her alcohol intake or about himself. "I would not want to... To take advantage."
Eager hands tug at the front of his shirt, trying to pull him back to her.
"I'm so sure. Extremely sure."
Gods, she wishes he would take advantage, but he couldn't even if he tried. She's tipsy, but nowhere near far enough gone that she couldn't put an immediate stop to anything she didn't like. And right now, she can't imagine not liking anything from him.
Ah, hells. Just this once, maybe it would be alright to tell the part of his brain that's always thinking and worrying to just be quiet. He pulls her in by her hips, kissing her again, though this time it's softer, slower. If they're going to do this, he means to take his time, to enjoy it.
Of all Harley's mysterious skills, getting someone to decide to go along with her just this once might be her most powerful spell.
Something about his fingers against her hips and pulling her in is like a command override directly to her brain. She presses her body fully against his, warm and pliant and real. Her hands glide up his chest and around his shoulders to slide her fingers through his hair. Tiny, needy sounds bubble up in her throat as they kiss.
She presses against him and he stumbles backwards over a stack of books, and it really says something that he doesn't stop what he's doing to make sure the books aren't damaged. He ends up with his back against a wall, but he doesn't mind, because it gives him better leverage to slide one hand around to the small of her back and pull her body tighter against his. The other hand moves to cup her face like something precious, his thumb moving against the 'rotten' tattoo like he can smear it away. After a moment, he dips his head, chasing those thumbprints with kisses.
The brief stumble doesn't even register but his hand pressing her closer on the small of her back makes her breath catch in her throat. Her heart is doing flips in her chest. She slides a thigh between his legs and rocks her hips forward.
Saying please has worked each time, so she whispers it again. She couldn't even say what precisely she's asking for. Maybe everything, if it's from Gale.
The friction is lightning through his body, coiling low in his stomach. He feels like an inexperienced teenager again with how easily she can inflame him. With his lips on her throat, tasting her pulse, he can feel it as well as hear it when she whispers please, and gods, she's right, he would give her everything. His heart gallops so hard against his rib cage that it hurts.
Except that sharp ache is too familiar, too loathsome and hungry, as desperate to consume his joy as it is magic. "Wait," he rasps, struggling to pull himself back even though he's against the wall. "Wait, stop. I can't."
She stops the moment he pulls away, but can't keep the confusion and, yes, the pain of rejection off her face.
"Did I do something wrong?" She doesn't know what made him not want this so suddenly, and is afraid of what punishment might follow. Nothing Gale has ever said or done has made her think he might lash out, but she's been wrong about people before. She claws frantically through memories of the last day trying to figure out how this almost perfect moment fell apart.
"Oh," she answers herself. Her voice is soft and sad and so, so small. "Oh, you don't-- unless you care about--" Her face crumples and she drops her head so she doesn't have to look him in the eyes. "Oh, I'm so stupid."
"No!" The way she crumples feels like he's been punched in the gut and for just a second he can't help but wonder at her former lover's identity and whether they could really stand against an arch mage in combat. "Look at me." It's the closest to bossy he's sounded in the time she's known him, but there's no animosity in his voice, only steel. "Please." He puts his hands on her shoulders, hating the tension he finds there.
"I'm sorry. I..." His typically numerous words are scattered like papers in a storm. His face, still flushed from excitement, screws up with several different emotions, all knotted up until it's hard to pick them apart and identify them. Frustrated, he takes her hand and places it on his chest. Beneath her palm, his heart still races, but above her fingertips, soft enough to be missed unless you knew what you were looking for (and had perhaps done an extensive examination), the lines peeking out the neckline of his shirt glow. It's his turn avoid eye contact when he says, "I... can't." He clears his throat in an attempt to recompose himself. "As you know, my condition is... volatile, to put it mildly, and I fear that any... undue excitement, such as it were, might be enough to destabilize it." Talking about himself like a research project makes it a little easier.
He drags his hands down his face. Trying to debate the intricacies of the
orb while still partially erect was not how he expected to spend any part
of his night.
"Mystra doesn't control the orb, certainly not like that. I thought it was
a lost piece of the Weave, which I sought to return to her, but it is
something else, something malignant." He does his best to retain his
professional, knowledgeable, professor tone despite the absurdity of the
conversation. "Past, er, experiences suggest that dreams aren't sufficient
stimuli to cause problems with the orb. And I'm not dignifying the other
question with a response."
"For the record, this is also an important part of your medical history."
She reaches out and trails her fingers over the visible wisps of the mark. Her eyes trace the faint glow, and then drift lower.
"You can't." She worries her lower lip between her teeth. Her expression is clearly wondering if it might be worth detonation anyway. "But you do want to?"
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"It doesn't matter what's inside," she protests, oblivious to the levels of juicy subtext waiting to be unpacked in that line. "It's from you because you were thinking of me and you're so, so, so nice and you don't even have to be!"
But, even though she knows she will love whatever he gave her, she does open the present anyway. She carefully unpacks every item, lines them up along the desk, and just ... looks at them. For a very long time.
"Gale Dekarios, I'm gonna marry you for real."
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Or maybe not, because then she might have cried, and he doesn't ever want to make her cry. He comes up behind her to wrap his arms around her middle, a sort of backwards hug. "A promise like that cannot be considered binding when made while inebriated," he points out, dropping his chin to rest on her shoulder. "Besides, you haven't even met my mother," he adds in what will become a common refrain during her obviously teasing marriage proposals.
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Gods damn it all, she really will have to meet Morena.
"Where does she live? I'll go meet her right now."
She should kiss him, but her mouth was recently on a stranger and Gale deserves better than that. She needs to brush her teeth first at the very least.
"Do you want to be married someday? Is that something you can see for yourself?"
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"Hmm? Oh. I don't know, actually. It's not really something you consider with a goddess. You can promise yourself to them for your whole life, but they can't ever do the same, so..." So it had never been in the cards with Mystra, and anyone before Mystra seems long ago and foggy. "I'm not sure I ever really considered it in depth. I suppose it would just depend on what my beloved wanted." That has been the guiding light in all his relationships, really.
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Maybe she hates it because it's too familiar.
Her hands run over his arms in gentle, careful strokes.
"Well I want it, and I'm gonna keep asking. So hurry up and get on board."
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"No! What? Is that why you got me presents?"
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But Harley doesn't think, she just does, and that's why her mouth is on his before her brain can check in.
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And she tastes like alcohol. And he is a cad.
He doesn't push her away so much as step backwards with his hands still on her waist, like they might snap back together magnetically otherwise. "You've been drinking," he declares.
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Then he moves away, but she's not ready to let him go yet so she moves with him. Her hands clutch at his shirt.
"Not too much! Please?"
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"I'm so sure. Extremely sure."
Gods, she wishes he would take advantage, but he couldn't even if he tried. She's tipsy, but nowhere near far enough gone that she couldn't put an immediate stop to anything she didn't like. And right now, she can't imagine not liking anything from him.
"I want to, Gale. Please."
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Something about his fingers against her hips and pulling her in is like a command override directly to her brain. She presses her body fully against his, warm and pliant and real. Her hands glide up his chest and around his shoulders to slide her fingers through his hair. Tiny, needy sounds bubble up in her throat as they kiss.
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Saying please has worked each time, so she whispers it again. She couldn't even say what precisely she's asking for. Maybe everything, if it's from Gale.
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Except that sharp ache is too familiar, too loathsome and hungry, as desperate to consume his joy as it is magic. "Wait," he rasps, struggling to pull himself back even though he's against the wall. "Wait, stop. I can't."
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"Did I do something wrong?" She doesn't know what made him not want this so suddenly, and is afraid of what punishment might follow. Nothing Gale has ever said or done has made her think he might lash out, but she's been wrong about people before. She claws frantically through memories of the last day trying to figure out how this almost perfect moment fell apart.
"Oh," she answers herself. Her voice is soft and sad and so, so small. "Oh, you don't-- unless you care about--" Her face crumples and she drops her head so she doesn't have to look him in the eyes. "Oh, I'm so stupid."
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"I'm sorry. I..." His typically numerous words are scattered like papers in a storm. His face, still flushed from excitement, screws up with several different emotions, all knotted up until it's hard to pick them apart and identify them. Frustrated, he takes her hand and places it on his chest. Beneath her palm, his heart still races, but above her fingertips, soft enough to be missed unless you knew what you were looking for (and had perhaps done an extensive examination), the lines peeking out the neckline of his shirt glow. It's his turn avoid eye contact when he says, "I... can't." He clears his throat in an attempt to recompose himself. "As you know, my condition is... volatile, to put it mildly, and I fear that any... undue excitement, such as it were, might be enough to destabilize it." Talking about himself like a research project makes it a little easier.
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That's sobering.
Her palm presses against his heartbeat, and she looks mildly confused and then baffled as she puts the pieces together.
"Your goddess ex lover doesn't let you come? That's fucked up!"
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She crosses her arms and raises a skeptical eyebrow. All of a sudden she's sober and unkissed and the gods themselves are running her good time.
"Are you going to explode if you have a sexy dream? Do you not get to ... self service?"
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He drags his hands down his face. Trying to debate the intricacies of the orb while still partially erect was not how he expected to spend any part of his night.
"Mystra doesn't control the orb, certainly not like that. I thought it was a lost piece of the Weave, which I sought to return to her, but it is something else, something malignant." He does his best to retain his professional, knowledgeable, professor tone despite the absurdity of the conversation. "Past, er, experiences suggest that dreams aren't sufficient stimuli to cause problems with the orb. And I'm not dignifying the other question with a response."
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She reaches out and trails her fingers over the visible wisps of the mark. Her eyes trace the faint glow, and then drift lower.
"You can't." She worries her lower lip between her teeth. Her expression is clearly wondering if it might be worth detonation anyway. "But you do want to?"
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