revmeup | psl; the broken hearts book club

His smile is soft and even though they're still in the midst of a crowd, those puppy eyes are just for her. "I should have bought them for you sooner then. I'll buy you flowers every day, if you like, just to celebrate the honor of being in your company." He leans in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek, a bit clumsy as they're still walking. "What are your favorites?"

The hand on his elbow slides down his arm to link their fingers together. She bumps her hip against his as they move through busy streets.

"What are the ones in front of the house? You gave me those before. That's my favorite now."

"Hyacinths. I always liked the way they smelled," he replies. It hadn't hurt that purple hyacinths in particular symbolize asking for forgiveness, and he had been worried at the time that he had upset her somehow.

This time, he buys her blue hyacinths paired with white ranunculus from his favorite florist. He doesn't even make her listen to the flower symbolism behind it while they walk towards home.

Harley cradles the flowers carefully in the crook of her elbow. Several times on the walk home, Gale has to gentle steer her away from walking into something because she's too distracted looking at the blooms. Her fingers keep carefully brushing the edges of the petals like she needs the touch as a reminder that they're real.

Even as he tried to spare her from a yappening, Harley cues him up anyway. "Is it true that different flowers mean things?"

Now it's Gale's turn to be surprised. He has been called know-it-all so often that he just expects people to be exasperated when he starts talking at length about anything. His power and expertise in magic, that's what people seek from him. Anything else is merely tolerated at best.

"Ah, well," he begins, a false start because he wasn't prepared. "That's true, florals have their own language, in a way, so that you can convey some rather complex messages with the right bouquet. Hyacinth's meaning depends on the color. Blue hyacinths convey sincerity and devotion. Ranunculus typically symbolizes charm and attraction. The white ranunculus, in particular, conveys more of a refined beauty, as well as indicating new beginnings, which makes them popular for wedding flowers."

There's no saving her this time. She walks right into a shop sign.

"Oh."

"Oh!" he echoes in alarm, turning on his heel to face her rather than stand beside her. His hands hover, awaiting action as he assesses the damage. "You've busted your lip." He takes out a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the blood.

She prods her lip with her tongue to check the damage. Meh, she's had worse on a night out.

"Saved the flowers, though!"

"You're more important than flowers," he gently scolds. "I can buy you more flowers, but you are irreplaceable." Gently brushing her lip with his thumb, he beams at her. "Though I'm making a mental note to give you flowers at home from now on, when you're not walking anywhere."

She clutches the flowers and little tighter and angles her body away like she's worried he might take them back now that she can't be trusted. It would be nice to simply let him fuss over her, but her lips turn town in a tight little frown.

"You... know I get hurt a lot, right? That's the line of work I'm in."

Oh, he messed up again. It's not unexpected, but it's disappointing all the same.

"I'm... aware, yes. I remember how you looked when you came back from the Underdark once the ring was divested of its magic. But surely you don't fault me for not particularly enjoying the idea of seeing you hurt?"

"I know, but I just-- It matters to me, to keep working. I don't--"

She looks down and reaches for his hand. Squeezes his fingers and steps close enough to rest her forehead on his shoulder.

"I can't be just a pretty thing that lives in your house."

Gale rests his free hand on her head, threading his fingers through her hair, and just for a moment the fact that they're surrounded by people doesn't matter.

"You are a pretty thing and I'm thrilled that you live in my house, but," he kisses the top of her head, "I want you to be healthy and happy, but I wouldn't sacrifice the latter for the former. I would ask you to exercise a bit more caution than you're accustomed to, I would be pleased if the jobs you take are near enough to Waterdeep that you're not gone overlong. But I would never tell you that you can't work. It isn't my place to tell you what to do."

It seems that no matter what they do, she will always be looking for the trap ready to spring and cage her in, and he will always be dreading the moment she leaves for good.

She cringes, but he won't know what actually bothers her unless she says it. She's still learning that she can say anything about herself at all.

"I have a history. Of ... losing pieces of myself, to fit into someone else's life. I don't want to do that anymore. I want to do this right with you. I want to be a good partner, not a prop. I'll be more careful, I'll stay close, and I'll still get to stay myself too. Does that... do you get it?"

She's not trying to keep a door open so she can have a way out. She's trying to build something more real than she's had before.

That's so familiar it hurts, like they've both stuck their hand into the same fire and have the same scars to prove it. "I understand. I'm... similarly inexperienced at maintaining an individual identity in relationships," he says, as if this is news to her, as if he doesn't have his ex's symbol still pierced through his ear. "But I want to do this right, too."

"I'm going to keep you," she promises.

All the mess and broken edges and uncertain futures. She'll hold every piece of himself that he doesn't love and tuck him next to her heart.

He positively beams at her, leaning in to (carefully, so as not to crush the flowers) kiss her deeply, right there in the street.

"Then perhaps we should get home? So you can keep me in private." This time, he waggles his eyebrows at her.

He makes her laugh and she slips her hand in the crook of his elbow to drag him home.

"I'm going to get my mouth on you tonight." Another promise, just as heartfelt as before.

He might doubt her assertion, or assume it would be true in only the most technical sense (kissing would meet the qualifications as stated), he knows her well enough to know that she is brilliant enough to look impossibility in the face and laugh.

"Before or after you get to open your box?"

"After, so I die without regrets if half a blowjob makes you explode."

That certainly makes her intentions clear.

He barks a laugh and begins to turn very red, very quickly.

"We can't blow up the city, Harley, Tara lives here," he points out.

Harley hums and skips ahead a little.

"Then you'd better not come in my mouth!" she sing-songs over her shoulder. Out loud.

In. Public.

Gale rushes to meet her, taking her arm again and hurrying home, whether to keep her from saying things like that in public anymore or because he's eager to begin the evening's festivities isn't clear.

(It's definitely both.)

When they get back to the tower, he opens the door for her, gentlemanly as always, and sweeps into the kitchen to look for a vase to put the flowers in.

"Did you really want to make dinner, or would you prefer that I do it? I don't mind," says Gale Acts-of-Service Dekarios into the cabinet he's searching.

Harley giggles and sneaks flirty touches all the way home.

She grabs his hips and moves him away from the cabinet to take over. "Sounds like somebody still has no faith in my cooking! You said I was getting better!" She gives him a pout over her shoulder, with no real feeling behind it. She's better in the kitchen than she used to be, but still definitely bad. They both know it. But she'll never learn without constant, repeated failure.

"You can pick the recipe and I promise, I swear, I'll stick to it. Leveled spoons and all."

"You are getting better!" he replies, his voice just a touch too high. He's not lying, she is getting better. Her latest attempts didn't even taste toxic.

But then again, if she asked him to light himself on fire for her, he would probably do it, so what's a meal that's five times as spicy as it ought to be?

"Let me find a recipe." While she searches for a vase, he gets out his cookbook. It's not unlike his spell book, full of recipes in Gale's careful handwriting, some of them annotated with later discoveries. He chooses a simple chicken dish, and lays the book on the counter open to the proper page. "How's this?"

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