Work Text:
“Are you asking me to marry you?” you’d asked.
“Hah…I suppose I am,” he’d responded.
He’d carried on about how much Tara would love it, and of course his mother. Words to fill the silence while you’d found yourself bound in stunned silence; words to cover his nerves while you’d worked through the shock of having been asked to join his family.
Family…a real family. You’d never had one before. It had been an easy answer to give, a joyful one to give.
“I accept. I’ll marry you, Gale Dekarios.”
He’d begun to prattle on again in that way that you’d loved and it’d been impossible not to smile as he spoke about arrangements. That was until he’d said it.
“--And you’ll have invites of your own to send out, I’m sure…but that’s all to come.”
You’d not had much time to worry about it, though. Moments later he was kissing you, his fingers curled into the hair at the nape of your neck in that way that always made you melt. You could worry about this conversation another time, you’d told yourself.
But that time never came around. Gale had accepted his position as professor at Blackstaff, and you both had spent so many long nights on repairing the crown of Karsus so that he could finally be free of netherese magic inhabiting the space so dangerously close to his heart. The day Mystra cured him was one you’d remember forever, because you were both finally free of not only the danger looming over your love for one another, but from the ghost of the past Mystra had been since you’d met him.
But now? Now you felt regret.
Gale was working late–a problem student he took on as a project needed his help. He implored you for the umpteenth time to please finish your invitations. They really must be sent out, dearest, if our families are to have time to travel for the wedding.
How could you tell him you had nothing to send out? How could you explain that you didn’t come with a family; didn’t come with any kind of support system?
His mother had accepted you as one of her own so quickly. Tara had become just as doting and fussy over you as over the wizard himself. But you couldn’t give him that in return–with your there would be no inlaws, no great aunts, no distant cousins…no grandparents should you decide to have a family of your own one day…
You looked at the optimistic stack of parchment he’d left for you, the quills, two pots of ink. He’d even left you his very own signet ring to press the Dekarios clan crest into your sealing wax, so ready for you to join his family that he would let you claim his name prematurely.
You wondered if that would change once he knew…once he knew that you’d always been scrappy and alone before the tadpoles and nautiloid brought you and the others together. That was why you’d done everything that you did. It was why you helped Astarion destroy Cazador, why you did everything you could to figure out how to fix Karlach’s infernal engine, even now. It’s why you lifted the shadowcurse for Halsin and helped Wyll rescue his father. It’s why you’d urged Shadowheart to endure the pain of her curse…
Because they all had family, and with time they’d become your family. You’d wanted so long to have one, to have a reason to be good. No one had ever asked after you–where you’d come from, how you became who you were. And you were relieved to not have to tell the truth of the matter.
You were unloved.
Thrown away by a mother who couldn’t care for you and living off of scraps you could find in the streets or coin you could slip out of the pockets of strangers.
So all you could do was stare at that pile of parchment and try to scrape every recess of your memory for anyone; any single godsdamned person to send a wedding invitation to. Damn Gale Dekarios for sending off the ones for your old companions. At least you would have had something to show when he got home today.
In the end, you gave up. You took the time to put the fine linen parchment away and place the ink pots back on the shelf with the others. You placed the sharpened quills back in the glass goblet he kept dozens of others and…and simply placed the signet ring in the middle of his writing desk where he’d left you hours before.
And then you decided you would make dinner.
Gale always cooked, even after his longest of days. You’d offered to do it many times but he always insisted that he liked to cook. That he liked to feed you.
But the sun was setting lazily behind the Waterdhavian horizon, and Gale was certain to be exhausted after dealing with his problem student all evening. Dinner was the least you could do. Sure, you were never much of a cook, but it couldn’t be that hard to roast a chicken and some vegetables, right? There was certainly no shortage of recipe books in the tower. You were the savior of Baldur’s Gate, you’d taken down an elder brain! Certainly you could figure out cooking a bird.
You got to work.
Things seemed to be going pretty alright at the start of it, too. Coat the skin in butter and herbs; check. Scallop the potatoes; check? At least you thought that’s what a scalloped potato looked like. Blanch the asparagus…what did blanching mean?
Okay. No asparagus then. Gale could be a meat and potatoes man for one night, couldn’t he?
When you put the chicken and potatoes in the oven to roast and started working on reducing some red wine and spices for a sauce that things started to go south. Things started to go south very, very fast.
First, you realized the red you grabbed was not a Waterdhavian red as you’d thought, but a bottle of fire wine. Fire wine was already heavily spiced, so the the spices you added would be too much. Okay, okay–so, you would try again.
But when you lifted the saucepan to…hide the evidence somewhere, you also spilled that fire wine directly onto the stove, directly into the flame. You eyes landed on the quickly spilling liquid just as the puddle ignited.
“Oh, for fuc–”
The explosion was nothing less than spectacular; it sent you sprawling across the room, smashing into the brick wall on the other end of the kitchen. The room filled up with black smoke as you tried and failed to get back up to your feet. Your head was spinning and you could barely get a breath in your lungs.
Shit, shit, shit. You needed to get up. You needed to get up and figure out how to clean this up before Gale got home. He was no stranger to explosions, sure. But gods help the man or woman that prevented him from making his morning cup of tea and enjoying it at the kitchen table.
You steeled yourself. “Come on. Savior of Baldur’s gate. Come on, get up,” you said.
But as you slowly got up onto shaky legs you heard a familiar voice booming through the room. A second later, a great storm cloud formed above you and then doused the room in torrential rain. Your soft-soled boots caught on the wet tile floor and you slipped, falling to the ground again. Gale had casted Create Water.
“Nine hells,” he shouted as he ran over to you, cupping your sooty face in his rough hewn hands. “Are you alright, my love?”
His hands patted over your body, then. Your arms, your hands, bending and extending your legs, checking your ribs. “Is anything broken?”
“I’m fine,” you coughed out. “Just…wet. And embarrassed.”
“Better than being incinerated. Did I leave something out–we’re working on disarming traps in class and–”
“No, no,” you said. “I–I was just trying to make dinner.”
His face contorted into an expression that looked almost affronted. “Make dinner?” he said, sounding confused.
He looked back at the smouldering wreckage of his kitchen. “Oh no,” he said as he slumped onto his knees and slipped his hands into his wavy, brown hair. “What have you done?”
He must not have fully registered the room he’d doused, which you supposed was very sweet in it’s own way. He’d only hurried to make sure you were okay, he didn’t think for a moment on the damage. At least not at first.
“I just…I thought that you would like to come home to dinner prepared for you, for once. I was trying to surprise you,” you said.
“Well you most certainly succeeded in that, didn’t you?” he asked, his tone biting. “This is just what I needed after dealing with Jeremi all day. To leave a destroyed classroom to come home to a destroyed kitchen. Just–fantastic.”
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I just–”
“Tell me that you at least got your invitations done,” he snapped. “That this wasn’t some sorry excuse for a distraction from planning our wedding? That you didn’t destroy my kitchen and almost kill yourself and potentially Tara so that you could claim you forgot again?”
He looked at you, his brown eyes tired and a little sad. You almost wished you had been incinerated. You knew he didn’t need to use Detect Thoughts to read your mind. You were certain your expression said it all.
“Your silence speaks volumes,” he said as he stood up and started cataloging the extent of the damage.
You knew he’d just had a bad day, that the vitriol was more because of the late hours and the unpleasant surprise. The sharpness of his tone still cut like a knife. It was all you could do to sit there and watch him clean up after you.
You usually loved to watch him do little mundane tasks with his magic. You found the delicate flourishes of his hands so charming, loved the spark of joy in his eyes as the weave spun to meet him. But watching him now, watching his sharp, staccato movements as he zipped recipe books back into place and disappeared broken glass into some pocket dimension…you felt like an utter failure of a partner to him.
You just sat there while he worked, wanting to get up and help, but afraid that another sharp comment would eviscerate you. You’d had disagreements with him before, of course. And he had been sharp with you about a few of your more adventurous choices (he still brought up the time you licked a dead spider once in a while.) But he had never been truly, truly angry with you. Not like this.
He opened the demolished stove and took out the raw bird sitting on the bed of potatoes. He hissed out a tight breath and brought a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
“I have a feeling I am not ready to hear the answer to this question, but have you changed your mind?” he asked.
The question took you by surprise. “Changed my mind?” you asked. “About what?”
“What do you think?” he snapped, looking at you. “About the wedding. About…about marrying me.”
“What?” you asked. “Of course I haven’t changed my mind, why would you ever think something like that? I’m more excited than I’ve ever been to be a part of your family.”
“Then why?” he asked. “Why have you been avoiding writing your invitations. I have asked you to do them at least half a dozen times now, and every time you have some excuse to tell me. ‘Oh, I just got caught up in this book.’ ‘Sorry, dearest–the tadpole headache strikes again.’ And now? Now dinner?”
“Is it a crime for me to want to make dinner for my intended?” you said.
“My love. My flawless, exquisite, darling,” he said. “You are many things. A gifted fighter, an astonishing leader, an excellent dancer, and none too shabby beneath the sheets. But you. Are not. A cook. I allowed you to cook ONE time. A singular time in our travels together and do you remember what happened?”
You pouted. “Everyone got sick,” you grumbled in a low voice.
“YES! Everyone GOT SICK,” he shouted. “Everyone got so sick that we had to spend THREE DAYS in camp. And do you remember what you swore to me that day?”
“That I would never cook for people again,” you said.
“THAT YOU WOULD NEVER COOK FOR PEOPLE AGAIN!” he shouted triumphantly. “So then, why, my love. Why would you be cooking now if not to avoid sending your wedding invitations? And why would you want to avoid sending your invitations unless you had changed your mind about spending the remainder of your days with me?”
You nibbled on your lip and exhaled, looking down at your soot-covered hands.
“I don’t…” you said, almost choking on the words, almost looking for a lie. “Gale, I don’t have anyone to send invitations to. And every time I think to tell you that, I get terrified that you’ll realize the mistake you made in proposing to someone who brings nothing to the table.”
“No one to send invitations to?” he asked, seeming surprised. He looked at you with a quirked eyebrow. “No, I’m sure that isn’t true. We’ve talked about your family before, haven’t we?”
“Not that I remember,” you said.
“During our travels, you…we…we shared stories,” he said. “All of those times around the campfire. The nights alone between us.”
You watched as his eyes became distant, as if he’s searching his memory for some cache of data he’s stored about you. He smoothed his hand over his chin before covering his mouth with his hand. His brow furrowed and his expression saddened before he dropped his hand and crossed his arms.
“Gods,” he said. “Every story you told us, everything you shared…tales of treachery, of bar fights and street brawls, the times you told us you almost lost a hand. All the times you told us about those…strange meals you would scrounge up with that glimmer of warm nostalgia in your eyes.”
He walked slowly over to you and kneeled in front of where you sat, still soaked to the bone and covered in soot. He took your hand in his and squeezed your fingers.
“I may be an impressive scholar, but I am a fool, my love,” he said. “All of this time together and I was always so caught up in how lovely it felt to be truly accepted and understood. All the times you told me that I was enough for you as I am and I couldn’t even spare the proper courtesy of asking you about your family. You must think me an ogre of a man.”
You forced a little airy laugh from your lungs and shrugged. “Not much to tell about,” you said weakly, swallowing as your throat became uncomfortably tight. “Nothing really at all.”
You bit the inside of your lip and looked down at your hands again, willing yourself not to cry. You promised yourself a long time ago not to cry over this anymore. No one got to pick their hand in life, it was useless to cry over it.
Gale cupped your cheek in his hand, angling your chin up again so you’d meet his eyes again. “I asked you to write invites to a family you didn’t have. Then you tried to make dinner for me when you couldn’t do it, and I shouted at you for ruining my kitchen. Please forgive me, my love. I have been a miserable, self-centered ass.”
“I’ll forgive you if you forgive me for ruining your kitchen?” you offered.
“You have yourself a bargain,” he said.
He leaned in, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss was soft at first; chaste, even. It reminded you of your first kiss with the girl who sold papers in the lower city. But then it changed. He scooped the hand cupping your chin back into your hair, curling the locks around his fingers before smoothing his free hand up your thigh, gripping your leg and pulling you closer.
He hitched you up onto his hips and stood, still surprisingly strong despite the more sedentary life you both were living these days. You draped your arms over his shoulders, loosely hooking your fingers together as you tilted your head, parting your lips to breathe in that ever present scent of cinnamon and warm tea.
He let out a low hum, the sound of his buzzing against your mouth.
He parted from the kiss and pressed his forehead against yours as he sat you down on the charred countertop. “You are lovely,” he said. “Your beauty, your generosity? As intoxicating as any glass of wine.”
You let out a little huff and are surprised when you feel a few drops of wetness fall onto your cheeks. Gale tuts, backing up just far enough to swipe that wetness away with the rough pad of his thumb. “I’m so sorry,” you said. “I…I never cry.”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” he said. “Don’t you even think about it.”
You gave a sheepish smile and exhaled, nodding once.
“You know what?” he said. “The kitchen can wait.”
“But your morning tea…” you said.
“Tomorrow, you and I will get tea together at that little bakery I haven’t had a chance to show you, yet. And tonight? Tonight we’ll walk to the vendor down the road, we’ll get some delicious Waterdhavian street food and we won’t think at all about the origin of said food, trust me, it’s not worth it,” he said. “And then we will cuddle up on the balcony and I will ask you extensively and exhaustively about your life before you met me.”
“What if you don’t like what you hear?” you asked. “What if I was never honest, or smart? What if I didn’t have a wholesome youth like you did?”
“My love,” he said. “When you met me I was a man with a tadpole in my brain and an orb in my chest that would level the whole of Waterdeep if I didn’t eat your precious magic artefacts. I was a man who tried to become a god, and when I thought of making the same mistake a second time, you’re the one who talked sense back into me. You’re the one who showed me that I was worthy of love, just like this.”
You smiled and nodded as he kissed your forehead. “You’re a remarkable wizard of great renown,” you teased.
“I’m just a man, and a teacher with a student who seems intent on torturing me,” he said. “I’m also remarkably humble.”
“And?” you said.
“And nothing you do or say could make me stop loving you,” he said, “Not even you…destroying my beautiful, wonderful kitchen.”
“I thought I was forgiven,” you said with a look.
“I have most certainly forgiven, but I have not yet forgotten, my love,” he said.
“Perhaps I could remedy that tonight, after your questions,” you suggested, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Give you a bit of a distraction.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you made me forget something with your diversions,” he said. “That sounds like the perfect way to end the night.”
“Well, then, let’s get cleaned up and go buy some of that questionable food,” you said.
“With pleasure.”