Work Text:
For the very little that Gale knew about Shadowheart - for she kept much of herself close to her chest like a curled up cat - he knew she must have been very diligent with her hair. He did not stare at her, thank you very much, especially not when she was slicing foes in the heat of battle with her morningstar, but he hadn’t seen her with a single hair out of place all the same.
It must have been difficult work, or at the very least she was skilled at keeping her plait sleek and her fringe nicely coiffed. He should know; his mother had unfortunately insisted he take on a sort of modified bowl cut - fringe included - when he was twelve because it was ‘incredibly in fashion right now’. His classmates disagreed. It did not help matters that his hair curled in such a way it looked like his forehead was hit by a twister each morning. So, he knew what difficulties came with her haircut. It was impressive, really. Even during their long evening conversations, even when her hair was more frumpled than usual or it lacked the delicate pining that usually accentuated her plait, her fringe was always perfect.
He wondered, as she wiped an old rag over her morningstar to clean the blood from it, if he should ask for her secret. It truly fascinated him. But before he could make a decision she saw him staring, her nose furrowing in the way it did when she was uncertain. Then she was dusting her fingers lightly through her fringe, ensuring it was in place, and turning on her heel to follow Karlach and Astarion into the wizard’s tower.
Of course, nothing along their journey was ever easy; it took naught but a few steps into the tower for the two of them to get cornered behind a triggered trap, no doubt meant to keep intruders at bay. Or rounded up until the master of the tower returned to exact her punishment.
Shadowheart cursed. Gale tried to push away from her but to no avail. The space was, simply put, tiny.
“Are you both alright?”
“No,” Shadowheart grumped.
“Don’t worry, darlings, we’ll look for a way to disarm this. Stay put,” Astarion chuffed.
The footsteps of their companions receded, along with their (or, he should say Karlach’s) worried voices.
He tried moving his leg to give her more space, but instead kneed her in the thigh.
“Sorry! Sorry, I -”
A move of his hand in the small space and he was brushing against her forehead. He winced, and kept his eyes closed, which did not help matters.
“ Gale ,” he stopped, “Alright. Good. Now just -”
He let her adjust him to her preferences, leaving his back flush with the wall opposite her, his hands on either side of her head. This gave her room to push herself against the other wall, sliding down just a bit to ease the tension in her legs. Even still, her lips were much too close to his own.
That was when he noticed it. Her fringe. Stuck with sweat at all angles, some of it brushed off to the side, some sticking straight up.
Her forehead was a shade lighter than the rest of her (visible - oh gods, don’t think about the invisible ) skin, pockmarked from either acne or old wounds, pale and a bit damp from their recent excursions. There was nothing more he wanted to do than to kiss her there.
Her nose scrunched up, “You’re staring. Again .”
He was. And he couldn’t look away.
“I - um - well -”
She brushed her fingers against her fringe - an old habit, no doubt - and blushed. She tried pushing some of it back into place, but his hand was over hers before she could.
“What are you -”
“You’re beautiful,” he breathed, and couldn’t find it in himself to be bashful for it.
She turned from him, and her cheek barely brushed past his nose, “You’re - I look ridiculous.”
“Not at all. It’s -”
The trap came down. They were pulled apart but the force of their weights pushing past each other. The moment was over.
“You alright?” Karlach asked, sprinting back into the room, and then with a giggle, “Shadowheart! Your fringe!”
Shadowheart frowned, desperately working to put it back into place.
“I know, I know ,” she scowled.
But this time, as she fluffed them back into place, she looked hesitantly over to Gale.
He hoped - desperately, deliriously hoped - that she would let him see her like that again.