Work Text:
He is struggling with the leather tie, cursing under his breath, when he sees a familiar pair of boots stop before the half-open tent flap. It's early - he hadn't been able to sleep much, the orb snarling hungrily every half-hour or so - so to see her awake and moving about is unexpected.
“Gale?” she calls. “Is everything all right?”
He gives up on the dratted tie and emerges from his tent, shaking his now too-long hair ruefully. He'd been ignoring it for months, despite Tara’s endless nagging. Like any cat, she had a firm belief in proper grooming. The battle royale over his beard had ended in detente, and that only because he had left her with Blackcloak.
“I'm perfectly well, only sick of this mop falling into my face at inopportune moments. It was manageable a month ago, when our… adventure began, but no longer. Perhaps it's time to do away with it entirely.”
At this, Niamh cocks a skeptical eyebrow. Her left one, it's only ever her left. He finds himself noticing these things, finds his eyes on her even when she's speaking with the others or working on her own.
“No,” she says, humming softly - always humming - as she eyes his unruly hair thoughtfully. “Were you trying to tie it up?”
“I was. Imagine my disgust to find I couldn't manage such a simple task. Indeed after a few attempts my arms began to tire, though how I could not tell you. I don't quite understand how I can lift a heavy pack or flip an iron pan, but can't manage to hold my own arms above my head for longer than a minute or two without fatigue. Perhaps the mechanism…” he trails off as he sees her trying and failing to hide a smile.
“That's quite normal,” she assures him. “I learned how to do it so long ago I hardly remember, but it's not a natural movement. Can I show you?”
She holds out her hand for the tie and he feels a spasm of guilt. She is always doing this, always helping, always noticing when he needs help, and he never can do enough for her. She never seems to need anything, self-sufficient and closed away.
Well. Not entirely closed away. He remembers with sudden clarity the warmth and directness of her gaze at the party, the small touches and smiles and jokes in the tendays since. He remembers the sweetness of her lips in the Weave in almost unbearable detail and is horrified to find his face flushing at the memory.
She drops her hand, seeing his hesitation. “Or, we can ask Lae’zel for something sharp and cut it all off for you. What do you think?”
“No, no,” he huffs an embarrassed laugh. “I'm sorry, you're very good to offer. In fact I was trying something akin to how Lae’zel wears her hair - only the front parts pulled away from her face. How is that done?”
He hands her the tie and is surprised when she pivots to fold herself gracefully onto the rug in front of his tent.
“Here,” she turns to pat the cushion behind her, “sit behind me and watch how I do it.”
He sits obediently and a good deal less gracefully - curse these creaky old knees, maybe he will finally take Halsin up on the offer to look at them - as she swiftly undoes her upper braid to let her hair hang free.
She has beautiful hair. It flows back from her curving, silver-grey horns to end below her shoulders in a gentle wave. It's white, cloud-white with a hint of storm grey at her temples and throughout the length, though in the flickering torchlight it shines with the colors of the fire. He has spent substantial time around tieflings, Waterdeep bustles with all kinds of people, but he has never seen one of her coloring.
Karlach had asked her, once, about her lineage. White hair and bluefire eyes, with a warm copper skin, pointed to an unusual infernal bloodline. Niamh had said very little, as was her way when asked about herself or her history - only that she hadn't grown up with other tieflings during her childhood in Silverymoon, and didn't know anything interesting or useful about her background.
He wonders again about her life, who she was and who she is, as she shakes her hair loose and holds up the tie.
“Are you watching?” she asks.
“Always,” he replies, and once again blushes at the slip.
He hears the smile in her voice as she instructs him to follow the motion of her hands. She deftly parts, twists, and ties the upper half of her hair into a neat bun, then undoes it and repeats the motion to make sure he has seen it.
It is far less complicated than any of the somatic gestures required for spellcasting, and he feels a surge of irritation that he found it so difficult at first. Surely a prodigy like himself ought to be able to manage something so simple without aid, he thinks, with the thread of shame and self-loathing that has woven itself into almost every waking moment.
She has turned to see if he's paying attention and he sees her face briefly contract with… not pity, but pain, as she watches him. He summons a smile of thanks and takes the tie from her.
“I think I should be able to manage with some practice now. My undying gratitude, lady, as always.”
She looks at him silently for another moment, and then she turns away from him again but remains seated. “Yes, practice. Repetition and study. You can begin now. See if you can tie my hair up properly.”
He freezes, of course. “What? You don't need to - that is, I don't mind practicing on myself, you've already been - I don't - ”
“Gale. Hush. Just try it a few times. Don't pull too tight.”
He hushes, and slowly, carefully allows his fingers to pull back her hair. It is fine, and heavy, and silky in his hands and he suddenly can't quite remember how to breathe. He hears her humming again, sweet and soothing, and he thinks of the Weave. Of gossamer filaments and the faint scent of rosewater, of remote beauty and perfection.
He gently twists her hair, applies the tie, and realizes that it is not remoteness or perfection that he desires, not any longer. It is the softness of her hair, the weight and scent of it, like apples and salt, that he wants; it is the quiet sense of trust and peace as they sit on the ground, together, alone. He sees a nick in one of her horns near its tip, probably from catching a blow meant for him or one of the others, and feels a strange contracting sensation in his chest. The orb, however, is oddly quiet.
“Good!” she says, sensing he has finished. “Take it out and try it again.”
He does. She continues to hum in what he now understands is relaxation, and pleasure at his touch. So he can do something for her after all. He knows he can't go much farther than this, and she knows it too. She's been channeling any frustration into combat or her violin sufficiently well that he can't really tell if she's bothered by his inability to be physical. He himself has a lifetime of mental discipline to bolster him through this sort of thing, this drawn-out self-denial. Despite this, it daily becomes more difficult not to declare himself, orb be damned.
He ties and reties her hair, gently touching her in the only way he can, until it becomes apparent that the rest of the camp is waking. It's impossible to tell the time of day in the Underdark, and though there's enough strangeness here to satisfy his curiosity for a lifetime, he is glad they'll be leaving for the mountain pass and Lae'zel's creche once they finish up their business at Grymforge.
She sighs. “We'd better get armed and armored soon. Another day awaits.” She turns again to smile at him, and he knows without the aid of the tadpole that her thoughts have run similar to his. Then she scoots to the side and pats the spot where she's just been sitting.
“Your turn.”
At this point he is too relaxed to argue - an almost entirely new state of being for Gale Dekarios - and slides off his cushion onto the rug. It still holds the warmth of her body and he does his best not to focus on this too much.
She settles herself on the cushion behind him. Her touch in his hair nearly makes him gasp, despite the fact he'd been expecting it. She is running her fingers through it, stroking, gently pulling tangles loose, and he closes his eyes to lose himself in the sensation. Her hands are strong and dextrous, musician's hands, and he has not felt a touch like this in so, so long.
At this point she has gone from humming to murmuring a full-blown lullaby and he laughs.
“This is hardly the way to prepare me for battle.”
She laughs back at him, quiet and delighted. She sounds happy, and that something in his chest squeezes again.
“You've got lovely hair,” she remarks. “It's got so many colors in it. Brown, red, silver. It reminds me of some of the old trees around Silverymoon.”
“Silver unfortunately becoming a predominant shade,” he quips.
“Yes, but I like it.” And then, so quietly he can hardly hear it, “Stress and pain and terror will have that effect. I wish I could help.”
She finishes her twisting and tying and drops her hands into her lap. He feels their absence keenly - he suspects he probably always will, now - and impulsively turns to take one in his.
“You help so much, every day, in so many ways I'll never be able to count them or thank you for them.” He looks earnestly into her strange eyes, willing her to believe him. “But I'll do my best to be of use as long as you need me, as long as I can.”
Her mouth curves into a half-smile, strangely sad.
“You don't have to be of use. I'm just glad and grateful you're here.”
She pushes off the ground, still holding his hand, and pulls him up after her.
“Though undoubtedly your aim with that firebolt will improve now that your hair isn't falling into your eyes,” she comments, examining him. “It looks good. You're not intending to change anything else, are you? The beard?”
“Oh no,” he laughs in protest, “the beard stays. I fought hard with Tara to keep it.”
She bites her lip and, to his shock, reaches up and cups his face in her hand. Her thumb brushes feather-soft under his cheekbone.
“Good.”
They stand like that for a moment, eyes locked, his hand making its way up to her wrist and holding her there. The orb chooses this moment to flare to life, pinching and twisting horribly until he can't help but wince, and she seems to come to herself and takes her hand away.
“I'm sorry,” she says. “I know better.”
“So do I,” he replies. “But I can't bring myself to regret it.”