What it is like to date Dr. Jack Abbot as a member of the Pitt Crew
Your relationship developed after you started working a rotation on the night shift with him. You impressed him, gaining his respect and admiration. He endeared himself to you with his sarcasm and pleasantly blunt way of communicating.
This mans is absolutely the kind of person to show his affection through acts of service. When you first grow close, he shows it with little things at work. He'll get coffee for you, hand you a protein bar mid-shift when he knows you haven't eaten. As things progress it turns into him giving you rides home and offering to pick you up on the way there.
Once you two are really in a relationship those little things grow. If there's something in your life that needs to be fixed, he probably saw it before you did and already fixed. Your car due for an oil change? Done the day the light turns on. Bulb in your kitchen light out? It's changed within six hours. He never brings it up, just does it. You of course catch on and thank him anyway.
People think that Jack isn't a good communicator, they're wrong. He is not particularly talkative. However, when it matters he will say it. Any time something important comes up with your relationship, he will address it directly. While he is very good at showing you how much he loves, he also makes sure to tell you.
Jack loves the days when you come home with him after work. There is such a relief to knowing that you will be by his side when he gets home. That he'll have you laying next to him in bed. That when he wakes up you will be there. Even if you steal blankets or snore, it doesn't matter to him. Some days, all he wants is warmth of your body next to his.
Jack may not engage in any workplace gossip about your relationship, but he is not hiding it. He does not want to answer any invasive questions about the two of you and will brush anyone off that asks. If you go out with the team after work though, he will spend the entire time right by your side. Likely with an arm around your waist or hand resting at your back.
One of the things that makes him feel the most loved is casual physical contact. That doesn't mean he wants you to be all over him at work or anything like that. But he loves when you lean into his touch as he puts an arm around you. When you press a quick kiss to his cheek before the two of you walk into work. When you lean into his chest while the two of you are sitting on the couch together.
It is no secret that Jack has been to hell and back and still suffers because of it. The first few times you witness this, it's hard. You want to be there for him and you don't know how to be. Jack doesn't really know how to let you be. He ends up asking you to come to see his therapist with him for a session. His therapist helps facilitate a discussion between the two of you to find ways that you're both comfortable with to help support Jack when things get hard.
One of the harder things for Jack to learn is how to let you help him. He thinks nothing of cleaning for you, cooking for you, getting you a little treat on the way to work. But the idea of you doing any of those things for him? Insane. He warms to it eventually, but it takes time. He struggles with the idea of someone wanting to take care of him the way he wants to take care of you.
Jack is by no means a jealous man, but he will be a protective one. If he sees you laughing and with a coworker it doesn't bother him. In fact, it makes him happy to see you happy. If he sees you at all uncomfortable though, the slightest tense of your shoulders or frown, he's there in a second. By your side, not interjecting, but there if you need him. You want to head out for night with your friends? He's telling you to have fun and then asking you to give everyone his number just in case.
jason todd x gn!reader - some light angst and comfort with my darling husband, short and sweet!! cws: human trafficking mention (brief)
nicknames used for reader: baby, doll
It’s your anniversary.
It’s your anniversary, and Jason is still gone on some stupid mission.
Bruce put him up to it, investigating Penguin’s new imported goods, suspecting it was a human trafficking operation. Even if Bruce doesn’t condone lethality, he certainly wouldn’t scold Jason for bringing about his sort of justice in this case, so long as he kept the Bats unaware of the gritty details.
Ignorance is bliss, you suppose. But it wasn’t supposed to be dangerous yet. He was supposed to go undercover and check the records for the date the shipment would arrive, and that’s all. He should’ve been home before dinnertime.
Yet, here you are, waiting up in the living room, as the clock ticks slowly. It’s almost midnight. You can feel your head starting to throb, your eyelids drooping.
Right as you feel yourself start to go limp, slumped over the arm of the couch and drifting off, the door opens.
You jolt, blinking a few times to wake up and yawning. “Jay?”
He’s stumbling in, looking like he’s just run a marathon, clutching his abdomen and tossing his helmet aside. “Baby,” He starts, voice thick in that way where you just know he feels like the worst person in the world.
You get up (albeit moving a little slowly, still shaking off fatigue) to inspect Jason, frowning deeply when he winces. “Jay, you’re hurt. What’s wrong, is it a wound, or is something broken?”
Jason swallows thickly. Looks down at you like he holds ten tons of guilt on his shoulders, eyes shining with tears he refuses to shed. “I’m fine, I just got caught up with some lackeys and had to file a report with B. But you’re not. I blew you off, and on our anniversary too, and that’s not… Okay.”
“Jason, sweetheart,” You start, breathless as you take his hand away from his abdomen and see he’s not bleeding. “I don’t care. I just want you to come home safe.”
Jason licks his lips nervously, searching for the words he can’t manage to spit out, but you just shake your head. “You- you’re saving people. If you blew me off to go… I don’t know, drink with Roy or something-”
Jason frowns deeply. “I wouldn’t do that.”
You sigh, cupping his cheek with a hand. “I know, it was an example. An example of a shitty thing to do, something I’d be mad about. But I can’t be mad at this, love.”
Jason sniffles, and you feel your heart ache. “…I still feel like shit about it. Can I make it up to ya, doll?”
“Yeah, baby,” You murmur, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead (with some effort, considering how Jason towers over most people). “Whatever you want. Just stay with me tonight.”
———
Jason Todd Taglist (if you’d like to be added, comment and say so!):
summary: Mr. Scamander introduces you to his bowtruckle...and he may or may not be falling for you as he does.
warnings: none :)
“You have a bowtruckle in your pocket.”
Newt halts in his fiddling with the locks on his case and looks up at you through the wispy, caramel hair that’s constantly obscuring his eyes from your view. You’re perched on one of Tina and Queenie’s dining room chairs. Jacob carried it into the living room for you earlier when you all first arrived. Newt had offered you his seat on the well-worn, but plush lounge, but you had refused, stating that you can handle having a conversation without a cushion, thank you very much.
Your legs are crossed daintily at the ankles, and you lean forward as you consider Newt. Or, more specifically, Pickett, who has clambered up his shoulder to huddle shyly behind his neck. Only the creature’s eyes and the sprig on top of his head can be seen, and you smile sweetly when you make eye contact. Newt blinks at the way your perfectly curled hair flutters around your eyes like curtains in the breeze when you move. He can tell you’re curious, and realizes that you’ve never seen a bowtruckle before. The corner of his mouth turns up fondly at the thought.
“That I do,” he responds, shifting in his crouch as he finishes locking up his case.
“Why?”
Newt finds himself blinking once again at the bluntness of your question, and he tilts his head up to look at you fully. Your gaze meets his inquisitively, and he’s quick to look back down before you can see the blush spreading across his cheeks. He rolls out of his crouch with a small sigh until he’s sitting on the ground with his back against the lounge, legs spread out in front of him. “Well,” he starts, “I keep bowtruckles in my case, but Pickett has what Queenie calls ‘attachment issues.’”
You raise your eyebrows and an amused smile creeps across your face. “Attachment issues,” you repeat, encouraging him to elaborate.
Newt backtracks, eyes flicking to the ceiling as he thinks of a way to explain. He holds his hand up in front of his shoulder, encouraging Pickett to wrap his spindly limbs around his thumb and pull himself up. Once his little friend is standing comfortably on his palm, Newt runs a gentle finger over the sprout at the top of his head. “He doesn’t like his tree,” he clarifies simply.
You chuckle softly and lean forward out of your chair to get a closer look. “But aren’t bowtruckles guardians of their trees?” you ask. A pleased warmth spreads through Link’s chest at your knowledge of one of his creatures. You laugh again when he nods in confirmation. “Why doesn’t he like his tree?”
“He says the other bowtruckles bully him.” Newt shifts to cradle Pickett in both of his hands and sits up, crossing his legs. He regards you with a small smirk, green eyes twinkling with mischief. “But I have a suspicion that he’s actually just sensitive.” He whispers the last part as if it’s a secret, making you giggle and Pickett whirl around to glare adorably at his keeper.
Newt frowns right back down at him. “What?” he asks incredulously. “You and I both know it’s true.” You’re absolutely delighted when the bowtruckle blows a raspberry, and Newt rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Again, that behavior is so beneath you, Pickett.”
You snicker and slide off of the dining chair and to the floor so you’re sitting next to Newt on one hip, with both of your legs folded on top of each other. The magizoologist flushes bright red from the tips of his ears to his chest when you settle next to him, despite you maintaining a respectable distance between the two of you. He’s glad you’re too occupied with mesmerizing Pickett to notice his current state—The little creature had shied away from you when you first moved closer, but now he’s watching in fascination as you conjure flowers about the size of the pads of Newt’s fingers out of the tip of your wand. Pickett watches them all the way as they shoot up to the ceiling only to gently float back down to the floor.
“So,” You shoot a baby blue flower across the room, causing Pickett to reel around in search of it, “Does that make you Pickett’s tree?”
Newt whips his head around to look at you with wide, green eyes. “What?” he splutters. You grin at his reaction and unthinkingly magick an array of tiny, yellow flowers to rain around Pickett. The soft petals tickle Newt’s hands when the flowers land in them, and he finds he quite likes the feeling.
“Like I said,” you continue, “bowtruckles live to guard their trees. And if Pickett is always with you…” You fix him with a teasing smile underneath your lashes, “...that makes you his tree.”
Newt gapes at you, jaw moving up and down as he tries in vain to come up with something to respond with. What does one say when a beautiful acquaintance compares you to a tree? He swallows to clear his dry mouth and mumbles: “I suppose it does.”
Your lips spread into a wide smile and you snicker giddily at the baffled expression on the magizoologist’s face. At this point, Pickett has clambered up the lapels of Newt’s white collared shirt so he’s perched on his collarbone. And while you look back at the creature, Newt finds it impossible for him to tear his gaze from you. You twirl your fingers in a “hello” to Pickett, and if his heart wasn’t already melting at that small movement, the way your nose crinkles when you smile warms him completely. Newt’s mouth twitches up once again, and this time a glint of his teeth shines through his smile.
A breathy laugh escapes from his lips when you raise your wand and resume your flower shower. You look back at him at the sound, smile dropping slightly when you see the way Mr. Scamander is looking at you.
You’ve only known him for a couple of days, but from what you’ve seen, he’s never held a significant amount of eye contact with anyone. He tends to keep his head bowed, raising his eyes only for certain amounts of necessary eye contact. This close, you can see flecks of golden-brown hidden in his forest green eyes, like the first hints of autumn that appear in September. You find yourself searching for every last one of the beautiful imperfections while he maintains stunned eye contact with you. You get to see up close as his eyes soften, beholding you as if for the first time.
Newt’s eyes flick down to your lips briefly before raising back up to yours, and your cheeks flame at the minuscule gesture. You look down at your lap in an attempt to hide your flaming cheeks and notice Newt doing the same out of the corner of your eye.
“Miss (l/n)?” Newt’s quiet, husky voice penetrates your being, and you stop tapping your knee nervously. You look back up at him through your lashes to let him know you heard him and his eyes falter from his own lap to your eyes and then back again before he smiles bashfully. “Would you like to meet the rest of my creatures?”
A soft, but still shy smile spreads across your face. “I would love to.”
A full-on grin breaks across Newt’s face and he scrambles to his feet, gently guiding Pickett up until he’s perched on his shoulder. Then, he holds out a hand to you, and you smile as you allow him to pull you to your feet. Neither of you are quick to let go of the other’s hand, and you find you quite like the feel of his worked, calloused fingers in yours.
Newt’s the one who lets go first, but it’s only to reach down and flick the locks of his battered case back open. You watch as he pries it open and lets the top end fall to the floor with a thump. He stands back up to his full height and huffs out a breath and you look at him curiously when you feel him look back at you with a subtle smile. “Ready?” he asks.
Your heart flutters, and you feel like the sudden lightness in your chest has the power to lift you off the ground. “Ready.”
~*~
Jacob steps over the Goldstein’s threshold with a relieved groan and holds the door open for Queenie. He scans the living room tiredly, and what he sees has him suddenly much more awake. His jaw drops slightly, but he schools himself enough to say, “Um…Queen?”
“Hm?” Queenie bounces clumsily into the flat after him. She catches Jacob’s shoulder to stop herself from tripping over her own two feet, and her blue eyes widen as she takes in the living room. “Oh, dear.”
“‘Oh dear?’” Jacob parrots, closing the door behind his girlfriend. “What the hell happened in here?” When the two of them and Tina had left two hours before, the Goldstein’s living room was meticulously clean, thanks to the elder of the two sisters. Now, it looks like a meadow exploded. What seems like thousands of flowers lay scattered across the carpet and the furniture, most of them concentrated around Newt’s closed case in the middle of the floor.
Queenie’s careful as she walks further into the room, for some reason doing her best not to step on the tiny blossoms. “We’re lucky Teeny got called in,” she chimes. “I’m sure she wouldn’t be happy to see this.” She snorts softly and then giggles, returning to her examination of the sitting room-turned-field. “I just don’t know why either of ‘em woulda done it.”
Jacob turns around in a slow circle, face still scrunched up comically. “Where the hell are they?”
Queenie squints when she frowns. “I don’t know.” Her eyes flick down to Newt’s case laying inconspicuously in the middle of the carpet. She grins toothily and hums at her epiphany before scurrying over to the case and kneeling in its surrounding flowers.
“Don’t tell Newt I did this,” she whispers as she points her wand at the case and mutters, “Alohomora.” The locks flip open with a satisfying click, and Jacob walks over to join Queenie in peering down into Newt’s garden shed.
Queenie then proceeds to tip the entire top half of her body over the side of the case so her torso is dangling over the edge and into the other world.
Jacob splutters and grabs hold of the back of her calves just as she starts to slide. “Jesus, Queen, what’re you doin’?” he hisses, keeping his voice down in case Newt is close to the shed.
“Whoops!” is the only explanation she gives. Jacob sighs tiredly.
“There are a lot easier ways to do this, you know. Like climbing down the ladder.”
Queenie ignores him and turns her head to the side, blonde curls swishing into her face as she does. She blows harshly to get them to fall back out of her eyes before stilling once again, blue eyes flicking around the shed as she searches the thoughts of the different creatures in Newt’s tiny world.
It doesn’t take her long to find the two of you, but one, simple word reigns supreme:
Pretty.
Queenie smiles as the warm feeling you and Newt are taken with fills her up like a balloon. She swings herself back up into the apartment, and Jacob rips his hands off of her legs to avoid being sat on. Yours and Newt’s thoughts die down until all she can feel is Jacob’s confusion and Mrs. Esposito’s frustration because apparently Janey downstairs brought another boy in without permission.
Jacob frowns when he sees the way Queenie is smiling. “What?” he asks. She huffs and shrugs, still smiling, and Jacob raises his eyebrows at her slightly-crazed state. Her bob is now more of a frizzy pom-pom look and she’s practically twitching with excitement as what she just felt whips through her head like a summer storm.
“We best not bother those two for a while,” is her only explanation.
********25 days of Christmas imagine ******
Imagine: talking Spicy to Santa aka your husband while he's delivering packages on Christmas Eve.
Modern technology was amazing, three hundred years ago. Even two hundred years ago. you couldn't reach your Love. on Christmas Eve, he was busy delivering packages to all the good little girls and boys. But Now there were cell phones.
But you loved walkie-talkies. you haven't gone around the world delivering packages with Nick for years. you hated it, it was Cold, and icy,.. But this year. he asked you to come. So you happily agreed. it was Cold, Wet and Icy, and all together Icky. But! you loved the fur-lined blanket the northern lights on full display for just the two of you. snuggling up with your Guy. it wasn't that bad.
When Nick would be down in a house or apartment you would have the walkie talkie on, just in case their was trouble Most of the time their wasn't. Most of the time you just sit. Shivering under the blanket in your thick winter gear. wishing Nick would Hurry up so you could steal his body heat.
Nick was taking forever as you grabbed the walkie as you spoke into it, "What’s the difference between you and the Grinch? The Grinch stole Christmas, but you’ve stolen my heart?"
you knew that cheesy Christmas pick up would put a smile on his face. and also remind him to hurry up. as you pulled the blanket closer to your chin waiting for him. to other reappear or to respond.
seconds it took a few second. as he spoke, "I'm almost done sweetcakes." and to his word he was a few minutes later as they returned and you helped him back into the carriage as you clinged to him as he chuckled kissing your head going to the next house. that time, when he was in the house. fumbling around you grabbed the walkie talkie as you spoke into it "wanna scrooge?"
you grinned knowing he would instantly get it. you both just watched Christmas Carol a few hours ago.
"really is that all you got?"
you grinned brightly knowing that it was now a challenge. How many dirty turn-ons can you say before he gets to flustered? So at every House, you did a new Dirty Flirty joke to get his attention. And Every Joke.. Nick ignored you ,
"I Wanna sit on the North Pole tonight."
"What do you say we make this A Not so Silent Night?"
"You'd be the first gift i unwrap this Christmas."
"How about you Shimmy down my Chimney tonight?"
"If your left leg is thanksgiving and your right leg is Christmas, can i come visit you between the holidays?"
"I want you to fill me up with Christmas Spirit" that one you were sure He would say something but Nothing. Nick was Silient. when he came up every time he would kiss your head and move tot he next house.
"you know what Elves and I have in common? we're both good with our hands."
again Nothing. it was the last house in this town when you spoke into the walkie talkie again, "you looking to get fa-la-la-la-la-la-la laid?"
hearing the static from the radio you look down stunned as he responded, "Come on, now. Sweetie. we want to keep you on the Good list." you chuckled as he soon returned you smiled brightly as he chuckled as you smiled lifting the blanket up as he climbed in as you spoke, 'took you long enough to respond. I was about to run out of Dirty hit ons."
Nick chuckled as he spoke, 'i'm surpirsed you knew that many! now will youlet me unwrap my christmas gift early while were over the sea?"
Summary: Aryn, a self-taught mage with wild, instinctive magic, crosses paths with Gale, a brilliant but burdened wizard whose life is tethered to a volatile arcane secret. What begins as an uneasy alliance deepens into a partnership of intellect, trust, and unspoken yearning as they challenge each other’s beliefs—and slowly unravel the walls around their hearts. Together, they discover that the most powerful magic isn’t found in tomes or incantations, but in the quiet understanding between two souls brave enough to truly see one another.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
It had been weeks since Elminster left the tower, and in that time, the air inside had changed.
The man’s absence was still felt — in the stray notes left scrawled in margins, in the way the tea kettle occasionally brewed itself, and in the now-faded arcane chalk he’d once flung across the practice chamber with theatrical flair. But what remained more strongly was the shape of what he’d stirred between them.
Aryn and Gale had fallen into a rhythm since then — long hours of shared research, evenings hunched over arcane blueprints with soft lamplight and scribbled corrections. The tower hummed with quiet energy, not from casting, but from companionship. Comfortable silences. Familiar glances. Aryn had learned the way Gale’s voice softened when he was lost in theory, the way he hummed when he was too tired to focus but too stubborn to stop. He’d learned her thinking face — brow furrowed, lower lip caught slightly between her teeth — and how she always sat cross-legged when reading, no matter how formal the room.
They were close.
But not yet close enough.
Because under the rhythm, something still sat unsaid. Gale had not had another surge since the night he collapsed into her arms — but he carried himself like he was waiting for the next one. Bracing for it. Not healing. Just surviving.
And today, she’d had enough of surviving.
They sat at the main table in the study. Scrolls, diagrams, and notes cluttered every surface, layered like leaves after a storm. Outside, dusk painted the windowpanes in pale blue.
Aryn slid a parchment toward him — her own writing, dense with notes and references to modified weave-severance rituals.
“You should look at this one,” she said, nudging it closer to his side. “It’s an adaptation of a Weave-splitting spell, combined with a stabilizing anchor. If we tune it right, it might redirect the orb’s worst surges into a fixed conduit—buy you time. Maybe even space.”
Gale didn’t look up. His eyes were shadowed with fatigue, and his fingers rested idle against his closed spellbook.
“Aryn…”
“I know it’s not perfect. But it’s sound. Elminster said—”
He stood abruptly, chair scraping loud against the stone. “I said no.”
Aryn blinked, caught off guard. “Gale, I’m not saying it’s a cure, but—”
“You’re saying you’ve found something that every archmage, relic-hunter, and half-mad theorist across Faerûn failed to discover for centuries?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp. Bitter. “You think if we just look hard enough, it’ll bend? That I’ll bend?”
“I think it’s worth trying,” she said, standing now, the scroll still between them. “Because the alternative is watching you give up.”
He turned from her, pacing toward the window like he needed distance from the very idea. “You don’t understand. This—this thing inside me, it wants control. It doesn’t want coexistence or compromise. It’s not some petulant spell we can trap in a lattice and calm with good intentions.”
“Then we find another way.”
“There is no other way!” he snapped, whirling back toward her. “There never has been. I’ve chased every thread, every lie dressed up as a theory. Every time I think I’m close, the Weave takes another piece of me for trying.”
Aryn stood her ground. Her voice was quiet, but it cut clean through the tension. “And now you’re too afraid to keep hoping.”
Gale froze.
That landed harder than anything else.
He stared at her — truly stared — and in his silence, the firelight flickered across something fragile in his face. Something that hadn’t fully shown itself in weeks of shared space, shared work.
He turned away again, slowly this time, hands braced on the windowsill.
His voice, when it came, was low. Raw.
“I can’t afford the hope that you still have.”
Aryn stepped forward, slowly. No closer than he would allow, but enough that he could hear her clearly.
“I don’t need you to believe in the ritual,” she said. “I just need you to believe that you’re not facing this alone.”
His hand curled against the windowsill.
And then—he spoke again, quietly. Not defensive this time. Just tired.
“I’m afraid, Aryn.”
She didn’t interrupt as Gale stared out the window. The city was quiet, bathed in the dim glow of distant lanterns, and for a moment, he let himself pretend the world was still.
“I’m so afraid,” he said, his voice quieter this time.
“Afraid of what?” she asked gently, her voice soft with the care she had long since learned to give him.
He turned then, though he didn’t meet her gaze. His eyes were distant, lost in a memory or a thought. His jaw tightened, the weight of his words heavy even before he said them.
“I’m afraid of losing control,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Of the orb inside me. Of what it could do if—if I can’t keep it contained.”
Aryn’s heart squeezed at the rawness in his voice. She pushed back from the table, standing up to move closer, but still, he didn’t meet her eyes.
“I’ve lived with it for so long,” he continued, the vulnerability in his tone unexpected. “I’ve made myself believe I could manage it. That I could keep it from destroying everything. But every time it surges… every time I feel it pulling at me, I wonder if I’m just one moment away from losing everything. From losing myself.”
There was a long pause as Aryn took a cautious step toward him, sensing the magnitude of what he was confessing.
“You’re not alone in this,” she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of truth she didn’t need to think about. “I’m here.”
He shook his head, eyes still focused on something far away. “It’s not just the orb, Aryn. It’s what it makes me. Who I become when I lose control. I’ve always been alone with this… but now, with you here, I can’t help but wonder if I’m going to drag you down with me. If I can’t control it, if it breaks me… I don’t want you to be caught in the wreckage.”
Her heart ached. He was offering her something no one else had seen — the fear that lived beneath his bravado, beneath the careful control he so often tried to project.
“Aryn,” he said, his voice hoarse now, as he finally met her gaze. “I don’t know if I can protect you from the things inside me. From the dark parts of me that I can’t even control.”
Aryn reached out, her hand gently touching his arm. Her fingers curled softly against his sleeve, grounding him, as she looked up into his eyes. There was no hesitation in her voice when she spoke.
“You don’t have to protect me from anything, Gale,” she said, her voice steady and sure. “Not from the parts of you that you think are broken, not from the magic that scares you. Not from the man you think you’re hiding. I’m here, with you, through all of it.”
He stared at her, his breath shallow. There was something vulnerable in his expression, something raw, that he usually kept hidden.
“I’m not as strong as you think,” he whispered. “I’m afraid of failing you. Of failing everyone.”
Aryn’s hand slowly moved to his, her touch firm but gentle, an anchor in the storm of his thoughts.
“You’ve never failed me, Gale,” she said softly, her voice full of quiet conviction. “You’re not alone in this. Not now. Not ever.”
For a long moment, they simply stood there, the silence between them no longer heavy with unspoken fears, but filled with a quiet understanding. Gale’s chest rose and fell with the weight of his breath, the walls he had so carefully built around his heart slipping just a little.
And in that small, fragile moment, he allowed himself to believe what she had said.
Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to carry this burden alone anymore.
Gale looked down at their joined hands — hers steady, his trembling ever so slightly, as though her touch had reminded him of the earth beneath his feet. Of the reality he’d tried so hard to keep separate from the storm inside.
His voice, when it returned, was quieter than before. No longer raw with fear, but threaded with something gentler. Regret.
“I’m sorry, Aryn,” he said. “For snapping. For shutting you out when all you’ve ever done is try to help me… to see me.”
She didn’t flinch or pull away. Just let the apology settle between them like a final rune in a long-cast spell.
“I know you’re scared,” she said, her thumb brushing softly across the back of his hand. “But you don’t have to face it like you’re still alone in that tower.”
He let out a slow, shaky breath — one that felt like it had been waiting days to escape. And then, to her quiet surprise, he gave a small, tired laugh. The kind that only came after surviving a long battle with oneself.
“This is the part where I’m supposed to say something noble and selfless, isn’t it?” he murmured. “But all I can think right now is… thank you. For not walking away.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said, and she meant it.
Outside, the dusk had deepened into night, the stars beginning to blink through the veil of twilight above the city. The last of the lamplight flickered gold across the edges of the scrolls on the table, catching the softened lines in Gale’s expression as he looked at her — really looked, this time. Not with distance, or wariness, or fear. But with something warmer.
Grateful. Open. A little undone.
She gave his hand one last squeeze, then let go slowly, allowing the quiet to return without weight.
“I’ll make tea,” she said, stepping back toward the hearth.
“And I,” he said, gathering the scroll she had offered, “will read this properly. Without judgment this time.”
Their eyes met, and something passed between them — unspoken but understood. Not resolution. Not yet. But a beginning again.
And in the quiet that followed, the tower didn’t feel so heavy. It felt, for the first time in a long while, like home.
~
The hour had slipped past midnight again.
The candles on the long table had burned low, their flames small and steady, casting soft gold light across scattered parchments and half-drunk cups of tea. The tower was quiet but for the occasional pop from the hearth and the whispering turn of pages. Outside, the world had long since fallen asleep beneath a blanket of stars and slow-moving mist.
Gale exhaled softly, setting his quill aside.
Across the table, Aryn had stilled.
Her cheek rested against her folded arms, hair slipping loose from its braid in soft strands that curled around her face. One of the spellbooks they’d been pouring over all evening lay open beside her, a line of notes unfinished in her tidy handwriting. Her breathing was slow, even — a rhythm that grounded the room more than any ward could.
He allowed himself to look at her.
Really look.
The dim light softened her features, made her look younger somehow. Or maybe just more at peace. The firelight danced against the curve of her jaw, the faint smudge of ink near the side of her wrist. She’d pushed herself hard tonight, same as every night for the past two weeks. Insisting they search for more — for alternate paths, anchoring rituals, anything that might bend the inevitable.
She always stayed. Even when he shut down. Even when he turned away.
He stood slowly, the legs of his chair making the barest sound as he rose. Quietly, carefully, he stepped around the table, his eyes never leaving her face.
A pause.
Then, with a slow movement, he slipped the outer cloak from his shoulders and draped it around her. The fabric pooled gently over her arms and back, tugged by gravity but softened by care. She didn’t stir — not beyond a faint shift of her fingers beneath her cheek.
His hand hovered for a breath.
Then, with something achingly tender in his motion, Gale reached down and brushed the backs of his fingers along her cheek. Just once. A feather’s touch, like a spell not fully cast.
The warmth of her skin, the softness of the moment — it caught him in the chest. Not sharply. Not like the pain of loss or the fear that usually haunted him. But something else. A different ache.
He had been careful for so long. With his words, his emotions, the edges of his hope. But this—this was creeping past his carefulness.
He was beginning to feel it more clearly now. The way her presence eased something inside him. How her stubbornness had become a kind of lighthouse in the fog he lived with daily. Her humor, her steadiness, her unshakable need to stay beside him no matter how often he tried to shoulder everything alone.
It frightened him.
But it also made the quiet seem less like a void and more like a place he could breathe.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, so softly it barely left his lips. “But gods help me, I don’t want to lose you either.”
She didn’t wake. Only shifted slightly, deeper into rest.
He watched her for a moment longer. Then, with a breath drawn to settle something inside him, Gale turned and stepped away.
He climbed the spiral stairs slowly, feet quiet against the worn stone, his hand trailing along the carved banister. The upper chambers waited — cool, silent, the stars just visible through the high arched windows.
But tonight, he paused at the landing before going in.
And glanced back down the stairwell, where the faintest glow from the study still lingered.
He wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring.
But tonight, Aryn had fallen asleep beside him — and for the first time in too long, he let that be enough.
~
The upper chamber of the tower was wrapped in stillness.
Outside, Baldur’s Gate slumbered beneath a soft wash of moonlight, the harbor bells chiming faintly through drifting fog. But inside, the air hung thick with the scent of damp stone, old vellum, and the lingering bitterness of expended magic. Candles guttered low, their light casting long shadows against walls lined with books too ancient to trust and spells too volatile to ignore.
Gale stood near the arched window, arms folded tightly across his chest, the chill of the glass seeping faintly through his sleeve. His gaze swept the rooftops below without seeing them. He wasn’t watching the city.
He was listening — to the slow beat of the orb buried beneath his skin, steady as a second heart. Always there. Always waiting.
His thoughts spiraled: calculations half-finished, theories dismissed, incantations etched into his mind like old wounds. He should’ve been working. Should’ve been preparing. But tonight, the weight of possibility pressed too hard against his ribs.
The silence of the tower broke not with a knock, but with a shimmer of presence—an old magic settling like dust on the air.
Gale turned sharply, breath catching. The wards hadn’t flared. No footsteps echoed on the stairs. But still—he felt it. The subtle shift in the Weave. The unmistakable gravity of someone very old, and veryfamiliar.
He crossed the chamber in three quick strides and threw open the balcony doors.
There, leaning with casual indifference against the stone balustrade as if he’d always belonged there, stood Elminster.
A half-smile tugged at the old wizard’s face, lined and knowing. “Evening, lad,” he said, voice light as wind through leaves. “Thought we might have a quiet word.”
“Elminster,” Gale said, blinking, his voice laced with genuine surprise.
The old mage tipped his wide-brimmed hat, silver hair glinting faintly in the candlelight. “Still keeping the witching hours, I see.”
Gale stepped aside without hesitation. “Come in.”
Elminster did, his cloak trailing smoke-scented air behind him. He moved like someone who’d traveled through more than mere miles — his boots dusted with ash, his staff marked with fresh scorch lines.
“I was passing through,” Elminster said breezily, though no one simply passed through Baldur’s Gate, let alone Gale’s tower unannounced. “Heard rumors. Tattered scrolls changing hands. Containment research. A stubborn archmage losing sleep.”
Gale arched an eyebrow. “I suppose I should thank you for the concern.”
“Oh, lad, concern’s too small a word. I brought something.” He unfastened a leather case from beneath his cloak, its surface worn but still embossed with protective glyphs. “Took a bit of digging. And no small amount of groveling.”
Gale accepted it with reverence. His fingers trembled as he unclasped the case and unrolled the contents across the nearest table.
A single strip of parchment lay inside, aged to near-fragility, covered in runes that shimmered faintly even without spellwork to activate them. At one corner, silver ink spiraled in a seal he recognized instantly.
Halaster Blackcloak’s line.
Gale inhaled sharply. “Is this…”
“The Tower of Rauvin’s End,” Elminster said, voice low. “Forgotten place, mostly. East of the Winding Wood. She — Halaster’s apprentice — was experimenting with wild magic anchors there. Theory said to draw from Netherese stabilizers without burning the caster.”
“If this is authentic…”
“Then it might give you more than time,” Elminster said. “It might give you leverage.”
Gale didn’t speak for a long moment. He stared down at the glyphs, the world narrowing to the map, to the possibility that flickered like flame against the dark.
At last, he looked up. “Why me?”
The older mage’s expression softened. “Because you’re clever enough to see what others overlook — and just foolish enough to act on it.”
Gale gave a dry, weary laugh. “Come with me, then.”
But Elminster shook his head, a shadow of something older — and sadder — passing through his eyes. “My time chasing ruins is behind me. And besides, you’ve already got someone willing to follow you into fire.”
Gale stiffened, the words brushing too close to something unspoken.
“She’s not—”
“She’s with you,” Elminster said, quietly. “Which is far more important.”
Gale didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. The truth hung in the air like smoke — undeniable, no matter how tightly he tried to contain it.
Elminster gave a knowing smile and rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. “Be careful, Gale. The Weave remembers. And some magic wakes hungry.”
And then, with a whisper of displaced air and the sharp scent of ozone, he vanished.
Gale stood in the silence that followed, the weight of the parchment still heavy in his hands.
He stared at the fragment for a long moment before walking slowly to the central table and laying it flat. His palm hovered over the inked glyphs. A breath. Then contact. The Weave responded — just slightly — curling beneath his fingers like the beginning of a promise.
The orb inside him pulsed sharply in reply, as if it too had been listening.
A path forward. A perilous one. But a path.
And for the first time in days, Gale didn’t feel quite so paralyzed.
He turned from the table, exhaled, and crossed the chamber, his footsteps quiet on stone as he climbed the narrow spiral staircase toward the tower’s uppermost level.
Toward stars, silence, and thought.
But as he ascended, his mind wasn’t on Halaster, or the ruins, or even the orb.
It was on a young mage asleep at the study table downstairs — still wrapped in his cloak.
And the fact that for once, he wasn’t walking into danger alone.
~
The tower was hushed in the way only early morning could bring — not silent, but reverent. The hearth had long since burned low, leaving only a few red embers beneath gray ash. The candlelight had faded to soft wax pools, and the papers scattered across the table bore the slight curl of humidity, as though the night had exhaled.
Aryn stirred slowly.
Her first awareness was of warmth — a deep, lingering warmth pressed against her shoulders and back. Not the ambient kind. Not the brittle, flickering heat of spellwork. This was something softer. Something worn.
She blinked against the dimness, lifting her head from where it had rested on her folded arms. Her neck ached faintly. Her braid was half-undone, and ink smudged the edge of her wrist.
And she was covered in a cloak that wasn’t hers.
Aryn froze.
It was too heavy, too finely stitched, too steeped in a scent she recognized instantly — old paper, citrus soap, something sharp and arcane clinging to the folds. Gale’s.
The realization hit her gently, but deeply. She sat up slowly, fingers curling around the edge of the cloak where it draped across her lap.
He’d covered her.
She let out a soft breath, eyes scanning the room.
No Gale. Just the whisper of pages turned by the wind. The faint breeze sneaking in through the cracked high window.
But his presence lingered. In the stillness. In the tea cup pushed just slightly out of place from where he’d last sat. In the folded edge of his cloak, where he’d clearly knelt to place it around her shoulders with deliberate care.
Her throat tightened.
Aryn had never known magic to feel like this — not the kind in books or fire or force. But the kind in gestures. In choices. In the smallest, most deliberate acts of thoughtfulness.
She had seen Gale weary. Sharp. Controlled. Walled-off. And lately, unraveling in tiny, cautious increments.
But this… this was something else.
She drew the cloak tighter around her, fingers brushing over the clasp near the collar, half-expecting to feel his pulse still woven into the fabric. The scent of him — warm, faintly spiced — brought with it an ache she couldn’t quite name. Not desire. Not yet. But the echo of something blooming.
Aryn stared at the spot across the table where he’d sat the night before, all fire-eyed focus and trembling restraint. She could still hear his voice. The way it broke when he confessed his fear. The way he looked at her, like maybe — just maybe — he was beginning to believe she could stay.
She smiled softly to herself, her expression caught between affection and something more solemn.
“I’m still here,” she murmured aloud. As if he might hear her, wherever he was now. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
A soft creak echoed down from the staircase — quiet enough to be missed, unless you were listening for it.
Aryn looked up, still wrapped in his cloak, just as Gale appeared at the top of the steps.
He paused when he saw her awake. His expression was unreadable at first, eyes flicking briefly from her face to the cloak draped around her shoulders, then to the table where the scrolls still lay in quiet disarray. His hand rested lightly on the railing, as though grounding himself.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said softly, voice low with the remnants of the night.
“You didn’t,” Aryn replied, just as quiet. “The hearth did.”
He gave a faint smile, tired but genuine. “Betrayed by my own fire. How poetic.”
Gale descended the last few steps, his robes shifting faintly around him. The early light from the windows caught the edge of his jaw, his eyes darker than usual — not with shadow, but with depth. Thought. The kind that hadn’t left him since Elminster’s visit.
Aryn didn’t move from her seat. She only looked at him, searching his face for any new cracks or sharp edges. There were none. Only something softer. Warmer. Guarded still, but not so far out of reach.
“Did you stay up there long?” she asked gently.
He nodded, brushing a hand through his hair. “Long enough. I needed time to think.”
Her fingers curled around the edge of his cloak where it hung loose over her lap. “And did the stars offer anything useful?”
He crossed to the table, pausing just beside her chair. “Not answers. But… maybe the right questions.”
There was a quiet between them then. But it wasn’t tense. Just full.
Her gaze dropped for a moment, thumb brushing lightly over the embroidered seam near her collar. “You left this,” she said, voice softer now. “I thought I dreamt it at first.”
“I didn’t want you to wake cold,” he said simply.
She looked back up at him — and this time, he met her gaze fully.
There was a stretch of silence that passed like a held breath.
“You don’t have to keep protecting me from everything,” Aryn said. “Even yourself.”
Gale’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t look away.
“I know,” he said. “I’m just still… learning how not to.”
Her smile was small, but real. “We both are.”
He reached out then — a careful, almost hesitant motion — and adjusted the edge of the cloak around her shoulder, fingers brushing just briefly against her collarbone. It wasn’t necessary. She was already wrapped in it. But the gesture carried something quiet and personal.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For staying. For listening. For giving me the chance to… try.”
“You don’t need to thank me for that,” she murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Gale let his hand fall back to his side. The silence between them settled again, not awkward or heavy — but companionable, like a warm room after a long night.
“Tea?” he asked at last.
Aryn gave him a slow nod. “Only if you’re the one making it. Your blend is better.”
His lips quirked upward in something that wasn’t quite a smile but carried the shape of one. “That I can do.”
He turned toward the hearth, already summoning a small flicker of flame in his palm.
And behind him, Aryn watched — the cloak still around her, the morning light slowly filling the room, and something tender blooming between them, quiet and sure.
