Chapter Text
The morning smog is just beginning its slow creep across the valley as Gale frantically fumbles the keys to the door of his, frankly, obscene corner office. The sun is barely up and already he needs a moment to collect himself.
Gale had asked for something a bit more tasteful than the capacious suite, with its imposing high ceiling and postmodern furnishings. Everything is cold slate and offensively absurd angles. When Mystra promoted him to C-suite, she patted Gale’s cheek and cooed that he deserved only the best.
Or at least he had at the start of pilot season. Now with three barely-passable projects in the can and six left to languish in development hell, Gale isn’t so sure. He’s not seen hide nor hair of Mystra since their supposed blockbuster absolutely bombed at the box office six months ago.
Gale had been insistent on a theatrical release. He’d taken it upon himself to wine and dine LA’s finest distributors until his social battery could take no more. An industry made for the strikingly beautiful, the endlessly social, the oft-nepotized.
One out of three isn’t so egregious, Gale thinks.
He winces as the heavy mahogany door takes to gravity and announces itself with a thump against tinted glass. With a haphazard toss of his cardigan and quick swap to the smart suit jacket that lives in his office closet, Gale resigns himself to the morning rounds.
It’s important, now more than ever, to keep morale up. Something he has never been particularly adept with, but he’s on thin ice with Mystra even without the threat of his direct reports calling him unsociable and obsessive. Gale can’t continue to lock himself away in his office, muttering over horribly contrived scripts—that he really should be passing off to his assistant instead—in desperate search of the next big IP.
Karlach is a good sport about it, at least. She tempers the flame of his single-mindedness with her easygoing laugh, and though she is routinely ten minutes late to her desk, she keeps the execs on the other line charmed enough to overlook Gale screening their calls.
“Good morning, Karlach. I trust your weekend was pleasant?”
“Boss-man,” Karlach grins with an aggressive spin in her chair. “Yeah, the girlfriend and I hit a couple of improv shows and tried that new taco spot on San Vicente.”
Gale nods distractedly, scanning the rest of the bullpen and beginning the mental tally of morning catch-ups he’ll need to perform.
“Good, glad to hear it. Well, if you have need of me, I’ll be–”
“Yeah, yeah. Working the room. London fog for the coffee run?” Karlach scribbles on the back of her hand with Sharpie.
Gale feels some of the tension in his face ease up. “You are gods-sent, my friend. I promise I’ll have a script in your infinitely capable hands soon. You must be bored to tears out here, and there I am…” He trails off, catching sight of a shock of white curls darting into the office across the bullpen. “If you’ll excuse me, Karlach, I have something I need to handle expeditiously.”
Gale doesn’t run, but it’s a near thing. If he’s learned nothing else in his short time with Waterdeep Productions, it’s that their one-man legal department requires a firm hand. He throws one out to bodily stop the door before Astarion has a chance to lock it.
Quite unfriendly, this one. Either that or entirely too friendly, depending on the day—sometimes the hour. Gale can barely keep up, and it’s beginning to grate on his ever-thinning nerves. For his trouble, he receives a long-suffering glare and a hip cocked against the doorframe.
“Astarion. You know I’ve worked hard to instill a sense of camaraderie in this office, and keeping your door shut does very little to assist in that endeavor. Will you please keep an open door,” Gale leans in conspiratorially, “and an open mind?”
Astarion gives him a once-over, nudging the door open a little wider with a foot, sending Gale into a graceless stumble as his hand slips out from under him. The tiny smirk on Astarion’s face is enough to set Gale’s teeth on edge.
“Careful,” Astarion tuts. “Out of curiosity, are these rules sort of a ‘for thee but not for me’ situation? Because I seem to recall a certain someone all but barricading himself in his office. Not too long ago, actually.”
Gale forces a brittle smile, brushing his hands down his suit jacket. Astarion looks expectant, seemingly ready to goad Gale into yet another argument. First thing in the morning.
He has to commend the man; Astarion is dogged both in law and being a pain in Gale’s ass. Were he not frustratingly competent at his job—and more importantly, employed directly by their parent conglomerate, Elysium—Gale would have washed his hands of the prickly elf long ago.
“Ah. Yes. Well, I would hardly be an effective leader if I chose to flout my own rules.” A quirked silver brow, a twitch of the lips. “I appreciate your cooperation, Astarion. I’ll see you at executive check-in this afternoon.”
Gale turns purposefully back to his office, choosing to forgo the rest of his greetings. How Astarion can sour his already curdling mood in less than a minute is a marvel.
He hears the snick of a lock behind him and feels the answering hike of his shoulders as if drawn by marionette strings. Karlach presses her lips together as she watches him stalk back to his desk.
“Not a word,” he says, motioning his finger in a swivel for Karlach to copy with her chair. She throws her palms up in surrender, and he flips open his laptop with more force than entirely necessary.
Gale unloads three hefty novels from his leather work satchel—a congratulations gift from his mother—and begins painstakingly transcribing his margin-notes to a word document.
There are at least a dozen tasks that require his immediate attention, but none nearly as interesting as his own project.
He types furiously, feeling a wild surge of pride and satisfaction at his progress. Gale knows he should have run this by Jen, their VP of Development, before throwing himself headlong into another massive, unapproved project. But she has her focus primarily on new IP and YA-novel adaptation space, he reasons.
Gale is taking work off her plate, really. No one else in this office has his finely-honed literary taste and expertise, either. They can’t appreciate the unfettered potential of this project.
Mystra would. Gale knows when he brings his final, near-perfect pitch to her, he’ll be rewarded. At least with her renewed attention, if nothing else.
Several hours must have passed by the time Jen waltzes into his office with nary a knock. He slams the novel at his side shut and minimizes the pages-long document he’s lost half his morning to already. She glances between the book and Gale’s face, visibly refraining from commenting.
“You haven’t answered any of my emails today. I wasn’t sure you were in.”
Gale flushes, chided. “I’m very sorry, Jen. I’ll get on that right now.”
She turns to go, point made. Her face softens as she walks by Karlach’s desk, running a hand along her wrist in passing. Karlach’s whole body seems to light up with her smile, and Gale has to look away. He shouldn’t be feeling envious; they’re quite sweet together.
His chest aches with longing for the feeling of being tethered, stuck in devoted orbit. But he can’t indulge this train of thought.
All existential regrets are soon lost to the endless vortex and abject horror of Microsoft Outlook. His eyes blur with overly-pleasant openings (someone needs more time on a deadline), “as per”s (Gale needs more time on a deadline), and cold submissions from at least six wannabe screenwriters (delete, delete, delete).
By the time he comes up for air, and to stare blankly at an object at least twenty feet from his screen, it’s already time to call the meeting.
“Blast.” Gale’s slides are only half-done. He’ll have to rely on his natural speaking prowess this once.
When he finally gathers himself enough to make it to the conference room, everyone—with one notable exception—is already seated with their laptops ready, chattering.
“Apologies, team. I fear I lost track of time amidst the day’s excitement.”
“Excitement,” Astarion scoffs from the doorway. He drapes himself artfully in a chair, boots crossed at the ankle on the conference table.
Gale smiles blithely in his direction and moves on.
“A brief roadmap of today’s meeting before we begin. We’ll hear from Wyll regarding current marketing initiatives, then Jen with pitches from the development team, Astarion with compliance notes, and finally Minthara for an update on the production side. Wyll?”
As Wyll cues his slides, Gale lets the ringing in his ears take over and slumps into his chair. He’s forgotten to eat; the empty stomach coupled with excessive caffeine is giving him heartburn again. Wonderful.
He indulges a moment of fantasy—letting himself imagine bringing his fully-packaged and financed project straight to Mystra. Walking, chin high, into her office with physical, irrefutable proof of his worthiness. The cold blue of her eyes would soften for him; of course Gale would succeed, she’d bet on him for a reason.
Gale performs the requisite polite nods and relevant-enough comments on the first few presentations, his mind somewhere much shinier. He feels Astarion’s eyes from across the table like a beam to the side of his head.
With all his usual flourish, Astarion sweeps to the front of the conference room and begins his presentation. It’s near impossible to tune out that rich, lilting voice, and Gale finally lifts his tired eyes to the surprisingly graphically-pleasing deck that Astarion has put together.
“Well,” he drawls, pausing to look right at Gale, “how kind of you to join the rest of us.”
Every pair of eyes turning to gauge his reaction feels like a physical weight.
“Apologies, Astarion. Everyone, really,” Gale concedes, “I was indeed lost in thought. Please, continue.”
Of course, Astarion won’t give him such satisfaction. “No,” he drawls, “enlighten us! What could have been so distracting that you can’t bother to hear just how poorly we’ve been doing these past few quarters? Under new leadership, I might add.”
Gale can feel an angry flush rising from his chest. He can’t be imagining the looks being exchanged across the table: silent conversations being had on his incompetence, no doubt.
Wyll gallantly attempts to diffuse the situation. “I think we’re all feeling the effects of the industry evolving so quickly, Astarion. We aren’t the only company struggling.”
Gale shoots him a grateful look, finally able to recover his wits enough to respond. “Quite right. Thank you, Wyll,” he says, “I believe this is a conversation best suited for a one-on-one, don’t you, Astarion?”
“Oh, but where would you find the time? You’re always so busy, Gale. Such important business you must be attending to in that big, old office. Must be an upgrade from the dinky little desk under—”
Gale grits his teeth at the shrill screech of his chair against the hardwood floor, shooting to his feet. “That is enough, Astarion.” To the rest of the room: “Please send your slides to Karlach, she’ll compile today’s minutes. We will conclude early.”
The answering silence doesn’t sit heavily in the room so much as it pulls insistently on every frayed nerve in Gale’s body. The rest of the team slowly files out.
“Astarion. Stay.” Gale tries to sound authoritative, but the tug of war between rage and inadequacy screams right at his throat.
Gale watches the absolute bane of his work life sit back down with maddening grace. He waits for the door to click shut behind Jen and Minthara before crossing to the other side of the conference table.
He shoots for calm, collected. “I did not appreciate the way you spoke to me in front of the team just now.” Gale pulls the chair beside Astarion’s out, hoping that evening the figurative playing field will diffuse some hostility.
No such luck.
“And what will you do about it, hm? A talk with HR? Put me on a PIP?” He rolls his eyes, looking at Gale sidelong. “Please. I’m the only one here with his fingers in every pie. No department can operate without me, Gale. Do you realize that?”
Gale counts to four as he breathes in, holds, and lets it out.
“Your work here is appreciated, Astarion. Though your point remains somewhat obtuse. By description, my job requires just as many fingers.” At this Astarion raises a brow, and Gale waves a flustered, dismissive hand.
He hums in consideration, looking far too pleased. “And by definition, doesn’t your job also commonly require, say, previous C-suite experience? An MBA, perhaps?”
“You know as well as I that there are no hard and fast requirements, aside from the obvious: competence and natural-born leadership.” He straightens in his seat.
Astarion turns in his chair to face Gale, giving him a deliberately slow once-over.
“I see you neglect to mention a tawdry affair with the parent company’s owner.” He slides to the edge of his seat, knees brushing Gale’s, voice low, “I’ve heard hard and fast is a bit of your specialty.”
Gale prides himself on many of his fine qualities, not least of which is his patience. He’s not easily ruffled, but Astarion might as well be plucking his feathers one by one with a pair of sharpened tweezers.
He allows himself a moment to imagine getting in Astarion’s face and unleashing his anger the way he’d truly like to. But, Gale reminds himself, it’s his responsibility to maintain a level head in these types of situations—he was very thorough in his training modules.
He adjusts his approach.
“We both know a PIP is entirely unnecessary, Astarion. You remain, if nothing else, more than competent. A meeting with HR, however, I can certainly arrange.”
“Oh, would you?” Astarion says, eyebrows drawn up in facsimile of pleading, voice toeing the line between light teasing and vicious mockery.
Gale rises from his chair, unwilling to indulge in this immaturity any longer than necessary. Ever the instigator, Astarion stands to meet him. They’re practically chest-to-chest, scant inches between them. Gale had never noticed that Astarion has a bit of height on him.
Almost by instinct, his eyes trace a line down Astarion’s body, catching on his lips on their way back up—plump, slightly shiny, and tilted in a smirk.
He shakes himself out of it, taking a half-step back until the backs of his knees meet the seat of his chair.
Astarion steadies Gale’s wobble with a quick grab of his side, a pale hand at his ribcage. His voice is little more than a murmur when he speaks, stepping back and letting his fingers slip slowly from Gale’s ribs.
“Do be careful, dear, we don’t need another incident to report.”
Gale grasps for words, fails. Can only stare between twinkling green eyes blankly. His side feels abnormally hot. Astarion tilts his head, expression unreadable. He seems to sway a bit closer, though that’s probably just the room spinning from Gale’s lack of food.
Whatever the odd feeling is, it bursts as Karlach pushes loudly into the conference room to set up for the next meeting. Gale keeps his eyes resolutely off Astarion and makes a break for the door, glad that Karlach seems caught up mumbling about “fucking execs” and “never pushing chairs in”.
Once in the safety of his office, Gale seriously debates shutting the door. On one hand, he’d like complete privacy to throw several of his branded stress balls across the room. On the other, he can’t give Astarion that satisfaction.
Gale compromises: half-closing the door and squishing a taunting, smiley-faced foam ball in his fist until his knuckles pale. The day shouldn’t get worse from there, but unfortunately for Gale, the gods must have it in for him.
He logs back into Outlook to find news of backing falling through on two of their current projects, and The Hollywood Reporter announcing Gale’s long-awaited replacement as Mystra’s right hand.
Some absolute hack with long—rather limp, if he’s being charitable—auburn hair. He looks just her type, Gale thinks bitterly.
Pushing his laptop away in frustration, Gale proceeds to knock his cold tea all over the desk. All of his notes, his books… flooded. He glances at the clock, pleading.
It’s half-past one.
Gale seethes politely in his office for the rest of the afternoon, and too far into the evening, if the bullpen auto-lights have anything to say about it. Heaving a sigh, he packs his things and mentally prepares for the hour-long, ten mile commute down the 405.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Astarion calls from outside the elevator, wedging it open with the tip of his boot.
“Astarion.” Gale leans back against the wall, careful to keep a healthy distance between their shoulders in such cramped quarters.
“You’re here late.”
“As are you, I notice.”
Astarion hums in agreement. “How astute. Must be why they pay you so handsomely.”
Gale stares blankly at the elevator buttons, silently counting each light as they go off. Twelve floors pass before Astarion breaks the tense silence.
“Have I finally left you speechless?” The unmistakable feeling of Astarion’s eyes on him make the side of Gale’s neck tingle. “Just as I was starting to worry you were immune to my charms.”
He shoots what he hopes is a withering look then turns back to his button-counting.
“Gale,” Astarion sing-songs, “You aren’t still pissy about our little tiff?” He pouts. Or at least he sounds like he’s pouting. Gale is steadfastly avoiding eye contact.
Astarion continues to needle him until they reach the parking garage, making their way to their cars—parked side-by-side, naturally. Gale’s sensible sedan next to a laughably gauche sports car, complete with “LAWYRUP” vanity plate.
Astarion leans against the bumper and blocks Gale’s access to his driver side door.
“Why do you hate me so much?”
“What?”
“For a while I thought you were just another nepo-hire on a power trip, but you seem to have no issues with Jen… or Wyll… even Minthara. Which is how I know I’m getting special treatment.”
“I treat you just as I treat any of my other employees, Astarion.” Gale makes an attempt to pass and is met with a surprisingly muscular calf against his torso as Astarion props his foot against Gale’s car.
He tilts his head in appraisal. “You don’t. Not that I really mind a little repartee now and again, darling, but—”
“Great. Glad we’ve put this to bed. Now will you please move your leg?”
“Mm, I don’t think I will.”
Gale exhausted his entire repertoire of mindfulness exercises hours ago. Which is why, he reasons, he can allow himself one tiny moment of petty satisfaction.
He grabs Astarion’s leg, a hand around the crook of his knee, and tugs it from where it's propped against the gas flap.
“Was that truly so difficult?” Gale brushes past him to manually unlock his car. His hands betray him and he fumbles the keys.
Then, surprisingly cold fingers against his waist—sliding just above where his dress shirt has come untucked. He turns his head to Astarion, incredulous.
“What in the hells are you doing?”
The hand begins a slow creep from his waist down to his hip, plausibly just smoothing his shirt. Astarion is close at his back now. Gale can feel cool breath against the little hairs of his neck. He shivers.
Before he can formulate a HR-appropriate rebuke, Gale finds himself forcibly spun to face Astarion, back pressed flush to his driver’s side door.
Calculating, grey-green eyes search his face. For what, Gale hasn’t the foggiest. He’d never noticed the silvery flecks ringing Astarion’s pupils before. Gale can’t hold his gaze for more than a few moments, casting his eyes down to the door handle instead.
“Bit of cat hair on your shirt, dear,” Astarion sighs, letting go of Gale to lean back against his own car. “I was only looking for a bit more feedback on my performance, and you’re being annoyingly evasive.”
He swears Astarion’s eyes flick down then, but it happens quickly enough that Gale knows he’s imagined it.
“This is not the time nor the place, Astarion. You had your chance earlier today. Now if you’ll please excuse me.”
Gale can properly see his pout then. It’s quite distracting. Childish, really.
“All right. I’ll let you get home to a thrilling night with your musty old tomes, or whatever the hells it is you do in your free time.” He sounds uncharacteristically resigned.
Gale opens his mouth, closes it. He really shouldn’t engage, but it will bother him if he doesn’t correct the ridiculous—and incorrect—assumption.
“If you must know, my “musty old tomes” happen to be a collection of literary classics yet to be adapted in a way that honors the richness and complexity of the source text. New, untested IP is all well and good, but we need a guaranteed success if we’re to stay afloat. And contrary to your rather low opinion of me, I care greatly for the longevity of this company. I know there’s a wealth of opportunity here, if I can just find the perfect—”
“Gods, no wonder Manx offloaded you here. Being glued to her hip, chirping in her ear… must’ve been a bit too much for her.”
What is it about this man that makes Gale give in to his worst impulses?
Now Astarion is pressed to the side of a car, Gale’s hands gripped tight to his shoulders. The bastard has the nerve to grin maniacally, all shiny teeth and another taunt visibly loaded in the chamber.
Gale presses him harder.
“That’s more like it,” Astarion says, then crushes his mouth to Gale’s.
It’s frantic and biting, and Gale can’t help but throw himself into the kiss with a heedlessness that seems to come packaged with anything Astarion-related. He quickly has a possessive hand wrapped around Gale’s tie and another at the side of his neck.
Gale answers with both hands in Astarion’s hair—it’s just as soft as he’d imagined. He’s wondered about it in passing, of course. Nothing untoward, merely idle curiosity.
“About fucking time,” Astarion murmurs against his lips, slipping his tongue into Gale’s mouth with a satisfied groan. He's not inclined to remove his own from Astarion’s mouth long enough to agree.
He thinks he conveys his feelings well enough with a pointed press of his hips; Astarion’s smile against his mouth when he registers just how hard Gale is seems like a good sign. As is the feel of Astarion pressed solidly against his thigh.
Gale can’t help his incoherent, reedy sound at just how good it feels to be wanted like this.
“You feel so—I can’t—” he starts, mouthing clumsily down Astarion’s neck with all the fervor of a man accustomed to denial.
He hears the thump of Astarion’s head against the car, giving Gale better access. He takes the gift so graciously offered, kissing and sucking at Astarion’s throat while his hands scratch lightly against his scalp.
Astarion pulls Gale back to look into his eyes, a hand at his cheek. He thumbs Gale’s bottom lip, pushing gently until Gale takes it into his mouth, sucking obediently as the pad presses down on his tongue. Gale can’t help the spit that dribbles down his chin as he sucks eagerly.
“Oh,” Astarion says softly. His eyes are fixed on his thumb disappearing past Gale’s spit-slick lips, his own mouth hanging open in awe.
Gale’s face burns hot with embarrassment when he realizes he’s been absently humping Astarion’s thigh, slipped between his legs somewhere along the way. Gale can’t be sure when; he’s adrift.
“That’s it,” Astarion says, wrapping a hand around Gale’s back to pull him closer, to give him better leverage. Gale drops his head, thumb slipping from his mouth, all but whining into the hollow of Astarion’s throat. The friction is close to too much already.
“So sweet for me now that you’re quiet, aren’t you?”
Gale is torn between a bitter, biting response and frantically nodding against the crook of Astarion’s neck. He feels too good. It’s been so long since he’d last been touched like this. Gale can barely form a coherent thought, let alone string together words that aren’t just combinations of “yes” and “please” in varying order.
Eventually Astarion takes pity on him and slips a hand to the front of his slacks, holding it unbearably still against his cock.
“Go on, use it.”
Gale blinks up at him, a pleasant fuzz crackling between his ears. Astarion quirks a brow and looks down at the shameful wet spot Gale’s left on his own trousers. Astarion hikes him further up on his thigh, watching intently as Gale tries to control his pitiful writhing.
“Seems to me you really need this,” he says, offering a benevolent squeeze. Gale feels his knees nearly give out, one cracking in protest at the odd angle.
Suddenly the fuzz recedes just enough to remember that they’re out in the open in the godsdamned office parking garage. This shouldn’t be happening. He shouldn’t be finding this so exciting. The small, sensible voice in the back of his mind waves several, screaming red flags.
Gale wants to beat it with one of his books. Astarion’s right, they are rather tome-like.
“Go ahead.” Astarion runs his fingers up and back ever so slightly, and every single reason on the list that’s rapidly formed in Gale’s head as to why this is ill-advised disintegrates.
“Thank you,” he breathes, beginning to rut against Astarion in earnest. He wraps his free hand in Gale’s hair and gives a sharp tug, forcing his eyes up again.
Astarion’s pupils are blown wide, his tongue peeking out to run over his swollen lips. Gale has never seen someone so mesmerizing, met someone so utterly infuriating. He follows the movement with lidded eyes, hips rolling fast and careless now.
Gale cranes his neck to kiss him again and receives another yank to his hair instead. Astarion chuckles and holds his mouth over Gale’s, lips tingling with static where they barely brush.
“So needy. It’s cute.”
Gale's sudden release takes him by surprise, and he shudders and pulses against Astarion as it crashes through him.
He feels more than hears the laugh against his lips—full, though not unkind. Astarion keeps his hand firmly against Gale as he comes down from the aftershock, rubbing gently against the sticky mess that’s leaked through both his briefs and pants.
“How deliciously unexpected. I didn’t know you had it in you.” Astarion is already readjusting himself in his slacks and straightening his suit jacket by the time Gale realizes they’re finished.
“Don’t you…” he starts. “Can I?” He gestures broadly, pointlessly to Astarion’s crotch, and is met with another laugh. The barking one this time, the one that seems to punch its way from Astarion’s throat almost by reflex.
“You’re too kind, darling,” he says, already unlocking his car and sauntering over to the driver's side. “But no, I think not.”
Gale blinks at him, bemused. He’s not disappointed, to be sure, but he prides himself on being a gentleman.
“Of course. Well. Have a good night, Astarion. I’ll see you tomorrow?” A stupid question, Gale berates himself; it’s the first day of the work week.
Astarion tosses him a wink and his bag into the passenger seat.
“You will.”
“Right,” Gale nods, giving a tight wave before making his shameful escape to the safety of his driver’s seat.
“Gale?”
He turns back too quickly. “Yes?”
“Your office door locks?”
“Oh. Yes.”
“Noted.”