Chapter Text
Today doesn’t crack the top ten worst days of Gemma’s life, not by a longshot. But it’s a solid contender to be the worst so far this year. There’s something to be said for wallowing in the misery of that, her first stroke of misfortune in some time. Granted, it’s only March. There’s time yet to sink lower.
“Jaheira, you’re not going to believe what happened today,” she sighs, looking down at the foaming pint of beer that, for a myriad of reasons, she shouldn’t have bought. Behind the wooden bar counter, the older elven woman shakes her head, clicks her tongue in a chiding tone that is all too familiar.
“Tell me you didn’t get yourself fired again.”
“Then this will be a very short conversation.”
Despite her sour mood, Gemma smirks when Jaheira lets out a long, weary puff of breath. Harper’s is busy for a Wednesday evening, conversation buzzes over the hum of quiet music, the classic rock playlist Jaheira always throws on when she’s working can be heard just beneath the din of laughter. She counts herself lucky that the bar owner is taking the time to talk with her. Though, she supposes, Jaheira has more or less accepted her role at this point - not quite an adoptive mother, but something of a cool aunt.
“What did you do this time?”
“Is this a judgment free zone?”
“Gemma,” she lifts her eyes from the glass she’s drying to shoot her a look that is pointed. “We have been acquainted for nearly a decade. By this point you should be well aware that this will never be a judgment free zone.”
She exhales a chuckle, a quiet, low sound. She could’ve guessed this would be the answer she’d get. “Point taken. Apparently management doesn’t love when you spend your work day looking up celebrity accounts and writing down their phone numbers. Would you believe that actually, they’d consider it a breach of privacy?”
In her defense, it’d been a slow day. Everyone’s cell phones were evidently in perfect working order, the lines were quiet at the call center where she was (previously) employed. Who does it hurt, really, if she knows how to get in touch with say, cambion and global pop sensation Mizora?
Jaheira throws back her head as she lets out a loud, harsh laugh. As always, her disapproval is overcome by her sense of humor.
“I am certain that you know this. But on the off-chance that you don’t - you realize you can be such a fucking idiot?”
“I’m well aware,” she mumbles, taking a sip of her beer. “Can you really blame me, though? I could use a hot, wealthy person in my life.”
Of course she’d never actually do anything with the information she’d gotten. It’d been more of a fantasy than anything else, solving her problems by charming someone into taking care of her. She’s done it before, a time or two, but being kept doesn’t quite agree with her. The type of men that are willing to throw money at her with very few questions asked - well, they don’t tend to be particularly intelligent or kind. Inevitably she’s asked to sacrifice some of her independence, and she’ll reluctantly cut the strings, return to her life that lacks fine dining and designer shoes. At least she gets to keep the shoes, leaving her with something to sell if things get dire.
Things would have to be quite dire, though, for her to sell her Prada pumps.
“I suppose this means you’ll be picking up some shifts around here,” Jaheira sighs, and Gemma leans over the bar, bats her lashes.
“If you need help, I’ll have the time. I’m a good employee. For you, anyways.”
“Because you are well aware I don’t suffer fools.”
“Because I like you,” she replies, and the truth hangs somewhere in the middle.
Jaheira has been more decent to her than she’s ever deserved. The first time she came into Harper’s she’d been a lost, reckless youth, fumbling into the bar in a skimpy dress with a fake ID in hand. Jaheira had confiscated the ID immediately, but she must’ve seen something in teenage Gemma, noticed some of the darkness that clung to her like a second shadow. Instead of kicking her out, she’d given her a rootbeer float and let her vent about the miserable state of her life. By the end of the night, she’d offered her a job under the table that was most certainly illegal and exactly what Gemma needed. If she hadn’t been gifted that stability, a steady paycheck and grown adult looking out for her, she’s sure her life could’ve taken a far darker turn.
Still, she’d never test Jaheira’s generosity by slacking on the job. The woman has many excellent qualities, but she isn’t particularly patient.
“I suppose we have been short staffed. Come in tomorrow, and we’ll get you on the schedule.”
Gemma nods, is hit by a sharp wave of relief that ebbs as quickly as it comes. She doesn’t mind bartending, but it barely makes enough to cover the bills. If life goes smoothly, she should be fine, but if anything goes wrong she’ll be screwed.
“Thanks, Jaheira,” she says before she can sink fully into anxiety, offering the woman a tight smile. “I appreciate you always having my back.”
Jaheira only shrugs, undercutting the compliment. “You’re a decent enough bartender. But I am setting a bad example - I should return to tending.”
Watching the blonde walk to the other end of the bar, Gemma sinks into her barstool, considering her options. She’ll have to pinch pennies if she wants to make ends meet. She can see the future, and there is lots of instant ramen. Biting her cheek, she feels a familiar sting curdling in her chest. The unfairness of it all threatens to swallow her, sometimes - not at being fired, not this time, she can admit that was at least deserved. But the circumstances under which she came of age to begin with, having to drop out of high school so she could afford to stay alive. It feels, sometimes, as though she never got a fair shot at all of this.
Motion catches her eye, and she turns to the TV mounted over shelves of liquor. A sundrenched scene plays out on the screen, two tanned, bikini-clad women are arguing in front of a glittering pool. She hasn’t been watching this season of Questing for Love but she recognizes the set immediately. It’s muted, subtitles scroll fast on the bottom of the screen, she has to squint to read them from afar but really, she gets the gist. Someone isn’t here for the right reasons.
Fate is an odd thing, on occasion. Not a force that pushes one onto a narrow path, but a simple curtain dropping, unveiling a possibility at just the right time. Watching the exchange, Gemma tilts her head to the side, thoughtful.
I could do that.
—
He’s only two hours into today’s casting session, and already Astarion longs to return to his lush penthouse. At least there, he’ll be safe from hearing any more about soulmates and destiny and love stories for the ages, all the nauseatingly naive views this batch of candidates is attempting to foist on him. At this point, he isn’t sure if they all believe it, or if they think this is what he wants to hear.
One would think such a cynic would be the worst person to produce a show centered on love. One would be terribly mistaken. From a more objective stance, Astarion knows how to build to the peak of sentimentality audiences yearn for, knows the exact amount of drama he should inject to hold their attention. It isn’t exactly the artistic content he’d select to create, given every option, but with his resume - teen heartthrob of a franchise that did its best with the source material, who in the aftermath crashed and burned in a fashion that was spectacularly public - reality TV production is what he has worked himself up to. And despite the people who’d say he’s only here because of his name, despite the industry rumors that paint him as both particular and frivolous in the least flattering definition of either term, he has carved something of a name for himself behind the scenes. He can be accused of being many things, but to say he isn’t good at his job would simply be slander.
Still, today he is bored. Which is never a good sign for the upcoming season. Unfortunately he’s been bored for a few seasons now, and his lack of investment reflects in the ratings. The network might actually have his head if this one bombs too.
“I think we can safely move that last girl forward,” Minthara, the other executive producer, looks down at the list. The table is cluttered, strewn with the thirty files on the women they’ll be interviewing today. The manila folders are chock-full of details about these women’s lives that range from deeply intimate (“I haven’t had sex in three years”) to trifling (“My favorite ice cream flavor is rocky road”), a whiplash-inducing collection of information meant to capture the essence of a person.
“She has an empty, simple sweetness to her,” she continues, already setting the woman’s file on top of their “keep” pile. “Viewers will be able to project themselves onto her quite easily.”
“I agree with you entirely,” Astarion drawls out, because he doesn’t care enough to form his own opinion. “Shall we bring in the next lamb for slaughter?”
The drow nods, and an assistant scuttles out to grab the next prospect. When the door opens, he isn’t looking, is fully prepared to phone it in for yet another interview. She steps into the room and Astarion’s attention snags, a thread caught on an errant button.
The woman is gorgeous, but of course she is, that isn’t particularly noteworthy. All of the women in the final stage of interviews are stunning. Dark brown hair falls in perfect layers to her shoulders, her eyes are a rather shocking shade of icy blue, and her pretty face is blank, betrays no nerves. Her beauty is all sharp edges, he thinks, as she glides into the room, you’d never mistake her for the girl next door type - no, she’s the very last person you’d ask for directions. She has an innate unfriendliness to her.
She sits in the plastic chair they’ve provided for interviewees, folds her hands on her lap and says, in a lovely low voice, “Nice to meet you. I’m Gemma. But of course, you already know that.”
When her lips curve into a smile, Astarion feels a tremor run under his skin. There is something to her, he is certain, and he leans forward with interest.
“Astarion Ancunin. Although certainly you know that as well,” he says, offering her one of his more charming smiles. He doesn’t bring up his role in the Moonlight Saga, leaves that to her, if she really feels obligated to say something. Even if she's not a fan, the series was inescapable fifteen years ago, and then of course there was all of the tabloid drama in the aftermath. “Minthara here is my lovely co-executive producer.”
“A pleasure,” Gemma replies, nods to them both.
Minthara sounds less impressed when she asks, “Tell us, why did you apply to be on Questing for Love?”
“Well I’m looking for love, of course.”
By chance, she meets his eyes as she answers, and holds his gaze like a dare. He is impressed first that she doesn’t shy from him, then more impressed that he is captivated by the look, that it takes conscious effort to pull away. It is no small thing to hold his attention. It feels, for a second, like they are communicating telepathically, and he’s never been more certain of anything than he is that this she is lying. If he is judging correctly, which he usually is, she seems almost amused by her own words.
“Gemma Tavelle. Twenty-six, lifelong resident of Baldur’s Gate, has worked a string of rather uninteresting jobs but, presently, is a bartender,” Minthara reads off of her file, a hint of disdain in her tone. “If you will forgive my bluntness, I’m surprised that you’ve made it to this final round of interviews. You’re less put together than our typical candidates.”
To her credit, Gemma doesn’t flinch, her smile doesn’t falter as she flicks her hair over her shoulders in a tight, clean motion. “I like to think I’m a bit more compelling than what I do for work.”
“Ah. Here it is,” Minthara taps the paper. “Would you be willing to discuss your backstory on the show - being an orphan, and the intricacies of such?”
Astarion finds the section of information she’s referring to, a simple line that reads, Parents: None. It’s not how he’d approach the conversation, certainly, but his coworker isn’t known for being delicate.
“It will all be more tasteful than it sounds,” he fills in, shooting his colleague a glare that screams “Could you have a small shred of tact?”. They’re a bit short on tragic backstories this season, don’t need to scare any prospective ones off. “But it will only serve to help you on the show. If this is to end in an engagement, it’s important for your prospective husband to know all of the intimate details of your past, good or bad.”
And it makes for excellent television, the viewers inhale a good sob story. But, of course, he doesn’t say that.
Once again, Gemma surprises him with her reaction, her expression steady as she replies, “I have no issue discussing it on camera. Although I’m not exactly an orphan - my father passed away a long time ago. My mother is irrelevant.”
He’s a bit impressed by her stoicism, but chews his lip. They’ll need her a bit more emotional if she’s to be on the show. It isn’t too concerning, though - they have all kinds of tricks to manipulate the women’s emotions once they’re filming.
“Irrelevant - does that mean you wouldn’t be willing to talk about her?” he asks with a lifted eyebrow, trying to coax a reaction out of a soft spot.
And he is rewarded. Not fully - she doesn’t burst into tears, her face doesn’t twist in anger, but her brow knits, and he can all but see her running calculations, deciding how much she should reveal.
“If there is a relevant reason to, I wouldn’t be opposed.”
“I can work with that,” Astarion says, leaning back in his chair with crossed arms. “After all, we haven’t gotten that far yet. I don’t suppose you’ll make trauma dumping on Wyll your introduction. Speaking of the man of the hour - or, I should say, season - what is your opinion of our bachelor?”
“Aside from the fact that he’s completely out of my league?” she says, her smile now easier. “He seems too good to be true. Honestly, my only qualm is that I don’t know that I’m his type.”
He bites back a laugh at the thought. She’s everyone’s type, and is likely quite used to being so.
“What makes you say that?” Minthara interjects before he can respond.
“I can be… prickly,” she replies, hesitating before she admits a trait that could be construed as a flaw. “From the videos I’ve seen, Wyll seems like a very nice guy. I imagine he might prefer a girl who’s softer, sweeter, than I am.” She pauses, seems to look inwards, before she regains her perfect posture. “Still, I wouldn’t mind at least the chance to shoot my shot with him. That’s the point, after all, isn’t it? Have him interact with several different kinds of women, and see what sticks.”
A diplomatic answer. Most likely, she’s a bit too calculating for a show like this. Still, he has yet to meet a candidate for this season that’s even half as magnetic as she is. Perhaps they can use her calculating nature to their advantage.
“Exactly right, darling,” he replies, and feels a curl of satisfaction when her lips turn up. “Now, we have just a couple more questions for you.”
The interview flies by, and for the first time today Astarion finds himself having a bit of fun. Her answers really aren’t so different from anything else he’s heard all day, but she delivers them in a dry manner that, from the way her eye catches his every once and a while, makes him suspect she finds all of this rather funny. When Minthara asks if she’s ever been in love before and she rolls her eyes, ever so slightly, he actually breaks into a grin - not the practiced presentation of teeth that he usually gives, but a genuine expression of delight. No one rolls their eyes at Minthara. It’s a bit refreshing, how unintimidated she seems.
“It was wonderful talking to you both,” she says when their time is up, standing. “I hope to hear from you soon.”
“It’s been a pleasure. Have a marvelous day,” he waves her off. They wait in silence until the door closes, as they always do before passing judgment. When the door shuts with a click, he turns to Minthara.
“I think we’d be idiots not to pass that one through.”
“I am in agreement,” Minthara nods sharply, and he’s hit with a jab of relief to not have to argue his point. She can be quite stubborn, when she has her mind made up. “She’s clearly more interested in being on television than finding love.”
“Which means she’ll be all too willing to fulfill any requests we might have,” he finishes, a smug smirk breaking on his lips. “And she will have no qualms about making a scene. You know, I love it when we’re in agreement, Minthy darling.”
She lets out a displeased sigh. “I have told you countless times not to call me that. My threats to file a complaint with HR are not empty, if you continue to speak to me this way.”
But he’s in too good of spirits to do anything but cackle. His gaze trails towards the door, thoughts returning to the woman that just left. He thinks he’ll rather enjoy working with Gemma Tavelle.