Author's Note:
This work is based on an RP with one of my friends here on FF (username: 5423789). This side of the story wasn't explored fully so I wanted to write it out.
The only character I own is Gale.
No matter what anyone says, she still loves him. And she always will.
It didn't matter than he missed out on one too many dates. It didn't matter that most nights were spent sleeping alone. It didn't matter that she faced empty sheets instead of his beautiful brown eyes. It didn't matter that most of the time she held a phone rather than having his hand to hold. It didn't matter that all she heard was the beep of a busy line rather than his wonderful laugh. It didn't matter that she was always given a hasty "I love you" instead of a long and meaning conversation.
It didn't matter that she ate dinner on most nights across from an empty chair.
Dean Thomas still loves her.
That was the only thought that kept Gale going as she stared at the plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes. Through all of the comments and remarks on Dean—her Dean—that were screaming and echoing in her head, she only thought of how he loves her.
Roast beef, mashed potatoes, and carrot sticks. Dean loves carrot sticks.
At that thought, she smiled, looking fondly at the orange vegetable on the plate. He always ate them as a snack, and their stock in the refrigerator would be gone by the middle of the week when she had just bought a fresh batch of carrots on Monday. No matter how much she would ask him to slow down, he would continue to grab one not five minutes after he had already eaten a carrot stick.
It never bothered her. No. That was actually one of the many things that was dear to her. His love for carrots was endearing. Everything Dean did was endearing.
Gale turned her head towards the ornate clock on the white kitchen wall. The dark hands told her that it was eleven twenty-eight in the evening—almost midnight. Office hours had already finished at seven. It had been four hours and twenty-eight minutes…and counting.
Fifty-five…fifty-six…fifty-seven…fifty-eight…fifty-nine…eleven twenty-nine in the evening,
Tick tock the clock would tell her. She wasn't running out of time. No. It was simply that he was still taking his time, and she appreciated that.
After Hogwarts, Dean immediately took to studying law, taking up the bar, and applying to a firm. It didn't take long for him. He was smart and passionate about his work, which made his climb up the ladder in his career a breeze. More and more cases were handed to him, which lead to the indirect proportion of leaving less and less time for anything else.
Dean always poured over the cases, took in every single detail, and argued smartly through every hearing. He spent day and night working through countless cases. Not one detail was left. All of it was for justice and equality. All of it was for a better world—one that Gale always thought was for them.
It was that thought, amongst others, that kept her thinking that Dean Thomas still loves her. That was what she thought as she took the already cold plate and stood up from her seat.
What good would a cold dinner do? How could that help a man who was doing everything he can for a better world?
Gale walked over to the microwave—their microwave—and stuck the plate with the cling film inside. With shaky fingers, she punched in thirty seconds on high and watched the numbers count down.
It was excruciating. She somewhat wished that time would stop. The wall clock wouldn't push forward to show her the time that he wasn't there. The timer on the microwave wouldn't count down to the seconds that could have been spent with him.
Five…four…three…two…
She strained her ears for the jingle of the keys, the soft click of the lock, the crack of the door, the padding of leather shoes, the gentle call of her name. Nothing. The beep of the microwave took the place of all of those personal musical sounds. It was the sound of a bow being pulled roughly over the strings of the violin.
With a sigh that almost tumbled into a sob, she pulled out the plate. Her hands were already accustomed to the searing heat. Thirty seconds in the microwave didn't make plates hot for her anymore.
She trudged back to her seat around the dining table, her steps heavy as if her mind had already set the thought that the walk back was already her death march. As she sat back down, her heart felt that it went with the motion and dipped. And as Gale unwrapped the plastic covering the food, her mind uncovered the comments that were held back as well.
He's a robot who has no feelings.
Can't you see he thinks work is more important than human life? Can't you see how cold he is?
Dean doesn't appreciate you.
Aren't you scared that he might be cheating?
Gale, this isn't working out. You're spring, full of life. He...he's winter. Just devoid of emotion. Just...dead.
He's nothing but a heartless machine. You're just too good to see that.
Gale pushed the plate away as she felt hot tears flowing from her eyes and searing a path down her cheeks. She had to save his dinner. Who would want soggy carrots or watery mashed potatoes or roast beef in a gravy of tears after a long hard day at work?
She swiped at her eyes and bowed her head low so that her tears would end up on the skirt of her dress—her dress. The one that was brand new, but he never noticed. Never even glanced at as he rushed towards his work after a short breakfast.
Her hands turned into fists, rumpling the skirt. Rumpling the flowers on the design. Rumpling her heart without her knowledge.
He was going to come back tonight, she thought. Right before the clock strikes midnight, he'll come through the door. Dean will place his suitcase down and walk over to the kitchen.
"Sorry. Long day at work," he'll say as he goes up to the refrigerator first to take a bottle of water.
As always, Gale with reply with "It's all right. Lots of cases today?"
Her reply would be half-hearted, but it wouldn't matter since he wouldn't notice. The forced smile wouldn't either.
After that, Gale would reheat the dinner for the last time—at least for that night.
That was the image that Gale tried to imagine as she folded her arms on top of the table and rested her head on top of the small arm nest. Her eyes were trained at the clock, still replaying what could have been, what would have been, and what should have been.
Thirty-five…forty …fifty …fifty-five…fifty-six…fifty-seven…fifty-eight…fifty-nine…
No matter what anyone says, she still loves him, and she always will.
It didn't matter that he wouldn't arrive at midnight. It didn't matter that she would fall asleep by the dinner table more times than she could count. It didn't matter that the food would be untouched. It didn't matter that the dinner would be left cold. It didn't matter that it would only repeat itself the next night.
In her mind, fighting through the armies and battalions that told her otherwise, Dean Thomas still loves her.