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The events of the last few days had left Mollymauk feeling off-kilter. They’d mustered enough gold and supplies to partake in more serious adventuring business, and that was great. Their little party was getting along, for the most part, though Mollymauk still revelled in irritating Beau for the sake of it, and imagined the feeling was mutual. Even Nott, who seemed initially stuck to Caleb’s side, was more comfortable splitting off with the rest of them; the budding friendship between her and Jester was unexpected, but promising.
All of that was fine, spectacular, absolutely fan- fucking -tastic.
What had Mollymauk feeling odd was Caleb. Caleb bloody Widogast, who days ago had given Molly one of the weakest expressions of physical affection he’d ever experienced- and he’d experienced a lot . There was no reason for a kiss on the forehead to leave him at such a loss, but here he was. Being around these people must have turned him into an idiot, because for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why he was struggling so much to process the whole situation.
Caleb, on the other hand, seemed perfectly normal. Mollymauk watched him as they all ate breakfast- or the tavern’s closest approximation of breakfast. He fussed over his cat, gave off a general aura of being slightly uncomfortable, joined the conversation only occasionally; the exact behaviour Mollymauk had come to expect from him at this point. He looked harder, examining Caleb for some sign that he was even slightly preoccupied in the same way Molly was.
Conversation was flowing between them, although largely carried by Beau and Jester, with Nott’s harsh little voice appearing to accent almost everything they said. With everybody so focused, Mollymauk could investigate the human largely undisturbed. His food went untouched, and he squinted at Caleb’s expression, looking for anything, some hint that perhaps he wasn’t as untouched by the whole thing as he seemed.
Nothing. Mollymauk was a good reader of people, his entire career had depended on that. If there was something hiding away in Caleb’s brain, he’d be able to tell.
He clenched his fists, felt his tail lash briefly in irritation before forcing it to quiet. It couldn’t just be him. Mollymauk didn’t do this, didn’t get thrown off by something so minor, something that wasn’t even a thing . He felt himself leaning forward slightly in his seat, almost desperate now for some sign that this wasn’t just him being a fool.
Fjord cleared his throat at Mollymauk’s side, leaning close to speak quietly so only they could hear.
“You’re, uh, bein’ pretty obvious.” He said almost apologetically, and Mollymauk finally stopped staring so he could angle his gaze towards Fjord instead.
“I don’t know what you mean.” He responded cooly, straightening up in his seat, and Fjord sighed, voice dropping even lower.
“You’ve been glarin’ so hard you’ve jammed your knife into the table.”
Mollymauk looked down automatically, and...yeah. Yep. There in his clenched fist, butter-knife, half-inch deep in the dark wooden surface of their shared table. Well.
On the bright side, at least that was kind of impressive.
He pulled it free as subtly as he could, muttering a thanks to Fjord, who thankfully didn’t persist with the conversation. He took a moment to attack his meal, annoyed and now embarrassed that he’d been caught out being this ridiculous. When he dared to look back across the table, he found Caleb looking back, and grit his teeth at the spike of frustration that hit him.
Gods, maybe Caleb wasn’t the disaster here. Maybe it was him.
-
They were lucky that their day ended with a fight, because if Mollymauk hadn’t released some of his tension one way or another, he’d have taken it out on his companions and it wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t even Caleb’s fault, really. Molly couldn’t blame him for his own inability to make sense of himself. They cut down a group of bandits, followed by another, and by the time the third arrives all of them are feeling worse for wear. Mollymauk wets his blades with his blood more than any of their attackers manage, Caleb is downed twice, Beau barely seems to land a successful hit. Overall, it’s messy, and tiring, and by the time they’re done and trudging back to the tavern in the freezing rain, just about all of them are exhausted beyond words.
Mollymauk feels gutted. A good fight always did leave him feeling empty and exhausted in the best way. Jester offers half-heartedly to heal his injuries, most of which self-inflicted, but Mollymauk tells her not to worry.
She reassures him that she wasn’t worried, only that everyone was waiting for her to offer, which isn’t as nice, but Molly appreciates it nonetheless.
The weather is so foul and the hour so late that the tavern is near-empty, and even the barkeep seems to wish he was anywhere else. Many of them retire to their rooms, and Mollymauk knows that while they may return for a drink after washing as much as possible and tending to their wounds and weapons, it’s just as likely that exhaustion will take them. Mollymauk knows the same is true for him, and he really would like a drink before turning in for the night.
He gets himself an ale, finds the corner table where Fjord is nursing a cup of what smells like firewhiskey or something similar. He shucks his coat, laying it over the back of his chair, and digs his sewing kit from the pocket before settling in himself.
Generally, Mollymauk would be more concerned about offending or making others uncomfortable, but he’s filthy and tired and bloody, and he really doubts Fjord would hold a little bit of partial nudity against him. He sheds his shirt, a patchwork of white linen and blood red stain, torn and repaired so often that the material puckers and wrinkles in odd places. He really should purchase a replacement, but this still had some life left in it, and he was nothing if not frugal.
He leans back in his chair and begins to sew, patching the blood-soaked rips methodically, pausing only to drink every now and then. Fjord is silent from across the table, nursing his own drink and absently watching the repetitive motions of Mollymauk’s hands. It’s meditative, almost, ritualistic in that Mollymauk does it after every battle, just as he cleans his blades and tends his wounds. His injuries throb and ache, but it only helps clear his mind, exhaustion and pain and, probably, a good deal of blood loss, all contributing to forcing his overactive mind to calm.
Fjord finishes his drink and leaves the table, and Mollymauk doesn’t pay enough attention to know if he’d gone to his room or not, just tries not to prick his fingers, movements getting clumsier the more he works. Another tankard is placed in front of him, and he grunts in thanks as Fjord settles in again.
After some time, when Mollymauk’s movements have slowed further, tiredness starting to get the best of him, somebody else joins the table, and for a good minute or two, he hasn’t the presence of mind to check who it is. It’s only when Fjord bids them goodnight that he looks up, and sees Caleb, with a drink and an open tome and no companion- goblin nor cat. Mollymauk ties off the last stitches, biting the thread clean to separate it from the spool, and sets his shirt on his lap so he won’t forget it when he leaves.
He’d put it back on, but the thing is filthy with blood and grime. It’ll take an overnight soaking and a scrub with lye the next day to come even slightly clean. He leans back, sits on the very edge of his seat, hips cocked forward so he can examine his wounds. They’re deep, done hurriedly in the heat of battle and really, he should take more care. They still bleed sluggishly, and when he pinches the edges closed with his fingers the congealed blood breaks, allowing a burst of fresh blood to gout from the gash, beading and trailing down his chest. Maybe he should have let Jester take care of these, after all.
The others aren’t worse, at least, though there’s a clean slice across the prominent blade of his hip that he knows will take a long time to heal, even with potions or spells. He should probably put a stitch or two into the worst of them, just to be safe, but he’s certain the job would be horrifically slow with how heavy-handed he is at the moment.
He closes his eyes, tips his head back over his chair, feels the tips of his horns rasp against the wood and the tickle of blood as it flows over his stomach and soaks into his waistband, and without looking up, without even opening his eyes, addresses the other man at the table.
“Caleb,” Gods, even his voice is sluggish. He’s definitely the disaster, here. “Do you know how to sew?”
There is quiet for a moment, before he hears Caleb swallow, hears his mug hit the table.
“As well as anybody does, I suppose?”
Mollymauk hums, rolling his neck against the back of his chair and feeling the joints click and muscles complain. Gods, his whole body aches. It’s fucking great.
“What about people? D’you know how to sew those up?”
Caleb sighs, or laughs, or both. Mollymauk can’t tell.
“Not nearly as well, no.”
Huh. Disappointing. Molly lets his head tip forward to finally meet Caleb’s gaze, vision swimming a little bit, and sees Caleb frown, expression drawing tight and concerned. “Are you feeling alright, Mollymauk?”
A laugh bursts from Molly’s mouth, and it sounds hysterical even to his own ears.
“Right as rain, why d’you ask?”
Caleb leans forward, squinting at the now steadily-bleeding reopened wound. Mollymauk takes another swig of his ale.
“You look quite pale.”
“That’ll be the blood loss, dear.”
Caleb scowls at him for that, though there’s little weight behind it, and Molly bares his teeth back at him, fangs and all. He lets it fade into a smile, cocking his head onto one shoulder. “I’ll be fine, don’t you worry yourself. Worst I’ll get is a few new scars for the collection.” He gestures weakly at his torso, watches Caleb’s eyes flicker from blemish to blemish with a look of sickened fascination. It doesn’t bother Mollymauk, he’s used to worse.
“You do this every time you fight?” Caleb asks, sounding hesitant, as if he’ll hurt Molly’s feelings. Mollymauk peers down at himself, running his fingertips over the most prominent ridges of scar tissue, numb to his touch.
“Not every time,” he says, pinching skin between his fingertips until it pales. “When I have to.”
He hears Caleb take a breath, runs a finger through the trail of blood on his own belly and watches it flake away.
“It’s a lot of scars for ‘not every time’.” Caleb says, and his voice is gentle in a way Mollymauk would hate if he had the energy. “You’ve been in a lot of fights, then?”
Molly is empty, and quiet, and runs his fingers over the staccato terrain of his torso.
“Not particularly.”
He knows what Caleb is asking; if his wounds are more than just necessary, if they’re recreational or decorative or maybe even something worse. Mollymauk is too tired to feel ashamed.
If Caleb is brave enough to ask, he’s brave enough to know the answer.
Caleb goes very, very still.
“Oh.” He says, and Mollymauk almost bristles in irritation.
“Yes, Oh . Can we move on?”
Caleb doesn’t speak; only drinks deeply from his tankard until it runs dry. He pulls up his sleeves, reaches for Mollymauk’s sewing kit and get up from his chair. He goes to the bar, returning with a cup of firewhiskey, which he shoves into Mollymauk’s hands with the simple order to drink, the other cup smells even stronger, looking clear and viscous in its cup. As soon as Mollymauk has downed his whiskey, Caleb tips his cup and pours the contents over Molly’s torso.
It fucking burns, and not in the pleasant way he’d been enjoying all night. The alcohol stings in his wounds and he snarls, fingernails digging into the arms of his chair, tail whipping around and curling at Caleb’s waist instinctively as if to drag him away.
“What the fuck , Caleb, christ .” He says, curling against the pain, shoulders and knees tucking into his torso as if it’ll help.
“You wanted me to sew you.” Says Caleb, calm as anything, and Mollymauk wants to kill him. His body jolts away from the sensation of his own skin burning, eyes welling with angry tears, and he growls, a guttural, instinctive noise as Caleb threads a needle. He presses his hands flat against his thighs, breathing coming harsh.
“Be careful.” He says tersely. “Fuck it up and you’ll wish you hadn’t tried.” Caleb doesn’t react, just puts a cold hand on his sternum and pushes him back against the chair. He makes long, deliberate eye contact with Mollymauk, and the tiefling feels himself shudder briefly from head to toe.
“Just tell me where to sew, Mollymauk.”