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Her arms are empty. Her head reels, her heart hurts, and her arms are so fucking empty.
She tries to ignore it. Tries to fill up the space with a necklace she stole, or a bundle of clothes, or a bottle of liquor. But the necklace is too small, and the clothes are too cold, and the bottle always somehow ends up empty by the turn of dawn.
"Caleb?"
She’s always hated her voice. Always hated the way it’s rattled in her throat and warbled in the wrong parts like a bag of marbles.
‘Don’t say that,’ he’d said, and his eyes had swept her with such tenderness she’d thought she might melt. 'I think you sound beautiful. Like seashells on a beach.’
'You’ve never been to a beach,’ she’d argued, squirming against his look.
He’d kissed the top of her head then, pointed towards the stringy pieces of metal she’d been all too excited to hang up on their porch.
'Like wind chimes, then.’
Caleb shifts. Frumpkin, nestled in his hair, hisses.
“Ja?” he says, voice thick with sleep.
"I'm sorry," Nott says. "Were you sleeping?"
Caleb sighs, and slowly, strenuously, props himself up on one elbow. Frumpkin hisses again and jumps off, padding over to the sputtering fire they’ve got going and curling up once more.
“Was, ja. That would be the key word here.” Another sigh, more to himself this time. “Is everything alright, Nott?”
'No,’ she’d snapped, more times than she could count. Even in bed, with his hands wrapped around her and his breath on her neck (in the rare case he’d let her be the little spoon, that is), her ears were always perked, her eyes always peeled. 'There’s someone in your apothecary.’
Or 'there’s a thief trying to break in.’
Or 'there’s a goblin outside.’
And he’d always sigh, but fondly follow her when she went to check.
“Yes,” she says this time. Automatically. A liar since birth.
She can’t see Caleb, but even just by staring at his back she can sense his frown, can hear the cogs in his mind turning as he tries to figure out what she might have woken him up for if he takes her word as true. “Are you sure? Did you hear something?”
“No,” Nott says, and it’s not a lie, not really. “I was just thinking.”
“About what?” he asks.
Nott shrugs. “Things. Stuff. Us. Where we’re going. What we’re doing.”
Caleb’s voice is suddenly much more awake. “What do you mean? Is there something you wish to do?”
“Besides steal, you mean?” Nott asks. It’s a weak joke. Neither of them laugh.
They always kept a close eye on her when she walked through town, a close eye on her steps (nimble, light) and a close eye on her fingers (stubby, quick.) They’d lock their best items away and hide them til she passed.
But when he was with her, when he walked in tune with her (her slowing down so he wouldn’t be left behind), when he held her hand like it was as natural as breathing… well.
The town didn’t look as closely.
And his palm, warm and sweaty pressed against hers, kept her sticky fingers at bay.
“Besides steal, I mean,” Caleb agrees gently. He’s so different from him. So unfazed by her itch. So unperturbed by the problems it always brings them both.
He’d never said anything about it either, but Nott had sensed his disapproval as readily as she’d sensed her own when the day was done and her pockets were full and the things she’d stolen weighed them down and rattled like chains.
He’d clutched her hands between his own and kissed them, as if that would solve everything.
And for a while, Nott could have sworn it had.
“I miss him,” she suddenly says, and her mouth is moving before her mind can filter what it says. “The halfling man I told you about before. I don’t know where he is or how he’s doing and I miss him, Caleb, I miss him so much.”
"Yeza," Caleb says, and hearing his name is the last straw for Nott. The space in her arms swells into a void in her chest that stretches and throbs, gnawing on her heart and threatening to swallow her whole.
She goes to say something, anything, but her throat’s closed up, and all that comes out is a strangled sob. She clamps her hands over her mouth, but it’s too late. With the quick, practiced gesture of someone all too familiar with waking up under pressure, Caleb has turned to face her and has swept her up into his arms.
“Shh,” he says, and it sounds awkward, and it sounds lost, and it sounds Caleb. “It’s– well, it’s not okay, but I am here for you. You know that, ja? I am here for you. I did not know how much this man, Yeza, meant to you, but now I do, and if you want us to find him, then find him we will. We will even start tomorrow if you want. Is that okay? Nott? Is that okay?”
Nott nods, face pressed against his chest. He smells like firewood and missed showers. Nothing like Yeza, who let Nott light all their fires and only missed showers if he was working too hard– and then could instantly be persuaded to take one if Nott slyly suggested she join.
The thought of it twists her stomach into knots, and it’s all she can do not to scream.
She hates this. She hates everything that’s happened to her, she hates everything that’s happened to both of them, and she misses him. She misses him so fucking much it burns.
Yeza.
Yeza.
Yeza.
Caleb.
She takes a deep breath. Steels herself. Pulls her face away from Caleb. Looks up. Goes to thank him, apologize for falling apart like this and make up some excuse as to why they can’t just 'go and find him’– then falters as the words die in her throat.
Caleb’s face is worried.
His eyebrows are knit together, his lips are pressed against each other in a ruler straight line, his forehead is furrowed.
And his eyes, his beautiful eyes, eyes filled with so much concern and tenderness it makes her want to cry, are blue.
Yeza.
Yeza.
Yeza.
Luke.