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It is exactly 3:28 in the morning and Caleb Widogast cannot fall back asleep. He isn't sure what time it was when he finally closed his eyes, spells satisfactorily copied, but whatever time it was he is certain he has not been resting long enough.
After checking to see that Nott is still out, he decides that there really is no purpose to laying in bed and staring at the darkened ceiling. Carefully, he extracts himself from the nest his friend seems to have made out of the sparse blankets provided to them, carefully slipping a pillow into the spot he once occupied. Nott barely shifts. He dons his book harness and boots in near silence, taking his coat over his arm, and makes his way downstairs.
He is distracted by thoughts of the potential for a poorly brewed cup of tea as he takes the stairs nearly as silently as he took to dressing. Any thoughts of potentially scrounging something from the kitchen come to a screeching stop when he sees a familiar form slumped over the bar, cheek pillowed by his arm, tracing one of the many worn in rings from years of condensation on the wooden bar top.
Mollymauk.
Caleb freezes, a mouse who has not yet been seen by the lazy, unsated cat. He contemplates the merits of turning, fleeing back to the confines of his shared room, and waiting there until dawn's early light. It had been a tense evening and Caleb had only just tucked away all that he felt behind the welcome distraction of new magics. He hasn't had the time to prepare himself for the morning when he would inevitably see his party again and try to pretend to fit. Unfortunately, that isn't in the cards. The friendly tavernkeeper raises a single hand in greeting as he sees Caleb and turns away. The movement is all Mollymauk needs to lift his head and turn.
For a moment, the two men just stare, Molly still half reclined on his arm, Caleb gripping his coat and feeling far too naked. Caleb tries not to count the seconds that pass before Mollymauk sits up and turns on his stool, leaning back on the bar as if it is a well-worn throne. Caleb knows it's bravado. Mollymauk knows that Caleb knows it's bravado. Still, the other man tilts his head towards the stool next to him.
"Well? Are you just going to stand there or are you going to join me?" Mollymauk's voice slurs with the tell-tale sign of too much drink and Caleb hates that he still manages to sound like temptation.
For a moment, Caleb tries to scrounge up a reason to say no, to go find a quiet table in a dark corner and avoid the tiefling altogether, but his mind draws a blank. There is nothing that would not show Mollymauk that how he sees the man has changed. It hasn't, but how was he to say all that? He can't. He doesn't know how. So, Caleb takes a deep breath and steps up to the bar, sliding his coat on before sitting gingerly on the stool. He tries to ignore the fact that Mollymauk watches him every step of the way.
"So, what're you doin' up at this hour?" Molly turns to face Caleb and props his cheek up on his fist.
"I could ask the same of you," Caleb responds. He tries not to watch as the light of the dying fire and the low lanterns catch the gold of his rings as Mollymauk waves his free hand through the air.
"Oh, you know, drinking enough to forget," Molly says it so casually, as if he was not being interrogated by his friends in a forced Zone of Truth mere hours ago.
"Has it worked?" Caleb's tone is dry.
"Nope!" Molly pops up, unnaturally chipper, and turns back to the bar proper, "You reckon I should try a little harder?"
"Nein, you have likely had more than enough, Mollymauk."
The other man sighs as he taps his fingers against the bar.
"You're no fun, Caleb."
"I am plenty of fun," Caleb responds, tone still flat, "I am a hit at all of the parties."
Mollymauk snorts an inelegant laugh and flags the bartender down, indicating a refill for the small glass in front of him. The tavern keep hesitates, looks to Caleb, who shakes his head minutely. Molly huffs.
"You make jokes then rob me of booze. You're giving me mixed signals here." Molly goes back to resting on the bartop, keeping one fathomless ruby eye trained on the wizard next to him.
"You'll already be hurting enough in a couple of hours when Jester comes barging in to drag you and Fjord out of bed. You do not need more fuel added to the fire."
Caleb expects some sharp or witty retort, something that is both playful and a little bit of a dig, snappy and without missing a beat, but instead he is met with silence. Caleb, who had been dutifully staring into the mid-distance, wondering how long he had to sit until it was socially acceptable for him to excuse himself, glances down to see that Molly's critical gaze is trained on him. For a moment, his breath catches. It is rare, to be pinned by such intensity. Caleb knows that Mollymauk is good at reading people, he made a profession of it, clocking what a person might want to hear, weighing it with what they might need to hear, and dancing that fine line. Would looking away show too much? Was staring doing the same? Caleb fights the need to fidget. The two of them sit in silence for a couple seconds more before Caleb cracks.
"What?" He tries not to sound irritable, he really does, but his heart is racing and he is trying to stop his hands from shaking, and there are so many things he does not want Mollymauk to see.
"Why did you say that up there, earlier?" Molly's voice is quiet, but contemplative.
"Say what when?" Caleb thinks he might have an idea where this is going and he isn't sure that he wants it to.
"That people deserve second chances, that you were satisfied," Molly frowns and Caleb hates how it looks on him, "My name."
"Because it is true," Caleb shrugs, finally tearing his gaze away, "You would have done the same, and I said your name because it is your name. Why else?"
Quiet falls again and, this time, Caleb successfully stops himself from looking back down at the man who could probably flay him without so much as touching him.
"You were really quiet up there, barely asked anything. Everyone else was climbing all the way down my throat, but you just stood there. Wasn't there anything else you wanted to know?" There is something tense in Molly's voice, a brittleness that the alcohol only exacerbated despite the other man's intentions behind overindulging.
"No," Caleb says simply. He hears Molly scoff and looks down to see that the tiefling has tilted his gaze away towards the bottles on the shelves across from them, "What? Do you find that so difficult to believe?"
"A little," Molly has gone back to tracing the worn rings in the bar, "You're usually so... cagey. The only one of us who seems to trust less than you is Beau."
"Yes, well, we both know that Beau is an asshole." Caleb tries at levity. He isn't sure it hits the mark.
"No, seriously," Molly sits up and turns to face Caleb again, freezing the man in place, "You act like trust is a dagger to the throat. The only person other than yourself that you give two shits about is Nott-"
"That is not true," Caleb can't help the outburst.
"Isn't it?" Caleb chooses not to look too closely at how bitter Mollymauk manages to make those two words sound.
"No," Caleb tries to fight the way his chest aches. There is so much he wants to say, to do, and so much he does not. Can he reveal some without revealing others? He wants to take Molly's hand, to tell him that he has come to enjoy being around those of the Mighty Nein, that for the first time in a long time he can see himself staying, that he is terrified of it all. Instead, he clenches his fists against his thighs and does all that he can not to break eye contact, "It is unequivocally and emphatically untrue. What is true is that I care deeply for Nott, I do not believe I hide that fact. What is untrue is that I care for no one else."
"But not that you give a shit about yourself?" Molly prods.
"I care enough to survive," Caleb states probably too matter-of-factly. Would he be this honest if Mollymauk weren't piss drunk? He looks away. There will be too much there for Molly to see, he knows it. There is already more than enough for the other man to see in the set of his shoulders, in the curve of his spine and the furrow of his brow, Caleb knows this, but he can't help the way he wants to disappear, to hide.
"Caleb..."
No. Nein. He cannot handle that tone, the curiosity, the gentleness, the slight edge of chastisement, the pureness of it, the softness. Something in Caleb snaps and he stands, turning to go... somewhere. Anywhere that isn't here.
"Wait," Despite his blood probably being more alcohol than anything else, Molly catches Caleb's wrist, "Don't go. Sit, stay, keep this poor sod company, just a bit longer."
It wouldn't be difficult to break the hold, not with how loosely Mollymauk is actually gripping him, and Caleb knows that is intentional because that is just how Molly is. He closes his eyes, trying not to memorize how Molly's warmth sinks in through the ever-present bandages around his arms, tries not to think about how he wants to know what it would feel like to have those calloused fingertips on his skin, about how badly he wants to stay, how badly he wants Molly to want him to stay. He should leave, run, flee, anything other than what he does.
He sits.
"There, that wasn't so bad, was it?" A bit of that joviality has found its way back to Molly's voice and Caleb decides he doesn't want to analyze if it is genuine or not.
"Why?" Caleb bites off anything else he might add.
"Why, what?" Molly has turned to face Caleb again, body open, eyes as attentive as they can be given his state.
"Why do you want me to stay?" Why is he asking? Caleb doesn't want the answer. He knows the answer will never be what he wants it to be.
Molly is quiet for a moment before he sighs.
"Don't want to be alone right now, that's all."
Caleb closes his eyes against the wave of cold he knew was coming, against that ever-tightening fist. It could be anyone in this spot and it wouldn't matter. It could be a complete stranger and it wouldn't matter. Hells, it would probably be preferable. Mollymauk could be anyone to a stranger, this past night wouldn't even have had to exist if it were a stranger in Caleb's spot. It doesn't matter that it is Caleb. He just happened to be in the right-wrong place at the right-wrong time. His words catch in his throat and it is probably better that way.
The two sit in silence again, heavy and uncomfortable. It seems like Molly might want to say something, that he is weighing it, or maybe he just doesn't have words. Caleb has too many and not enough. He internally debates the merits of going upstairs and fetching someone who might be more entertaining, perhaps Fjord. The two of them get along, or seem to. Fjord is certainly a much better conversationalist, and a significantly better choice to help navigate complex emotions. Caleb shifts.
"I could go get-"
Molly's sigh is so strong it rustles Caleb's hair.
"No, you can't." Molly is emphatic. He groans and Caleb sees him run a hand through his hair from peeking periphery, "Agh, I don't want you to."
Quiet, again.
"Caleb," Molly prods.
Silence.
"Caleb." Molly pushes.
More silence.
"Caleb, for fucks sake, look at me." Molly reaches over and takes Caleb's far cheek, pulling to shift the other man so they are facing each other. Despite Caleb's seemingly stubborn silence, he allows Molly to move him rather easily. He shouldn't, he knows he shouldn't. He hates how badly he wants those eyes on him, how he almost wants to be seen, how he nearly reflexively leans into that gentle hand, how he wants to be the one that Molly wants there with him, how he wants, and wants, and wants. Whatever Molly was going to say dies on his lips when crimson depths finally meet blue sky.
"Oh," the word comes out as a whisper and Caleb's heart sinks.
No.
"Oh, Caleb."
Stop.
"Darling," Molly's other hand comes up to cup Caleb's bare cheek, thumb lightly brushing a cheekbone still too pronounced from years of hunger.
Please.
"I didn't-"
Caleb wrenches away, nearly tripping over the stool as he stumbles back. He pushes away, practically flinging himself out into the pre-dawn morning, desperate. He needs to go somewhere, anywhere, anywhere that isn't here, with those knowing eyes and pityingly gentle hands, a place where his traitorous heart isn't pushing its way out of his chest for none but one to see, but it's dark and he can't breathe and he aches, fuck, he aches. He thinks he might hear his name called as he turns, fleeing down the alley alongside the Leaky Tap. He shouldn't look back, can't look back, but oh, how he wants to.