Work Text:
Molly tells himself he's just going upstairs to piss, that he's not running away, that he's not running towards something. Someone. It's a lie and he knows it, but what else is he but a liar?
Okay, he really did have to piss, but that's not why he slows down in the hall on his way back to the tavern where he can continue to drown himself in alcohol and pretend to not be afraid of what tomorrow brings, to not be angry at his friends for forcing him to face what he wasn't ready for, to look at one of his greatest fears while the wound is still gushing blood.
He comes to a full stop at the door he knows hides the team's wizard, his wizard. Sure, Caleb had stayed through the interrogation, prodded a bit himself, but largely he stood there, quiet and staring in that way that made Molly feel as though he were transparent. Admittedly, he had been worried Caleb may have been one of the first to find out, what with his distrust and obvious paranoia. What he hadn't expected was for the taciturn man who did all that he could to avoid the spotlight to speak up in a room full of loud, pushy people and intercede to say enough was enough.
And then Caleb said his name, so firm and final and true, and Molly's urge to flee the room went from 'I need to be gone yesterday' to near desperation. 'Seen' was not something Molly really wanted to be. Looked at, yes. Admired, sure. He wanted attention, not soul-deep scrutiny, and somehow, it wasn't the barrage of questions that tipped Molly over the edge, but the quiet acceptance of a man so uncomfortable with unknowns that he still booby traps his room every night, despite being surrounded by people who would gladly rush to his aid.
That sudden and unsettling weight in his chest at Caleb's insistence that Molly was enough still sits there, but it doesn't feel as heavy now. It has slowly been morphing from an abrupt uncertainty to a growing curiosity. To say that Caleb had yet to catch his attention was, very obviously, not true. There was so much to Caleb he didn't understand and so much he wanted to. Caleb wasn't one to catch the eye upon first meeting and, for Molly, he didn't. The table of colorful, both literally and otherwise, people sitting in the tavern in Trostenwald were the ones that drew him near. He had barely registered the dingy man covered in dirt, curled in quietly with his at-the-time odd companion, but it was all by design, wasn't it? Just like Molly has chosen to stand out, Caleb has chosen to blend in.
The thing about Caleb, though, is really, when it comes down to it, he is fascinating. Slow to open, even slower to trust, shady and quiet and skeptical, selfish, and afraid. There were so many things Caleb was that were so much easier to see, like it was a shield he put up around himself to hide the brilliance, the voracious appetite for learning that Molly couldn't understand, the deep affection he was so clearly capable of, the dry humor, the strange juxtaposition of his commitment to the Nein and how he always seems one strong gust of wind from blowing away. He is soft curves and sharp edges, silently thoughtful, and deeply, deeply sad. It makes Molly want to protect him, to shake him, to get him to smile. Anything, really.
And tonight, Caleb stood up for him in a way Molly never would have predicted. He doesn't know how to say thank you for that, how to tell Caleb that he is grateful for the escape given, for the confidence.
So here Molly stands, outside Caleb's door, hand slightly raised as if to knock. To knock and do... what? Interrupt the man's studies and face down the dismissive ire that came with disturbing the wizard in what was probably his happy place? Extend an invite to drinks that he knows will be turned down oh-so-politely? He should go, turn around and go back downstairs, maybe do another three shots and forget all about this moment, wait for the blessed blankness of booze with a side dish of hangover in the morning. Instead, he rests his hand on the door and leans in, trying to hear what might be on the other side.
It's silent. Of course it is silent. The light trickling out from under the door tells Molly that the room's inhabitant is still awake. Temptation, as it often does with one Mollymauk Tealeaf, wins out. Carefully, he edges the door open. A small crack is all he needs, really. The single bed in the room is positioned perfectly for someone to see it from the doorway. The flicker of candlelight and the steady, warm glow of the wizard's little globes of light draw the human in soft, gentle brushes, even the shadow of him tinged with that warmth.
Molly can't help but smile at the way Caleb's brow furrows in concentration as he leans over a scroll and his spellbook, looking back and forth between them with that rapt intensity Molly has learned is specifically dedicated to knowledge. He watches as Caleb's free hand idly traces out half-aborted gestures with elegant fingers freed from gloves but not from bandages and how the other man's lips move around silent sounds that he knows are all power. There is none of the uncertainty, none of the hesitation or fear in this Caleb. This is where his confidence lies. They've all seen glimpses of it in battle, between his moments of overthinking and fear, the sharpness of his eyes when he sets his sights on his target, that split second where all of his uncertainty washes away and magic flies free and true. He wonders if there is more of that man in there, underneath all of that fear.
A soft, thoughtful noise from within the room Caleb shares with Nott pulls Molly back to the present, but only for a moment. He watches as the wizard brushes the feather of his quill lightly across his lips, as those long, dexterous fingers trace along an unrolled scroll, as his head tilts just enough for the light to catch in Caleb's startlingly blue eyes. Molly always forgets how beautiful Caleb's eyes are. There are so many things he wants to see in those eyes, so many things he wants to hear from those lips, so many things he wants to feel under those hands. He grips the doorframe, watching with a voracious hunger as Caleb pulls the quill away to write something and bites the corner of his lower lip.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
In some universe, Molly throws open the door, climbs straight into Caleb's lap, takes his face in his hands, and kisses him until neither of them can breathe. Wouldn't that be a sight, Caleb Widogast, flushed and panting, eyes more black than blue, gazing up and holding on for dear life? Molly's hand slides down to the doorknob, tenuous self-control threatening to snap.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs yank Molly away from whatever fantasy had been budding. As quickly and quietly as he can, he slides the door shut, resuming his way down the hall with his hands in his pockets and a whistle on his lips as if he hadn't just been thinking about ravishing their shy little wizard. He nods to the person as they pass, fully intending to find his way back downstairs and into another shot, but something in him pulls him to a stop. He stands, hand hovering above the railing, listening to the sounds of revelry from below, thinking about the sound of a quill scratching away on paper that costs too much damn money.
In some universe, Molly turns back, knocks on the door, invites Caleb down and doesn't leave until the other man agrees to at least one drink, steadily plying him with more. In another universe, Caleb and Molly sit in a den of drunk strangers, Caleb making dry comments under his breath that maybe cause Molly to laugh a little too hard, where he gets away with more than just a single squeeze of the shoulder, where Caleb maybe even leans in, whispers in his ear, rests in the tiefling's warmth.
But that isn't this universe, so Molly continues his way downstairs, fully intent on resuming his valiant attempt to get blackout fucking drunk.
He doesn't look back.