#Jestering aside - I am so touched by how loved my little cat guy is. Thank you for rotating them in your brain.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I need you to know that every time I see your personal cat in cowboy boots I am driven once more to embroider it onto a denim jacket. I still have one pair of your cats saved as a reaction image because they convey such an emotion.

Whether or not you go through with it, the mental image has enriched me more than you can imagine.

[unicyclehippo]

If you're still taking prompts, then... verklempt with a touch of marcid, as a found family comfort fic for poor Beau after that last episode (she needs it).

verklempt - completely and utterly overcome with emotion // marcid - incredibly exhausted

//

Caleb

//

The woman who walks out of that house is not his Beauregard. If not for his familiarity with transmutation, he might suspect that someone else had been put in her place; the imposter has copied her flawlessly—wears her face, her skin—but she does not know how to be their Beauregard.

Their Beauregard has eyes like needles, sharp and shining, that pin people open to examine their insides, cobalt eyes. These blank eyes, these clouded-over eyes, are wrong.

Their Beauregard moves like a cat. Not like Frumpkin, whose form sometimes shifts and moves to fit the world—he is real and unreal and his smoking steps reflect it. Beauregard moves like one of the great striped cats, the kings of the southern forests; Caleb had seen one, once, in his days at the Academy and it is the only way he knows how to conceptualise of Beauregard’s distinctive physicality. She is forceful and graceful all at once; she slinks and steps and climbs with power in her movements. There is a confidence to her that is all physical—all of her power, all of her presence, contained. Concrete. The imposter cannot begin to understand this. Her hands are wrong. They hang heavy at her sides like an inept simulacrum, like gloves filled with some unsuitable material— with ice, with lead. They lurch in pendulum swings from the shoulders, out of time. She does not stride or strut. She stumbles over a hunk of raised rock. When she braces against Caleb, who steps quickly to her side, her fingers claw at the proffered arm so she doesn’t meet mud.

Her skin is cold and wet from the misting downpour.

Enough, Caleb thinks. Tugs her to stop, halt.

She doesn’t argue with him and it’s all wrong, wrong, wrong.

Blue eyes drift to his face, unseeing, glazed. He sees the faintest stir behind them of recognition and she looks down to their joined hands.

‘Your hands are cold,�� he says softly.

There is no hiding that they have stopped from the watchful others, but he doesn’t have to let them hear. Beau is a private person and they have learned more of her history in the last two days, last hour, than ever; he will not let anyone take more from her, not even the knowledge that her hands are cold.

‘No,’ she denies. ‘’m all—hot.’ Rubs her other hand over the back of her neck as she has been doing all day. The skin is red, raw with scratching, but from what he can see it is hot from friction alone.

He makes a sound of disagreement. Pulls his gloves from the pocket of his coat and works the first onto the hand he still holds. It is hard because she is not being helpful, like pulling a glove onto a statue, but finally it is more or less on and he rubs the hand between both of his own in that rough way that calls heat back into extremities.

She shivers. Blinks, surprised by the way another shiver shakes through her.

He coaxes her second hand into the other glove. ‘There. Wunderbar.’

Beau curls her fingers into fists, slightly cushioned by the gloves that are only a little threadbare. ‘You don’t need ‘em?’ she asks, the thought making her reach off and fiddle with the cuffs.

Caleb lays his hands over hers. Squeezes. ‘Nein, it is fine, I can summon flames. Keep them.’

He cannot help but wonder—as she struggles past the exhaustion to think, to figure if he needs them more, eyes narrowing into an approximation of shrewd, prying—how many things Beau has been given. A slap across the face, is the first he knows of. A jade necklace with no apparent defences, supposedly to keep her safe. Anything else? Fire boils in his belly, threatens to burn through his veins, his entire self—threatens to send the rain that hits him steaming, hissing away from his too-warm skin—as her tear-stained cheeks crinkle into a very small smile.

‘Thanks, Caleb.’

He lets his hand settle on her shoulder when they set out again, fond, letting her feel the weight of his presence at her side.

//

Nott

//

She waits until they’ve purchased beds for the night in the inn, waits until Beau and Jester have gone upstairs to their room, before she follows. Waits until Beau has excused herself, stepped into the washroom, before letting herself in and setting the little jade rabbit on Beau’s bedside.

‘You steal that?’

Nott screams and spins, crossbow drawn. Beau doesn’t even flinch; her eyes are focused on the statuette, over Nott’s shoulder.

‘Beau! Steal? Little old me?’ she hedges awkwardly until she realises she isn’t seeing upset on Beau’s face, or annoyance. Strange, given that is Beau’s go-to expression, but... ‘Ah—yes. I didn’t like the way he spoke to you, so,’ Nott flutters her fingers in a There you go sort of motion. Her eyes narrow, gleaming with interest at the way Beau’s expression shifts.

‘He’s—complicated,’ she says finally.

Nott isn’t sure if what she has, what this goblin body has, are hackles, but if they were they’d be raised by Beau’s tone: quiet, borderline defeated. Worse—understanding.

‘He’s an asshole.’

Beau smiles crookedly. ‘So am I. So was I.’

‘You were a kid,’ Nott snarls. Holds her hands up in surrender when Beau’s eyes snap sideways, staring at her finally instead of that damn statuette. ‘Sorry, sorry, not my place, sorry.’

‘No. It’s not.’

‘Right. Well.’ Nott whistles faintly through her crooked teeth.

‘I nearly broke that,’ Beau tells her, eyes sliding back to the statue. ‘When I was - I dunno. Ten? Ten, I think. I was running in the house and slipped. Slammed into the table,’ she says, and doesn’t seem to notice the way her hand lifts to rub at the long-healed scar above her eyebrow. ‘It fell off. Hit the carpet. There’s - ah - a little chip missing on the back,’ she tells Nott, who doesn’t bother checking. The corner of Beau’s lips twitch up into an expression Nott wouldn’t in a hundred years call a smile. ‘He picked that up first.’

‘Beau...’ The girl sighs. Nott puts her crossbow away. She hadn’t realised it was still out, the weight so comforting in her hands. Now they’re empty, they itch with the need to take something, work with something. She threads her long, bad fingers together. ‘Thank you for coming here. I know you did it for me and—thank you.’

Beau jerks her head in a nod. Nott has nothing more to say, knows it isn’t the right time to mention how much she thinks Beau’s dad is a dickhead, knows very little of what she says will be taken seriously by Beau. So instead, she says to her friend,

‘It sounded cool. Your plan for the wine. I’m sorry he didn’t listen to you.’ Nott eases forward, toward Beau standing interposed between the bed and the door. She stops beside her, pats the girl fondly on the hip. Leaves her hand there as she looks up into Beau’s suddenly blank face. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re with us.’

‘Okay,’ Beau rasps, not meeting her eyes.

Nott pats her side again. ‘Sleep well, Beau. You need your rest if we’re off to fuck up a hag in the morning.’

//

Fjord and Yasha

//

‘At least we know now,’ he says low to Yasha as they follow Beau out from the inn. ‘If we ever want her to be less sneaky, just...’

‘Confront her with her past?’

‘Yeah.’ Fjord grimaces. ‘Not really funny, huh?’

Yasha eyes the slow figure ahead of them, her meandering path. She would think Beau were drunk, if she hadn’t been watching her carefully since they left that place. A half cup of wine would have no effect like this on the well-practised monk.

‘No.’

The pair follow Beau through the mud-slopped streets. For a short while, she stands at the base of the switch-back roads up to the Rainbow Vineyards and Yasha is prepared to return to the inn and fetch everyone, in case Beau has it in her mind to revisit the house—what they would do, she isn’t sure. Stop her? Perhaps. Help her? Definitely. But Beau doesn’t head up; she turns away and wanders back up the path. Fjord and Yasha step aside to get out of her way and she walks right past them, unseeing.

‘Still raining,’ Fjord says to Yasha.

Her chest tightens around mixed pain and love. For Beau, who is hurting. And for Fjord, who will muster a bad lie to protect his best friend.

‘Ah. Yes,’ she agrees, lying too. ‘I think I feel it.’ She holds her hand out, palm up to the sky. Wipes imaginary droplets off against her cloak.

They follow Beau to the other end of the town, to the southern gates. She walks out of them, staggers to a stop by a low cliff where she sits. Throws her legs over the edge and grasps at small rocks, tosses them down the embankment into the burning pools there.

Fjord sits to one side of her.

Yasha sits on the other.

Neither of them speak, until eventually Beau swears. Scrubs at her cheeks.

‘Fuck—when—hey guys,’ she says, voice thick. She reworks it into something sharper. ‘Are you following me?’

Yasha looks to Fjord over her head, nervous. Perhaps she shouldn’t be here, she has caused enough hurt,

‘A-yup,’ Fjord tells Beau, a hint of his old swaggering accent in the word.

‘How long?’

‘Good long while.’

Beau stares at him, mouth working but no sound coming out. She jerks her head to Yasha, who smiles. Jerks her head to the pools, which burble and burn away.

‘Didn’t notice.’

‘No, we know.’ Fjord leans heavy against her shoulder. ‘It’s alright.’

‘Should’ve noticed.’

‘You don’t have to be —‘ Yasha hesitates, suddenly nervous under the way Beau looks at her. Like a piece of flint waiting to spark. Like a woman who is hurting. ‘We wanted to...make sure you are safe. We didn’t...wish to intrude.’

‘Did you at least hide?’

‘Nope.’ Fjord pops the sound of the p with relish. ‘You walked right past us.’ Holds a hand up to his face, exaggerating—though not by much—how close they had been and Beau had not seen them.

‘Fuck.’

The word punches out of her along with e last of her energy. Yasha catches her as she sags, leans her fully against Fjord who wraps an arm around her shoulders.

‘He’s a cute fuckin’ kid, huh?’ she mumbles.

‘Sure is. Looks like you.’

‘I was a little monster.’ Beau knocks her head on his shoulder. Drops a hand to the side, fingers hooking onto Yasha’s bracer.

‘Naw,’ Fjord says, so so softly. ‘I reckon you were just fine.’

They sit with her as her facade breaks again, no energy to maintain it, and she cries. There’s little left in her to cry out so when she’s empty of tears, she almost crumples in on herself and bit by bit she slips from this state into unconsciousness.

‘Yasha? Little help?’ Fjord asks, holding Beau awkwardly back from the edge of the low cliff.

Yasha stands. Scoops the smaller woman into her arms. Adjusts her with Fjord’s help so her head leans peacefully on Yasha’s shoulder, Fjord’s cloak a cushion. They head back to the inn, Beau lulled by the rolling step, cradled safely in her friend’s arms.

The inn is dark, the stairways barely lit by lantern light. Yasha carries her up the stairs—laughs softly at Fjord’s low whistle.

‘You’re not tired at all? You carried her all the way across town—she’s small but she’s not exactly light!’

‘She’s fine,’ Yasha shrugs. Her muscles are warm from exertion but it isn’t something that strains or hurts. ‘Would you—the door?’

‘Huh? Oh, sure, yes.’

He cracks the bedroom door. They creep in, not wanting to wake Jester. Jester, who sleeps turned toward Beau’s bed, who looks as though she had drifted off in the middle of staring at the empty sheets.

Yasha holds Beau as Fjord pulls down the sheets; lowers her onto the mattress and helps Fjord work at the laces of muddied boots. Easing them off, Fjord takes them, holds them in his hand. Watches Yasha’s hands carefully—not from any suspicion but from a deep, worried care—as she draws the blanket up to around Beau’s shoulders.

‘Sleep well, Beau,’ Fjord says with all the reverence of a prayer.

Yasha wonders if he is aware of the faint green glow around his free hand as he rests it on Beau’s shoulder. The frown that grips her brows tight loosens a fraction. Eases.

//

Caduceus

//

Caduceus trusts Fjord and Yasha to track her down in the night.

His job is not like theirs. Their duty is to protect her, to keep her from going too far, to bring her home. His is — he’s reluctant to say harder, he has no doubt there was some careful work to bringing her home, but it is one thing to catch the wild horse and another to tame it. So he’s heard. He’s never tamed a horse himself, nor does the analogy sit well with regards to Beauregard. Except, that is, a wild horse is skittish to the reaching hand and he cannot stop thinking about a younger Beauregard, already young, who has been struck by her father. Caduceus doesn’t consider himself an educated man but there are some things he knows to the core of himself, and this is one of those things: Beauregard has been starved of those necessary things, like the withered and pitiful garden within the estate. If she is not healthy, if she does not bloom brightly and prettily as expected, it is not the plants fault but the gardeners.

That is to say, he thinks, and rolls a mouthful of floral tea over his tongue, she deserves more. Better.

Which brings him to his duty, and his eyes lift from the handsome grain work in this simple tables to the stairs where a barefooted girl, hair half-fallen from its topknot, hurries down.

‘Morning, Beau.’

She looks marginally better. Reflexes far improved from the night before. He had been tempted to check for signs of undeath, with her moving like the animated dead, skin as cold.

‘Cad,’ she grunts.

The skin beneath her eyes is puffy and dark, from crying and from a lack of sleep. He had heard Fjord and Yasha return late last night, perhaps even early into morning, so she can’t have slept for more than—three? Four hours at most.

‘You haven’t slept enough.’

She grunts. ‘Seen my boots?’

‘Yes.’ He drinks from his cup. Flares his nostrils to take in the scent as the movement stirs, hits the notes of the drop of honey he had added. After last night, he needs the boost, the sweetness.

‘Where?’

He just smiles, no intent whatsoever to say. ‘Tea?’ He has rarely seen anyone who needs a cup more than she does now; she desperately needs it, needs a moment to relax from holding herself so tense, gingerly, like she has been turned inside out and back again and she’s scared it’ll happen again.

Beau doesn’t seem to agree. Squints are him, a not unfamiliar squint, the one she gets when she’s reading books in unfamiliar script. Like she is figuring him out. Lips pressed flat, not quite a scowl.

Caduceus thinks about telling her that he isn’t a book, can’t be read like one, when she nods, frown clearing.

‘Fjord’s got ‘em. Great. Thanks.’

‘What?’

Beau salutes. Backs up the stairs.

‘How did you—‘ he begins to ask, brows crawling higher in his forehead like fat, confused pink caterpillars, but she has already disappeared, taking the steps two at a time.

He listens as the door to the room he was sharing with Fjord creaks open. A moment, and then it creaks closed again. The loose floorboard at the top of the steps squeals and Beau returns, boots in hand, and takes a seat at the table with him turned in the seat so she can pull the boots on. Wipes a rough palm over the sole of her foot, brushing off dust and dirt.

‘He polished them,’ she grunts. Shakes her head. ‘Sap.’

‘He cares for you.’

There—a small shift, like a contraption winched tight, Beau’s shoulders creaking closer together, tighter, tense.

‘He just hates mess. Seen him at the Xhorhaus? Washes his room out. Scrubs the kitchen top to bottom.’

‘Mm.’

‘You must like that.’

‘He reorganises the cupboards,’ Cad tells her, watches as the comment surprises a smile out of her.

‘Caduceus,’ she says, teases, ‘is that a complaint?’

‘Everyone has flaws. Neatness isn’t too bad of one.’

Boots on, obviously feeling a little more put together, more herself, Beau leans back in her chair with an arm slung over the back of it. Her smile is crooked, a half-summoned thing. ‘Yeah, he’s alright,’ she allows.

‘He’s marvellous.’ There—an easy shift into what he needs to talk to her about. ‘As are you.’

She rolls her eyes hard.

‘We’re all looking after you in our own ways.’

‘Found a way to help me, have you? Am I easy like the rest of them?’

‘No. I don’t think you have ever been easy.’ He watches her flinch truly this time and hums, realises his misstep. ‘That—was not meant to be an insult.’

‘’s fine, dude. Whatever. You’re not wrong.’

Caduceus’s duty is care; his duty is helping people to move on, to grieve and leave their grief, to transfer it into something that can be borne more easily. It was easier when he had no interest in the grief himself, but he loves this woman and somehow it has made him clumsy.

‘There are great works that are done,’ Caduceus says to her. ‘Art and other acts of creation, great gardens. They aren’t easy.’ Beau frowns. ‘But they are marvellous.’

Beau clicks her tongue, shakes her head. She isn’t ready to talk, or hear more of the regard he has for her, that they all have for her, so he stops.

‘Tea?’

Beau sighs. ‘Sure. Why not.’

He smiles as warmly as he can manage. ‘I have two options.’ He pulls them from his pack, smells them to make sure. Sets them before her. ‘This one,’ he shows her, puts it to one side, ‘will clear your mind. Help wake you up. And this,’ he sets it to the other side and if it is much closer to her, well, it isn’t as though he is trying to be subtle, ‘will help you go back to sleep.’

‘I don’t think—I’m not going back to sleep, dude.’

She doesn’t push the offering away. Stares down at it with tired, tired eyes.

He waits. Won’t make this decision for her. Figures, from what he can gather, she’s had enough of people trying to make decisions for a whole lifetime.

‘Would—will you make me a cup of this?’ she asks, quietly, looking a little shameful as she points to the clear-head tea. ‘I’m sorry—I know you think I should—but I can’t. Not right now.’

He hums. ‘Perhaps tonight. You’ll sleep very well after it,’ he offers. Is rewarded with a look of relief, of thanks.

‘Sounds good. Yeah.’ Then, after a moment, ‘’preciate it, man.’

He keeps to that promise. Drinks a pot of tea with her that morning that, he thinks, has a lot to do with the good decisions they make that morning. Tea helps with that. Sitting quietly with a friend helps with that. And that evening, after a very very long day, he finds her before she can offer to take first watch and sits her at the end of his bedroll and sets up his tea station right there. Pours enough of the leaves into the water to make a single cup. He takes care to prepare it the way he always does, when he has the time—it isn’t prayer, isn’t a ritual of the kind he makes to worship the Mother, but a ritual of another kind, as old and as profound in some ways. The ritual of care, of providing, of effort. The ritual of making something especially for the one person who will appreciate it, need it the most. Not the exclusion of others, but attention to one person alone.

‘Here,’ he says, words buzzing like beetles in his chest. It always feels a little foreign, a little strange, to speak. He hadn’t spoken for a long, long time before his friends had collected him from the Grove and sometimes the words are hard. The gestures—the making, the healing—are harder for people to misconstrue. He picks up the cup by the brim, sets it in her cupped palms.

Sits beside her as she sips.

‘Long day.’ Beau grimaces. The tea is bitter, but that isn’t why she grimaces. ‘Don’t worry,’ he assures. ‘Jester will forgive you.’

‘She wants me to—slow down. Relax. I can’t relax, Cad, even on a good fucking day.’

‘Hmm.’

Beau snorts. ‘Helpful.’

She drinks a little more.

The air is clean and clear within the dome, pleasant after the hours of walking in this strange place that smells so heavily of metals and gases. Caleb tells them all that it is minerals and sulphur, the waters like pools of acid from the chemicals. To Caduceus, it is as if the earth itself here is dying and decomposing, petrifying even as she bloats. It’s strange and as fascinating as it is upsetting, and from moment to moment Caduceus shifts on whether this is natural or not.

Beau sits there on his bedroll and there she stays, cup beginning to tip out of numb fingers, head lolling.

‘Oop,’ Caduceus says, reaches over to catch Beau at the small of her back, spread his hand wide there as she sags and drops into sleep like a fish tossed onto land—that is, surprising to the fish, who struggles briefly, eyes wide, before landing with the dull sound of flesh on stone. ‘Whoops.’

‘Gods, Cad, what the hell—did you brain her?’ Fjord asks, alerting Caleb too, who looks up from his place in the centre of the dome where he has chosen to read.

‘No, no, she’ll be just fine. Sleep through the night, hopefully.’

Fjord grunts. Looks fondly at Beau. Then laughs. ‘She’s already snoring. Dibs on the other side of the dome.’

Caleb looks amused, obediently shifts his things from where Fjord points. He looks tired too, Caduceus notes and briefly regrets that he had only made the one cup. And that he had done so in front of Caleb. He’ll never get the wizard to drink this brew now.

//

Jester

//

It is a long day punctuated by the strange, sudden greys that colour the flora here—flowers and vines and trees shrivelled and withered and turned to living stone, the thrum of life present but dulled to the point where Caduceus is hard put to feel it. Jester leaves him to tend to the plants and figure them out. She doesn’t know an awful lot about plants and her time is better spent, she figures, at Beau’s side.

They’re miles from the Lionett estate and everyone within it but still Beau walks like she’s expecting an attack at any moment, snaps at useless discussion, and walks too fast for any of them to keep up until Jester snags her. Holds her hand hard enough that the girl can’t shrug her off. It makes Beau more restless, Jester can see that, the way she’s straining to get ahead, to get to whatever awaits them, to figure this out and find answers finally, and Jester understands, really, she does!

‘It’s just that it’s dangerous if we can’t keep up with you, Beau, and what if you get into some kind of trouble and we’re too far to hear you, or don’t pick the same path, or just can’t get there in time?’

‘I can look after myself, Jes,’

‘Obviously, obviously,’ Jester agrees hurriedly. ‘You’re really strong and smart, Beau, we know that, but you don’t have to look out for yourself when you have all of us, and—‘ Jester hesitates, not sure Beau can take hearing about how very, very tired she looks.

‘I am feeling very tired, myself,’ Caleb says, not to Beau because the others are all pretending not to see the way Jester has more or less grappled Beau into standing still for just a second so she can talk her into making camp and staying with them. Jester shoots him a glare; she knows he can lie more convincingly than that, and they are supposed to be convincing Beau. But he must know some way of talking to her to get her attention because Jester feels the lightning thrum of tension running through Beau’s cord-tight muscles fade the smallest bit. Feels shoulders drop an inch. Hears her reluctant scoff, almost a laugh.

‘Fine. Fine.’ Beau brings her hand up finally to return the hug—grapple—and pat Jester’s back. ‘You can let me go now, I’m not gonna bolt,’ she tells Jester, who wishes very much she could see Beau’s face and what that amount of fondness would look like. Hearing it is enough—sweet like caramel, warm and featherlight like smoke around her.

Jester pulls back slowly. Affects a suspicious squint and doesn’t let go. Not just yet. ‘Promise?’ she teases.

It’s doubly sweet to see how reluctantly the smile comes, how Beau has to rearrange her whole face to accommodate it.

‘Promise.’

Jester squeezes her. Releases her, hugging hands gliding down to Beau’s, squeezing those too. She leaves a trail of healing behind her, because Beau’s dad might have said run from the things in the woods but Beau had decided not to.

Beau hooks her pinkie around Jester’s. Holds it for a moment, says again—‘Promise’—before she begins to pace the campsite, bothering Fjord and distracting Caleb who just wants to set up the dome. He sends raven-Frumpkin to busy Beau, leads her on a chase around the clearing and up to the branches of a nearly spruce—the low branches, when Caleb sees the way Jester glares at him.

‘Hey Caleb. Caleb.’

‘Ja, Beaure—Beau.’

‘Ha! Beau-Beau,’ Nott repeats. ‘Cute.’

‘Call me that again and I’ll happily help with the first part of your resurrection,’ Beau promises. Nott hisses in through her teeth; after a moment, Beau clears her throat. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, no, say how you really feel.’

‘I said I’m sorry!’

‘Alright, I think everyone could do with a minute apart. Beau—‘ Cad says, bends over her, hand on her shoulder. ‘You promised I could make you tea.’

Jester can see the way she wants to snap at him too, send him away. Sees the moment Beau gives in and lets Cad lead her to his bedroll on the edge of the dome, talk quietly with him as he brews a bitter smelling tea that makes Jester’s nose itch when she passes by later. She misses the exact moment when Beau passes out but turns when she hears her crumple, cries out when she sees Beau sprawled there and hurries back into the dome.

‘Caduceus!’

‘She’s fine,’ he tells her. Fjord nods like he’s just asked the exact same thing. ‘She’s fine, just sleeping.’

‘You knocked her out?’

A hint of nerves crawls over Caduceus’s face. ‘I—helped her sleep.’

‘Ooh, she’s going to be so mad when she wakes up,’ Jester whispers, not sure if she should be mad on Beau’s behalf or relieved.

‘Ah.’ Caduceus scratches at his hair, the point where one lock of hair is turning white. ‘Well.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.’

‘Aw, I really appreciate that. Thank you, Jester.’

Jester pats his arm. Moves Caleb’s things—who clicks his tongue and sighs—so she can lay out hers next to Cad’s bed, taken over by the fully snoring Beau.

Curled up beside her, Jester smells the faint scent of Cad’s sleeping mat—sweat and earth and growing things like sweet grass, and the bitter tang of crushed beetles. And below it, shuffling closer, she smells what she knows now is the smell of Kamordah, though she knew it first as Beau—the tang of metal and the bite of something ever so faintly sour, even as it balances against the flowery smell of jasmine. She wonders as she drifts off whether it is something that sunk into Beau and refused to shift, or if the other girl just happened to gravitate toward soaps that smelled similar. She’ll have to ask.

//

Beau wakes later, when the fire has burned down to embers and the last watch—Yasha and Nott—have slunk off to patrol just beyond the treeline. Jester wakes to the sensation of gentle, careful fingers on her tail, unwrapping it from where it is snuggly curled around Beau’s ankle. Beau’s pant leg had lifted an inch or two, bunching higher around her calf, and Jester’s tail had taken advantage, seeking out the warmth of the human’s skin and double wrapping there where the cloth has moved to reveal skin.

‘Jes, geez,’ Beau mutters to herself, struggling to get free. ‘Help a girl out,’ she hisses though not loud enough to wake Jester, if she had not been already well on her way to waking. With a sigh, and a grumble, Beau tickles Jester’s tail with blunt nails, enough to make the muscles twitch and jump and slacken. Quicker than anything else, Beau slips her foot free with a quiet sound of victory.

She staggers to her feet, hand going to her head, smacks dry lips. ‘God, Caduceus, what was in that fucking tea,’ she mutters, picking her way over curled sleeping forms.

Jester eases up onto her elbows; most of her believes Beau isn’t silly enough to make a break for it—she has left everything, including her goggles. A small part of Jester that has zero sense and only concerns itself with keeping her friend right at her side where she can see her and soothe her and protect her worries. Pushes her to sit upright.

Across the dome, Jester sees Caleb rouse as Beau crosses the threshold of the hut.

‘Hmm,’ he says.

‘I think she’s going to pee,’ Jester whispers. Brings his eyes suddenly to Jester, searching in the dark. He settles on what he thinks is Jester—pretty close for being in near complete dark, the canopy thick overhead—and nods slowly.

‘I can’t leave,’ he tells her. ‘The hut will drop.’

Jester stands. Pats his shoulder as she passes to follow Beau out. She waits just beyond the boundary of the hut, seeing how Beau has only gone a short way from them, and waves a little when Beau returns, picking her careful path across the stone-and-grass clearing.

Beau’s steps falter and then pick up. When she gets closer, Jester can see a crooked, easy smile on her face and silently thanks Caduceus for knocking Beau out.

‘I’m fine,’ Beau insists when she’s close enough to be heard. ‘You—everyone doesn’t have to worry about me.’

Jester tilts her head up to return the smile, twice as sweet. ‘I’d like to see you try and stop us.’

Beau snorts.

‘Sleeping okay?’

‘Yeah. Whatever Cad gave me was a helluva knock out.’

‘Oh, you knew?’

‘Sort of. He told me it’d help,’ Beau explains, and seems mindlessly to accept the hand Jester holds out for her as they make their way back inside. ‘I didn’t think he meant it’d knock me on my ass in two seconds flat but,’ she shrugs.

‘And everything...else?’ Jester winces, hearing the obvious sidestep in the question. Beau’s eyes cut sideways to her; somehow, they still hold nothing in them but sleepy fondness.

‘You mean with my dad.’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s—‘ Beau shrugs. Tilts her head hard to the side in an effort to crack her neck, release a little of the tension that has built up so much in her shoulders, spine.

‘Here, let me,’ Jester offers. Pats Beau down onto the bedroll once more and sits behind her, knees pressing into the soft of Beau’s hips. It’s nice with how incredibly cut Beau is that she still has that padding on her hips, the soft layer. Jester knows it’s to protect those vital organs but she also knows that things can be more than one thing at a time, so the softness can be protective and incredibly sweet all at once.

Jester moves closer, knees pressing dimples into it, thumbs brushing and then pressing into it as well. She is rewarded with a low grunt of pleasure as Beau realises what she intends, and the other girl lets her head fall forward on her neck, opening up her back for Jester to work. She rubs and massages until some of the knots at least feel looser, less incredibly tense, and finally as she reaches the top of Beau’s back she rubs her fingers soothingly over the jade tattoo where Beau has been pressing and rubbing and pinching the skin all day.

Beau hums, the sound vibrating into Jester’s knees and hand.

‘Better?’

‘Mm. Much.’

‘Good.’

Jester drags her hands down Beau’s back, rubbing gently now with none of the pressure of a massage. She leans forward to rest her forehead against Beau’s shoulder blade. Sighs.

‘Tired?’ Beau asks.

‘Yeah.’

Beau reaches back. Scritches blunt nails lightly on Jester’s scalp, around those itchy parts of her horns. ‘Go on, go back to sleep,’ she urges.

‘Are you?’ Beau is silent for a long moment. ‘Beau?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I’ll sleep,’

‘Beau.’

‘I promise. I just—want to go over that weird ass prophecy thing again. God, he’s such a schmuck, having a fucking prophecy from a witch.’

Jester grunts unhappily. Wraps her arms around Beau from behind so she can’t reach out for her notebook. ‘In the morning, Beau.’

‘We’ll wanna head out straight away—‘

‘In the morning,’ she says again, no room for disobedience in her tone.

Beau tries anyway. ‘Just a minute—‘

‘I’m staying up for as long as you do,’ Jester tells her, changing tracks. Her accent thickens with a yawn. ‘I’m really sleepy, Beau,’ she wheedles. ‘I promise we can look at it in the morning—Cad will make us breakfast and Fjord won’t be really awake until the sun comes up, you know that. Please?’ She yawns a second time for good measure, doesn’t realise until she’s halfway through it that it’s real. She rubs her head sleepily over the sharp bone of Beau’s shoulder. Knocks her forehead against it.

The girl sighs for a long moment, all the breath pushing out of her lungs. ‘Fine. Fine.’ She can’t help but laugh when Jester nuzzles against her shoulder, giggles at Beau’s reluctant acquiescence. ‘You’re lucky you’re cute.’

She lets Jester bear her down to the ground just as they are, Jester still hugging her, and collapses with a little huff. Wriggles around until she’s comfortable, enough to make Jester release her. Beau turns on her side to face her, hand pillowed under her cheek.

‘Beau?’ Jester’s eyes trace her profile, illuminated by the faint glow of the dome.

‘Mm.’

‘Are you scared?’

Beau’s breath slows, the only sign that she had heard. Finally, she says, ‘A bit. Yeah.’ And when Jester’s cool fingers sneak under her blanket to find Beau’s, Beau holds her hand. And they sleep.

[chaos-burst]

If I had money I would PAY you for more Widomauk content, because I am so fucking sad lately

[ ao3 ]

Caleb wonders if it’s possible to fall in love in retrospect.

Since Molly’s death Caleb has been thinking about him a lot. Even more so than when he was alive. Death does that to people, he ponders while he sits awake during night watches and draws patterns into the dirt. Death somehow shifts the presence of someone from outside of you into your head and makes them live there on and on and on.

Much like a violinist who only plays one song over and over.

Because Mollymauk can’t change in his mind, he’s destined to stay the same, just as Caleb knew him, without room to develop, to evolve.

And still.

Still, Caleb finds himself replaying their conversations almost obsessively in his mind. He’s able to remember most things, really, but sometimes, when it’s been too long, memories fade from him. And he doesn’t want Mollymauk’s memory to fade.

Mollymauk, who said he didn’t care about what they did before, only what kind of people they are now. Mollymauk, who needed to live by this code because his past never belonged to him. Mollymauk, who gave Caleb the tiniest smile when he said “That is enough for me, Mollymauk Tealeaf.”.

Stupid, ridiculous, endlessly brave Mollymauk Tealeaf.

Caleb feels an almost forgotten fluttering in his chest. Being in love is something he almost can’t remember.

Almost.

In hindsight, Caleb can’t say if he’s been in love before Mollymauk died. Maybe he just didn’t realize it. Maybe he got better at sorting out his feelings during the last months.

Today, the thoughts of Mollymauk are especially persistent. And it’s Jester’s fault. Her voice keeps repeating in his head, small and timid and unsure.

“I’ve been asking the Traveler to teach me this new spell. To bring Molly back to us.”

Caleb could see the surprise on Nott’s and Fjord’s faces. Beau on the other hand simply sat up straighter, leaned forward towards Jester and nodded encouragingly. That’s when Caleb knew that Beau is the same as him.

Replaying memories, still searching for solutions, still hoping, not letting go.

Not ever letting go. They’re both very good and not letting things go, Caleb thinks.

“I think I can do it now”, Jester said. “But I need his body and a pretty big diamond, guys. Like. Really big.”

So now they’re traveling towards the Glory Run Road again. And as if Yasha was able to feel what is going on, she joins them when they’re halfway there. Caleb can see her talk to Jester, tears glimmering in her eyes before she hugs Jester.

Caleb is sure that Yasha hasn’t hugged any of them first so far. But there they stand, holding each other tightly and Caleb can see Yasha’s lips move. He doesn’t need to hear the words to know what Yasha is saying over and over again.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Later, when they’re only a little more than a day’s ride away from Mollymauk’s grave, Beau sits down next to him, shoulder to shoulder.

“You’ve been quiet”, she says.

Caleb shrugs. His mind hasn’t been quiet at all at the prospect of seeing Mollymauk again. It would have been so fitting, being in love with a dead man. The thought of being in love is still foreign in his mind. The last time he was in love, he was merely a teenager.

Now his heart stumbles at the thought of Mollymauk pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“You know I am not much of a talker”, he says, wondering if he should just tell Beau.

“Except when it comes to books and cats”, Beau says and gives him a lopsided grin. Caleb manages a smile.

“Looks like we’ll be complete again tomorrow.”

Her voice is so quiet, Caleb almost can’t hear her.

Complete again.

Yes.

“I’m happy”, he finally rasps, the words foreign on his tongue. Happiness feels strange, like something very old and lost to him, and still very new. Maybe he’s learning how it works to be happy again.

Beau actually puts her head on his shoulder.

“Me too”, she says.

The words stumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Do you think it is possible to be in love with a dead person?”

Beau’s head stays where it is but Caleb can feel Beau go still at his words. His heart is hammering in his chest as if it wants to escape. Breathing is suddenly very hard. Hearing the words out loud is still very different from just testing them in his mind.

“Yeah. Sure”, Beau answers. No hesitance. No judging.

When did Beauregard Lionett become one of the very best friends to him? Caleb can’t say. Just like he has no idea when he fell in love with a certain purple tiefling.

“I feel stupid”, Caleb rasps, wringing his hands and trying to control his breathing.

“It’s not stupid, Caleb. Isn’t it like… super normal that people only realize what they had when it’s gone? Or whatever? That’s what it was like for me anyway. That dumb fuck was the worst and then he pissed off and–you know? When he gets back I’ll hit him. Like. At least twice. And then I’mma hug the fuck out of him because I fucking... didn’t do that while he was still around.”

Caleb doesn’t want to hit Mollymauk. He wants to hug him. He wants him to smile. And in a very ashamed part of his brain is a wish for a kiss. Caleb probably doesn’t even know how to kiss anymore. Molly on the other hand–

He can feel heat rising to his cheeks and he clears his throat, hoping that Beau won’t notice.

“I don’t think I want to hit him”, he confesses and Beau snorts.

“Nah. Didn’t think so. Though I have to say, Caleb. If you start smooshing faces I’ll get the fuck out of there. No offense.”

Caleb coughs a little and Beau raises her head again.

Beau looks at him and Caleb actually manages to look back. Beau seems to consider something, then she opens her mouth and Caleb can see the embarrassment on her face.

“Pretty sure that asshole is like. The brother I was supposed to have, y’know? And I didn’t realize that before–before he died. For me. So. Yeah. Not stupid. And now I have to stop talking about my fucking feelings or I’ll vomit”, she says, her voice hoarse and her eyes definitely wet.

Then she gets up and ruffles his hair aggressively before stomping away.

Caleb doesn’t sleep much that night and he knows that Yasha and Beau are also awake. Yasha staring at the sky, Beau pretending to be asleep.

Still, they’re the first at Mollymauk’s grave where, surprisingly, a rather dirty and worn-out coat still floats in the wind. Caleb feels his breath catch in his throat because the whole grave is full of vibrant, colorful flowers. Caduceus doesn’t seem to be surprised by this and he smiles, apparently satisfied with his handiwork.

Yasha sinks to her knees and carefully touches the flowers while Beau grabs the coat and folds it up before ripping the stick out of the earth.

“Let’s do this”, she says, throws the stick aside and swallows heavily, while Jester slowly approaches the grave and pulls out the diamond.

Caleb can’t breathe.

He’ll be back. He will be alive and breathing and–

Even though he’s exhausted and tired and weak Caleb helps to dig up the corpse. No one speaks when they find the remains. After months, there is not much left that resembles Mollymauk and Caleb has a hard time looking at what’s left of the colorful person he knew.

Jester is crying the whole time while she carefully puts the diamond on what was once Mollymauk’s chest. There is no question if the person coming back will be Mollymauk or someone else.

Jester calls only for Molly’s soul. The soul that belongs in this body above any other soul. Yasha and Beau hold Jester’s hands and Caleb carefully places a hand on Jester’s shoulder while Fjord, Nott and Caduceus stand on either side of the corpse.

The diamond vanishes in a flash of light and Caleb feels nauseous as he watches the body reassemble itself like a morbid puzzle.

“That is quite fascinating to watch”, Caduceus mumbles somewhere to his left.

When the body is whole again, it’s completely naked.

There lies Mollymauk Tealeaf, naked, scarred and in a bed of wildflowers.

In a moment of silence and panic nothing happens before red eyes spring open and a deep breath gets sucked into intact lungs.

Caleb realizes that he’s been holding his breath as they all rush forward, except himself and Caduceus.

He needs to sit down. He needs to calm his breathing. He needs to touch Mollymauk to make sure that he’s really alive and unharmed and–

“Alright there, Mr Caleb? Breathe with me, you’re doing great. Breathe in, breathe out”, Caduceus’ soothing voice says in his ear and warm hands grab him as he stumbles.

The next few hours are a blur for Caleb.

He has no idea how to approach Mollymauk while all the others have no problem acting as if he never died in the first place. Beau doesn’t actually punch Mollymauk, but she does hug him and Caleb hears her suppress a sob when she stammers “You fucking asshole, don’t you dare–don’t–just don’t!”. Yasha doesn’t leave his side for even a second. Nott and Jester keep telling Molly all about what happened to them after he was gone (”We were pirates!” – “You were pirates without me!?”) and even Caduceus asks curious questions about being dead.

Fjord shows Molly his sword. Jester and Molly hold hands. Yasha shows him all the new flowers she collected.

All Caleb can do is sit there and stare at Mollymauk. Wonderfully alive Mollymauk.

His heart aches so much, it actually feels like a physical hurt and Caleb just wants it to stop. Being in love never felt like that, he’s sure of that. At one point, he finds Mollymauk staring back at him.

Caleb’s throat feels very dry while those red eyes rest on his face and a small, lopsided smile spreads on his face.

He might just faint then and there.

“Do you want to get out for a bit?”, a familiar voice says and Caleb flinches before he looks up into Mollymauk’s red eyes. He swallows and looks around in a panic before he finds Beau’s face and she nods her head to encourage him. Caleb gets up and feels dizzy as he follows Mollymauk out of the small Inn they settled in for the night.

“You looked like you wanted to be elsewhere”, Mollymauk says when the cold night-air brushes their hair out of their faces and Caleb sits down on one of the boxes standing outside the Inn. Mollymauk sits down next to him.

“So. I can add ‘eaten by worms’ to my resumé. Pretty impressive, huh?”

Caleb shuddered and snorts.

“I don’t remember it though. Pretty glad about that.”

Caleb doesn’t know what to say. There are many things he wants to say, but they would be uncalled for, inappropriate and terribly embarrassing.

“The new guy is great, he knows an awful lot about mushrooms”, Mollymauk continues and lets his legs swing back and forth as if testing them. See if they still work the same as before.

“Ja. He uh–he really likes mushrooms.”

Molly laughs.

“Don’t we all”, he says with a chuckle and then he’s quiet for a while, looking up at the sky. Caleb thinks about how Beau doesn’t consider his feelings stupid. They’re still there, buzzing under his skin, now that Mollymauk actually sits beside him. But what do you do about feelings like this? They seem to big for Caleb’s body, trying to spill out in any way they can.

When a warm hand reaches for his he almost chokes on his own spit.

“Hey Mr Caleb”, Mollymauk says and doesn’t look at him when he speaks. His eyes are still turned skyward. “I died. And it sucked. Like, a lot. I might just die again tomorrow.”

Caleb’s chest feels very tight at the thought. Molly’s fingers don’t let go of his hand and he thinks his heart might fly away into the night.

“Don’t. Don’t–Just. Be careful, ja?”

Mollymauk tilts his head back and finally turns to look at Caleb.

“I’ll try. Dying sucks, to be honest with you. What I meant though, is–you know. If I die again tomorrow I might as well make the most of my time, yeah?”

Caleb barely manages to look Mollymauk in the eyes.

If I die again tomorrow I might as well make the most of my time, yeah?

Caleb takes a deep breath and turns his hand upside down, so his fingers are able to intertwine themselves with Mollymauk’s.

“We all missed you”, he rasps. It’s all he can manage.

Mollymauk smiles, a small, earnest smile. Not his flashy grin, the one he puts on when he lies and jokes and postures. It reminds Caleb of the smile he saw after they discovered the truth about Mollymauk’s past. Or the lack of it.

“I’m pretty sure I missed you, too. Can’t remember, but. You know. It was good with you all. I’d like to experience more of that.”

Another silence follows, this one stretching out longer. Caleb wants to know what’s going on in Mollymauk’s head. He also wants to say everything that goes on in his mind.

I’m too broken to love anyone. I’m too broken to be loved. I hate myself so much, being in love is so hard. Touching is hard. Talking about caring and feelings is impossible. How can it feel so good to just hold someone’s hand?

“Beau told me she missed me. Said I’m like a brother to her”, Mollymauk says after a long while. “She’s still entirely unpleasant, but I would die again for her any day, you know. Having siblings like that is great, to be perfectly honest.”

So Beau did what Caleb cannot. Just said it. Even though she must be ashamed and even though she has a hard time talking about feelings, just like Caleb.

“Mr Caleb?”

“Ja?” Caleb clears his throat. “Mr Mollymauk?”

His own words make him smile.

He missed saying this.

“If I die again tomorrow I’d be really angry if I didn’t try to kiss you right now.”

Caleb doesn’t want Mollymauk to talk about dying anymore. But his whole body freezes when he hears the second part of Molly’s statement and when Molly gets up and suddenly stands in front of him, all he can do is look up at him helplessly, his cheeks burning and his heart hammering.

“So, Mr Caleb. Will you let a dead man steal a kiss?”

The grin Mollymauk shows him is the one he uses when he tries to hide his uncertainty. Caleb knows how to spot it. He replayed every single one of Molly’s expression in his mind so, so many times.

“No”, he whispers and his heart might just explode at the flash of hurt that flickers over Molly’s features, “but a living one would be–that would be–”

Molly blinks and the next thing Caleb knows he has a lap full of purple tiefling, hands in his hair and very warm lips pressed on his mouth. He gasps and almost falls off the box he sits on before his arms wrap around Mollymauk and he finally finds the sense to kiss him back.

No more dying, he thinks as he desperately buries his fingers in Mollymauk’s hair. No more dying.

Molly kisses him like a drowning man in need for air. He tries touching every part of Caleb he can get his hands on and Caleb finds himself panting into the kiss. It’s all so much. Which is only fitting, he thinks, since this is Mollymauk Tealeaf he’s kissing.

“Why, Mr Caleb”, Molly pants against his lips. “For kisses like that, I might just stay alive as long as I possibly can.”

Caleb pulls him down again.

“Deal”, he murmurs into the next kiss.

He supposes that he’ll just have to kiss Mollymauk Tealeaf every day for as long as possible.