#helen's fanfic i need a tag for my fanfic that isn't weird

[all-pacas]

if that's how you write fluff, i wonder how you'd write pathetic pining, maybe this one is from chases pov?

anon you're just daring me to actually write angst aren't you

--

The night before she broke up with him, Cameron had stayed over. She seemed to like Chase's apartment, and he tried not to let that feel personal: his place was bigger, he had the nicer shower by far. But it did feel personal, dangerous even: they ordered pizza and watched TV and she'd curled up against him, not just a casual lean but fully tucked against his side, comfortable and warm and nice smelling and it had to mean something, it had to. Not only that his apartment had hardwood floors.

Cameron slept like a log. Sex knocked her right out: she'd get drowsy and lazy and cuddly after, sweet and sleepy. Stretch and settle and close her eyes. Chase had been a restless sleeper his whole life, waking at the slightest disturbance or unexpected sound. That she was so at ease in his bed must mean something too. One night he'd woken for no reason, gotten out of bed to drink some water for something to do. As soon as he'd crawled back under the blankets she'd sighed, still asleep, drawn closer and curled herself against his back. It meant something. It did. It must.

His father had, occasionally, delighted in bringing Robert to black tie fundraisers, dinners with donors and conferences with other giants in the field. And this is my son, he'd say proudly, presenting Robert to heads of hospitals, the Lord Mayor, to billionaire donors. Robert's role was to affirm his dream of becoming a doctor and to ask polite and flattering questions. When he was nine, Robert had liked these events. His father's hand on his shoulder, the way his father would praise him and his grades and his talents. By the time he was twelve, he'd realized his father had no idea what his grades or talents were. By the time he was fourteen, the only time he ever saw his father was at one of these events, but whenever he was asked he'd go anyway, certain that eventually he'd hit on the right formula, that one of these days, the praise would be genuine.

It was several more years before he learned. In the end, all that his years of playing the admiring son had gotten him was a comprehensive knowledge of cocktail party etiquette, and an acquaintanceship with nearly all of his future med school professors.

Both were surprisingly useful. The networking paid off once he was in med school, struggling to catch up to his peers after a year of seminary. The former was even more handy. Chase could manage a wine list, a formal dinner, and any manner of forks. Girls, he'd soon found, were often impressed by that sort of thing. He wasn't sure if Cameron would be, but he had his suspicions: he remembered her one date with House.

At first their thing had been about making House jealous. Sure. Chase knew that. But now House knew and didn't care, and Cameron kept coming over to Chase's apartment anyway. So it couldn't be that. She kept spending her nights with him. Looking at him, grinning dangerous and bright, tempting him into storage closets or on call rooms or the backseat of her car. Their boss knew, Cuddy knew, Foreman knew. Why shouldn't they make it official? Give up the pretense and just —

He'd take her on a real date, he thought. Not a sandwich shop or out grabbing takeaway. A place with waiters and wine lists. Cameron liked that sort of thing, and he thought he might be able to impress her. She'd tease him sometimes — they all did — about being a rich kid, being careless with his money. He imagined their first real date. How she'd roll her eyes and make fun of him, but be pleased all the same. Smiling the way she did: indulgent, embarrassed. He wasn't sure, but he thought he could make her happy. He wanted that. For her to be happy. To be the one to make her so.

He'd had his arguments ready: he knew Cameron well enough to suspect she'd demand them, that she wants to be convinced or wooed. One date, that's what he'd ask her. One real date. She'd let herself be convinced because she wanted it too. He'd buy her flowers. She'd tease him for trying too hard and it was strange how much he wanted that.

How do you want to celebrate? she asks, and he knows he's got her, that everything will be just as he'd planned. She likes him, he knows it. Maybe even more, maybe —

I want more, he says, and her face falls.

After her date with House, Cameron had come into work red-eyed and exhausted, and they had teased her for crying and her obvious denials and care.

The morning after she dumps Chase, she comes into work looking great, and he feels sick. Her smile is ice cold when she tells him good morning and she and Foreman have a long cheerful conversation about the clinic, and he thinks maybe he never learned his lesson after all.

[artificialdaydreamer]

Tag game!!!

Tagged by @ashes-in-a-jar and @voiceless-terror

1- Why did you choose your url?

Because artificaldaydreams (my ao3 name) was taken, but if we're going deeper, then I thought artificaldaydreams sounded really cool (and aren't all daydreams artificial if you think about it?)

2- Any side blogs?

I mean, this is a sideblog (@givinghades is main) where I can geek out about podcasts and also keep my fanfic profile more private. That being said, I have several event blogs as well

3- How long have you been on tumblr?

Too long... at least twelve years

4- Do you have a queue tag?

I used to but I didn't think people would care

5- Why did you start your blog in the first place?

See 2

6- Why did you choose your icon/pfp

Um, it's a picture of a waterfall I took on a hike a few years back, and while I probably could change my pic to Helen I like this one

7- Why did you choose your header?

The building in my header is the remains of a hotel, and I actually took the pictures for my header and icon on the same day, but they were two separate hikes and the hike for this pic was about three hours uphill and it was... a mistake to do after the first one

8-What’s your post with the most notes?

That would be my Helen cosplay for some unknown reason people seem to really like it and it scares me

9- How many mutuals do you have?

I dunno, like 20? I don't know how to check

10- How many followers do you have?

239, which is weird considering I've had this blog for a little over a year?

11- How many people do you follow?

189, surprising for how long I've been on tumblr

12- Have you ever made a shitpost?

Yes

13- How often do you use Tumblr each day?

Probably more than is healthy but it's my main source for fandom stuffs

14- Did you have a fight/argument with another blog once?

No, but I did get called a shitty cosplayer a long while ago by a random blog that was just insulting cosplayers

15- How do you feel about “you need to reblog this” posts?

I ignore them, except for the one where Madame Zeroni will curse me if I don't reblog... I am not taking chances with that one

16- Do you like tag games?

Yes but I don't always remember to do them because my brain is a colander, I should really be asleep right now bc I have to wake up early tomorrow

17- Do you like ask games?

Yes but I don't really get any asks if I try to do them?

18-Which of your mutuals do you think is Tumblr famous?

Isn't being tumblr famous overrated? Isn't it enough to have fun doing what you're doing?

19- Do you have a crush on a mutual?

Aroace, can't do that stuff

Tagging @ravendarkwood, @hihereami, @acemartinblackwood... and if anyone else wants to do it but no pressure!

[all-pacas]

Can I solicit a chameron fluff drabble from you?

turns out i'm very bad at writing fluff. anyway here you go. set during euphoria because i saw it last night and was like hmm (cw: not super explicit but very much people doing the sex in this one)

-

After the cop dies, House orders Cameron and Chase, brusquely, to go away.

“We can’t —“ Chase starts, but doesn’t manage an end to the sentence; Foreman is ashen and trapped on the wrong side of glass, staring wide-eyed at their patient, and Cameron has to avert her eyes: it seems wrong, suddenly, to see him like this. In a hospital gown, exposed, afraid. 

“Take a nap. Get a coffee. Back in the office in an hour,” House says, brusque, watching Foreman through the observation windows. Cameron stays frozen, but starts when Chase touches her arm.

They free themselves from their protective gear, Cameron trying to find something to say, some words of comfort for Foreman, some epiphany. As soon as they leave the ICU, there are people everywhere: it’s just past noon. Visiting hours. A kid with balloons that read get well soon rushes past, a family gathers around a man in a wheelchair, nurses gossip and laugh by a desk. 

“Want to grab some lunch?” Cameron asks, her voice brittle: how can it be lunchtime? Chase starts to answer and half laughs. Gives up. Foreman is dying: let’s have a sandwich.

“You really went back to the cop’s apartment?” Chase asks in the elevator. 

“I’m fine,” she says, shortly. 

“And Foreman —“ 

She pulls up her sleeve. The needle barely broke skin, didn’t even draw blood: already it is hard for even Cameron to tell where it stuck her, and she’d shown Chase yesterday anyway. The barely visible nick is answer enough to his question: what Foreman did doesn’t matter.

The elevator stops on the first floor and Cameron makes no move to depart: Chase takes a step and stops when he realizes she is not following. A woman gets on and presses the third floor button and they simply ride back up with her. Chase watches Cameron worriedly and Cameron notices, feels a fleeting anger, and says nothing. At the third floor, the woman gets off and no one else is in the elevator with them. The doors slide closed and the elevator does not move at all. 

“Are you alright?” Chase asks. 

She imagines being trapped in the ICU. Observed through glass and plastic and protective gear. Foreman is dying, and she’s not even sick. The elevator is a shitty place to hide, but at least the walls are metal. “Fine,” Cameron says. The on call rooms are on the second floor. She presses the button.

“You know what’s funny?” she asks as the elevator starts to move. “I just had that stupid HIV scare. And now —“

“You didn’t have HIV. And you don’t have… this.” 

“I know,” she says, and she does: the odds are astronomical. And although she knows it is neither rational or scientific, she thinks: Especially not twice in a row. “Are you going to tell me Foreman’s gonna be alright, too?”

Chase follows her to the on call and she doesn’t ask him why. The room is barely larger than the cot pushed against the wall and the door does not lock; nevertheless she pushes him towards the mattress and flips the switch that indicates the room is occupied before kissing him. 

It’s different sober, and she does not like the realization that she can tell, that she has thought about it more than once or twice: if it had been good because of the meth, then it was just the meth, but she climbs onto his lap and likes the way his scrubs crinkle, the fine hairs on his arms when she runs her hands on them, the way his mouth slants over hers: he tastes of stale coffee and somehow that doesn’t detract from the kiss, from his hands on her hips and sliding up her sides. They both smell like sweat and disinfectant and she’s so tired and it shouldn’t feel good but it does; worse it feels right, she has missed this and wanted this and oh, that’s bad: oh, it was not meth. 

“We shouldn’t do this again,” he breathes, when she has him pinned to the mattress, between her legs, both still dressed but their scrubs are thin, damp, and his expression is pained. “Twice is —“

“Twice isn’t a habit. Once per near death —“ she offers. Her hair falls into his face when she leans down to kiss him again, so he bunches it in his fist as he kisses her jaw and ear.

“You’re fine. You’re not at risk.” She’s starting to pull down her bottoms and he catches her hand, breathing hard, an expression on his face like he’s distracted, puzzling something out. 

“Stop trying to be nice,” she says, and takes her hand from his, and pulls down her bottoms, and Chase gives in. As she knew he would. 

The cot has a plastic liner under the sheet that crinkles and rustles with every moment. They do not fully undress, they try to minimize their movements, the door is not even locked: it is tense and awkward and not entirely comfortable: it is not like the meth but it is just what she needs. The dampness of his skin and the way he flushes, the sweat at her neck, his breath in her ear, the slightly uncomfortable angle, not unpleasant but too tense, too constrained. She runs her hands up and down his stomach, underneath his shirt. She thinks of Foreman as they fuck: trapped in that glass room with the dead, dying. But she is not dying. It is over embarrassingly quickly for them both: Chase stays very quiet the whole time, and kisses her when he comes. 

They haven’t slept for over a day, so it’s no surprise when she wakes up an indeterminate time later, half dressed and cuddled up his side. Chase is still dozing, his head turned at what must be an uncomfortable angle: with an odd, protective feeling she strokes at his hair, thinking that he probably needs a trim. He stirs slightly. “Rob,” she says, mostly to try it out. It occurs to her she does not know what he prefers to be called. 

His eyes blink open slowly, gummy and sleepy. “Times’s it?” he asks, his voice blurred and vowels lengthened by sleep. He sits up slightly and she tenses, but he only looks at the clock on the wall: their hour is nearly up. He holds himself in place for a moment, half raised on his elbows. Slowly he lies back down, and she is near enough to feel him holding his breath.

House will know if they come back to the conference room like this, together, or come back both freshly showered. Best chance, she thinks, would be for one of them to shower and the other just to change, for one to go straight back to the office and the other to check on Foreman. She feels the first stirrings of guilt — for forgetting Foreman this long, for leaving him alone with the dead, for leaving him at all. For hiding in an on call room instead of helping, instead of doing her job… instead. 

Chase cautiously slips his arm under her side and shoulder, curls it over her back. “We really shouldn’t do this again,” he sighs, reluctant.

“Twice isn’t a habit,” she reminds him, and makes no effort to leave.

[all-pacas]

do you think he went back to a photoless apartment after cameron?

First of all, how dare you,

-

"What do you think of this?" Cameron asks thoughtfully, picking up a decorative pillow from a staged living room.

The pillow is beige and uninteresting. "It's nice," Chase lies. She glares and he raises his eyebrows. "What am I supposed to say? It looks like a pillow."

Cameron puts it back on the couch. Chase is no stranger to IKEA, but when he's come here before, he'd beelined for the warehouse section and gone home. It's kind of fun to look through the fake apartments in the show room, but Cameron keeps getting distracted by the most boring crap.

Cameron grabs some pillowcases from a bin and tosses them into their little cart. "Your apartment sucks."

"It does not," he protests, knocking the cart lightly into her side. It doesn't. It can't, because she's moving in — which is exciting, even thrilling, and also terrifying. Cameron's idea, of course. All else aside, his apartment was bigger. When she'd suggested they buy decor together, make it feel like ours, he knew it was mostly her excuse to get rid of his old posters and some of his rattier furniture, but… Ours.

Like she meant it. Like she was absolutely serious and wanted to be with him. For real. So obviously he'd agreed. All the decor she wants. Throw out all his furniture if she wants, he doesn't care —

But all these throw pillows really do just look exactly the same.

They — Cameron — pick out some more pillows. Some knick-knacks, a blanket, new curtains, tablecloths, some art prints so abstract they're essentially just streaks of color, and candles. In the live plant section Cameron finds some potted palms and ferns; Chase finds some sweets in the food shop and eats them as he watches. They load up his car and she drags him to the West Elm shop in the mall next, for more expensive art prints and bedding and still more pillows.

-

Cameron is working three days on, three days off right now, so for the next week he keeps coming home to a different apartment: pillows everywhere, curtains hung, new dishes and silverwear and bedding. Flowers appear in planterboxes for the first time. New books crowd the shelves. Ridiculous as it all is, it is pretty nice, and maybe she does have a point that it's cozier. "If you wait until this weekend, I could actually help you," he points out one evening.

"I don't mind," she says cagily, coming back to the sofa with wine (in new glasses. That look exactly like his old wine glasses, but she insists are better.)

"You don't mind, or you think I'd mess it up?" he asks, and Cameron grins mischievously, and he almost ruins all her fancy new pillows when he pulls her closer for a kiss, wine glass and all.

The photos appear last of all. Cameron's diplomas framed on the walls, a family picture on one of the nightstands, another in the living room. On her urging, Chase digs out the half dozen photos he'd brought to the States with him when he'd moved: she picks through them carefully and he watches anxiously, waiting for her approval. One is of him and his mum when he was eight and she was sober, her arms around his shoulders as they both beam: Cameron has it framed and puts it next to her family photo on the living room table.

Last are glossy photos pinned to the fridge. In one he's wearing sunglasses and she's laughing. In another they're posing a bit too formally, self conscious and childish. A photobooth strip that starts serious and dissolves into silliness. A candid of him he doesn't recognize at all that makes him worry he always looks that serious: a picture of Cameron looking self conscious and grinning at the beach. He stands in front of the fridge for quite a while, taking it in. He hadn't known they had so many pictures.

-

The door closes behind her. He can hear the sound of her suitcase as it recedes down the hall. He is waiting to feel -- something. Anything. Finally he thinks he should drink a glass of water, not because he is thirsty but because it is something to do.

There are photos on the fridge, and pillows on the couch, and a box of unsorted wedding photos on the coffee table. Chase drinks cheap scotch and stares into space and eventually crawls into a bed made up with still more useless pillows.

She eventually sends for her diplomas and family photos. It takes him weeks to throw out the rest.

[all-pacas]

twice if you like it

“Twice isn’t habit,” she reminds him.

decided to upload that cam/chase """fluff""" request from the other day onto ao3. the kinda smutty one not the pining since people seemed to like the first one slightly more. pervs

[all-pacas]

After a long minute, Dr. House looks up. "Have your dad give me a call." - Chase gets a job and moves to America. Not in that order.

OR:

i can remix my own fanfics if i wanna

[all-pacas]

I feel like I do this every week, but can we get a sneak peek at some of your wips?

Mostly working at my spoiler fandom exchange project. The WIP (and not fixed) title is Burnout Legends, so take that as you will.

-

Otherwise, I wrote this thing the other day as part of one of my drabble requests. It didn't work even slightly but I kind of had fun with it and am saving it as the potential start of a different story someday:

For the first month of Chase’s fellowship, they don’t have a single case. House is never in before ten, so Chase makes sure to be in by nine-thirty. Spends his days reading journals and daydreaming. Four hours in the clinic a week. Twice, he’s pulled into NICU to cover an absence.

House leaves promptly at five. Chase heads home at ten after.

-

Hernandez is the only other one in Diagnostics. Him and Jacobs, although she’d quit two days after Chase was fired, which at the time almost felt personal. Hernandez is in his late thirties, touchy, and Chase never learns his first name. He rolls his eyes whenever Chase says something, dismisses his every idea. Chase isn’t sure if he’s supposed to argue or just take it. He watches House for clues but House never says anything one way or another.

Six weeks into Chase’s contract they finally get a patient. Woman, forties, and her potassium keeps crashing. Chase spends sixteen hours and two heart attacks at her bedside while House stomps around asking questions and Hernandez fails to answer. “At least Chase is capable of doing something useful around here!” House snaps around hour twenty eight. By the next day, they have a diagnosis of Bartter Syndrome, and Chase is down a coworker.

-

A week later House hires a guy named Munoz. Just out of a cardiology residency, a real hot-shot who tells Chase in their first conversation he finished med school in three years and his under graduate in two. Their first case he completely shuts down, stammering and panicking under pressure, and he quits after three days.

Jacobs is a gastroenterologist. She’s nice enough: married, has two young kids. She and Chase get lunch a couple of times, and when she lasts the first month he starts to think she might last. Then her oldest gets the flu while they’re in the middle of a case. Chase isn’t sure if House fires her for taking time off or if she’d simply seen the writing on the wall and quit.

Gillespi and Okada and Palmer last about a week each, and Chase barely bothers trying to remember their names. Okada an oncologist House takes on to annoy Wilson; Palmer is quiet and smart but bursts into tears the first time House tells her off. It’s embarrassing and uncomfortable, and when she storms out, she gives Chase a look like it’s his fault for not sticking up for her.

Gillespi was the worst: he’s a rheumatologist, and on his first day House pretended to get excited about how much he and Chase had in common. Turned out, Gillespi had gone to several of the same conferences as Chase’s father, and took pains to let Chase know how much he admired the man. Luckily, he’d only lasted a few days before getting fired for screwing up a basic procedure.

Dr. Wise was next: Chase suspects House decides to keep him based entirely on the jokes to be made of his name. He’s forty, spend years working in free clinics and doing good, but at first House seems taken with the guy: Wise, he loves to remind Chase, has street smarts, meaning that last time House tried to scam them both out of money, Chase had given him forty bucks and Wise hadn’t given in.

Wise lasts almost three months and spends most of that time smiling patronizingly at Chase and telling him that, in his experience, everything Chase just said is wrong. But then his habit of second guessing spread to House itself, and he was out the door.

The last one is a Filipino guy named Aquino. House jokes that he and Chase should get along, since they’re both from the same backwards part of the world (Aquino is from Dallas), but he’s okay: if by now Chase didn’t know better he might have actually bothered to get to know him.

-

For a month after Aquino quits, it’s just Chase. He gets House’s morning routine figured out, befriends a couple of the girls in reception. If he starts a pot of coffee at nine thirty and one of them gives him a head’s up, he can have a fresh cup ready for House when he strolls through the door. The first time Chase pulls this off, House gives him a funny look: the third time House laughs aloud. “Cute,” he says, tossing Chase a file. “But you’re not my type. Go keep our new patient alive, Wilson’s interviewing your new baby brother.”

“How long do I keep Ms. Strickland alive?”

“If this new guy isn’t totally useless, I expect you back here at eleven for the DDX.”

Maran doesn’t make it past his first day.

-

House doesn’t hire anyone else for a while. Chase gets him coffee in the mornings, tries his hand at sudoku, and starts to relax. Then one day he comes into the office to find a girl standing there, awkward in the middle of the room and still in her coat. She’s younger than the last few hires — Chase’s age — and pretty, too pretty, enough that by the time Chase closes the door behind him he’s decided she’s a vanity hire, pretty enough House couldn’t resist, vastly under-qualified, and won’t last the week.

“You new here?” he asks kindly, taking off his jacket. If House doesn’t get offended, maybe Chase’ll ask her for drinks once she quits.

“Yes!” She’s nervous. Smiles awkwardly, covers her exclamation. “I was told to be in by nine…”

“House’ll be in in an hour or so. Maybe.” He doesn’t usually bother anymore, but Chase offers his hand, introduces himself: she really is very pretty.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” she says, too perky — he rethinks his drink plans — “I’m Allison Cameron.”

[all-pacas]

HEY HIMYM ANON, i found a draft for you! i actually quite like this, maybe i'll work out an ending. it was mostly written out of spite, iirc - maybe my least favorite part of the finale is the idea that "this whole time you were talking about robin!" because. way to miss the point, ted's kids.

--

It is not a story about Robin.

After Tracy had passed, he’d spent weeks, months, ready to follow. To give up. To surrender to it, the grief and luxury of sleeping for days at a stretch, missing her, the smell of her, the smell of her hospital room, sickly sweet and sharp and deadly. They’d done everything right. Everything they could. Taken the kids traveling, taken Tracy to New Zealand, to Paris, blowing their savings on oncologists and presents.

It had been bad, when the cancer caught up and the money ran out and Tracy talked for her doctors alone for an hour and told him firmly, gently, that she was done with chemo. They had still smiled and laughed and photographed and filmed, filling album after album, their fridge full of second hand casseroles. Smiled until it hurt and dug and tore, ripping through his skin, yanking him apart.

It had been bad.

Others would take the kids for days at a time, Barney blowing in from Manhattan to take them to zoos and museums and Lazer Tag, Lily teaching Penny how to apply mascara, eyeliner, buy her first bra. Marshall cutting Ted checks, depositing them without asking first, each generosity another blow.

It is not a story about Robin.

She moves back to New York in ‘26, he hears, from Marshall, who hears it from Lily; runs into her in person some time later. She is beautiful, pristine, untouched. Smiles and glad-to-see-yous. Polite hugs. Polite, continental kisses. He’s glad to see her, glad to see her well. It’s shocking how much they remember, how easy it is to resume five year old conversations. She doesn’t mention Tracy, and he takes it for politeness and avoidance until one afternoon it hits him: she has no memories of Tracy to share.

--

Barney has joint custody of his daughter, who, at seven, loves animals, outer space, and her older cousins in that order. They go to the Bronx Zoo, the five of them: Ellie following Penny around, Luke on his Switch the whole time, Ted and Barney hanging twenty paces back and keeping an eye on the kids.

Ted’s laughing, actually laughing, at some insane work story of Barney’s when he thinks: I can’t believe we’re still friends, and in the lull he says: “We’ve been friends twenty five years.”

“Of course we have,” Barney says, mouth twisted in incredulity. He’s wearing a suit and his hair is slowly graying and twenty five years ago he started talking to Ted at the urinal, when Ted was twenty five.

Penny is getting a little snappy with Ellie, who wants to follow her into a public bathroom. Penny stomps over to Ted in a huff, and Barney takes the younger kids to get ice creams while Penny complains.

Ted hums. “Did I ever tell you how I met your Uncle Barney?” he asks.

--

They all get together for Lily’s fiftieth. The Eriksens hire caterers, waiters, rent a Long Island event hall. White tie: Barney shows up in Westchester with tuxes for Ted and Luke, claiming he doesn’t trust them to pick out their own. Penny is twelve: Lily helps her curl her hair, buys her low-heeled pumps, and she looks so much like Tracy that Ted has to go into the washroom and sit, lost, for several minutes, until he can emerge smiling and tell her how beautiful and grown-up she is without crying.

He and Marshall split a joint in the parking lot, and it helps. Perfectly legal nowadays, but the furtive feeling brings him back, makes him feel younger and reckless. Lily is fully manic, and Barney sneaks Marvin half a glass of wine.

They take pictures: the four of them, the Eriksens alone, the four of them plus kids.

Robin arrives half an hour late. Polite hugs. Kisses. Lily pleased to see her, everyone else hugging and exchanging small talk. Robin isn’t invited into the first set of pictures, but it might have been an oversight. Ted spots her, lips thin, as he’s smiling huge and fake on Lily’s order.

He and Marshall catch Barney smoking in the parking lot after their joint. “I thought you quit,” Marshall calls, joking, heading back in.

Ted lingers. “Doesn’t count,” Barney says shortly, before he can say anything.

“Robin?” Ted guesses, and Barney shrugs.

“I get it,” Ted says.

Barney stubs out his cigarette butt under his heel.

“We never really talked about any of it,” Ted says, looking off to the banquet hall.

“What’s there to talk about?” Barney asks.

[all-pacas]

"Who," House says grandly as Cuddy approaches, "ever heard of a diagnostics fellowship?" He's sitting in the hall by the elevators, ready to pounce.

"Who ever heard of a diagnostics department?" she retorts distractedly. She slows. "You're hiring a fellow. Maybe even two, if you can find that many. This is a teaching hospital."

House doesn't retort. She looks at him suspiciously and he twists his expression as if to suggest he has no idea what she's suspicious about. "Hire a fellow," she repeats. "That Treiber kid -"

"Don't like him. He's abrasive." House all but bats his eyes, the picture of innocence.

Cuddy shakes her head. "Fine. Sulk in the hallway. I have to go."

He doesn't argue. She hurries towards the arriving elevator. He watches as she tries to enter before the doors close. A blond kid sticks out his arm to block them, flashes a thousand perfectly white teeth at her when she says thanks.

Interesting.

[all-pacas]

Wilson hadn't cleaned out the drawers. Chase pulls out medical journals, comics, stacks of patient files and charts House had for whatever reason put aside and forgotten. Three paperbacks. Half a bottle of Jack. A fraying rubber-band ball. Papers forming drifts on the floor and desk and shelves, Chase admits to himself he's been searching for... something. A secret journal, a dogeared notebook, some sign of sentimentality or meaning.

-

Chase's first week on the job.

[all-pacas]

“We’ve been sleeping together for weeks; excuse me if I thought maybe we could start using our given names now and then.” His smile softens, but there’s amusement in his expression she doesn’t like. “I just meant no one calls me Robert.” - boundaries (are for other people)

[all-pacas]

She’s happy to show him the message spell. It’s easy. Caleb had really been the one to put the work in, to figure it all out — Nott just put the bits together. She explains it to him, peering up and over across the bed like he’s giving her a test, asking her to prove his work, the way her teachers used to, back when she was Veth and went to school.

Caleb corrects her: I do not know this spell. Honestly I do not.

No, you told me about it. You told me there were spells that let you talk to people.

There’s no point in arguing about it. She doesn’t know why he’s being so stubborn about taking the credit. But she shows him the parts she figured out: how to twist her fingers around, the way wire works but string doesn’t.

After Caleb has the knack for it — so quickly, she’s so proud — he frustrates her by insisting on mapping it all out in his book.

Caleb. You don’t have to do that. It’s not that kind of magic. You can just do it.

Yes, but it is a good habit, it is good to write your magic down, it helps you understand — here, see, and he’d tried to show her in diagrams, how this abbreviated bit of lines and terms was the same as this bit in this other spell... Nott listens politely. Makes encouraging sounds.

He notices her boredom. Perhaps you’d like your own spell book? he asks, his eyes lighting up.

I don’t know how to memorize magic. I just copied you. I’m not ...

She imagines having a spell book. Writing out spells and studying all the lines and words. Waving her hands around and throwing bolts of ice or acid or fire. It makes her chest tight with anxiety. She can’t do that. She’d look stupid even trying.

But a few days later, Caleb presents her with a small book. Halfling sized, goblin sized, comfortable in her hands. A plain good smelling leather cover, a few dozen thick blank pages.

She says thank you and he looks happy.

To please him, that night, Nott opens it to the first page and borrows a pen and some of his special ink. He offers to help her, but she tells him no thanks. Is aware of him watching, smiling, proudly, as she writes neatly on the top of the first page.

Six months later, and her spellbook remains mostly empty. Message on the first page, and the second a numbered list of her other tricks: an illusion, an illusion that’s really good, shocking people (not rugs).

Page three: Featherfall, meticulously copied from Caleb’s book.

Page four: the recipe for brewing acid, the recipe for brewing flamable oil.

Page five and six: doodles of dicks, a joint collaboration in the back of a cart.

The rest was empty, and Nott had given the book to Caleb for safe keeping, feeling guilty when he’d tucked the notebook in with his own books under his coat, before she’d forgotten it entirely.

Caleb flips through it now. Only a week ago she’d narrowed her eyes at fire giants and turned herself invisible, and yet he sees no trace of the spell in her book, which she hasn’t asked for or touched in weeks. He’d wanted to check, just to make sure. But no.

Do you know how clever you are? He’s sure he’s asked her. Remembers her queasy smile.

He traces his fingers over the dried ink on the first page: This spell lets me talk to Caleb, in her surprisingly tidy handwriting.

Caleb puts the book away, smiling.

[all-pacas]

Caleb and Nott: pros and cons of having a massive height difference

PRO:

The first time Caleb suggests that Nott pretend to be his child, he can see she doesn’t like the idea. She doesn’t say so, but she hesitates, looks askance, agrees only slowly. He’s driven to explain further: no one would believe them siblings, no matter how well they hid the little goblin’s form. In the interest of fairness, he does mention they could try to pass for lovers — but she draws away at once. Child is fine. She’ll pretend to be a child. She doesn’t mind. 

No one suspects a child, Caleb tells her, trying to encourage a ruse she clearly dislikes and he already half regrets. I’ll set you down and you can slip behind me, take the things we need. If you are caught — which you will certainly not be — I will pretend to punish you, apologize for your youth and irresponsibility. No one looks twice at a child. 

That’s not true, she says, which he takes at the time for sullen discomfort, a fear for being caught. 

He’s never asked her her age. Caleb doesn’t know how goblins age, only that they have short and violent lifespans. He assumes she’s a young adult, perhaps the age he had been —

Either way. Regardless. The plan goes off without a hitch. Nott fills the bag under her cloak with food and supply and even a healing potion as Caleb talks desperately to the shopkeeper. She may not enjoy posing as a child, and he resolves to not force the scheme too often — but they eat well and sleep with full bellies that night, and he thinks: you cannot argue with  results.

PRO: 

She is fast, his little friend. Quicker than he by far, and surprisingly silent, nearly graceful: he blunders heavy through the woods, kicks stones on roads, and she keeps up, a quiet shadow. 

But her stride is much shorter than his, and a day of walking exhausts her more than it does him. It surprises Caleb at first. He is no bastion of strength and stamina, and she is so quick and certain — but he is used to walking miles and miles a day, each day, for weeks and months and years. He’s never asked, but he gets the sense that Nott is newer to long journeys. She doesn’t complain much, but her stream of chatter fades over the course of the day, until, by late afternoon, she has fallen several paces behind.

He begins to offer her his back. To carry her piggy-back, just short distances, to reach this stand of trees or that abandoned barn, when she begins lagging and they’re almost at a good spot to rest. 

I’m not a child, she reminds him, her voice prim the odd way it gets sometimes. 

Odd, but it makes him smile. 

Nott is not a complainer, but she’s — she’s a bit lazy. He’s noticed. If he offers to pick up slack, she never argues. She barely hesitates at the offer. She doesn’t want to walk anymore.

He’s not strong, but she’s light, and it’s — Caleb doesn’t know. Only that somehow he enjoys it. Catches himself half smiling. She rests her chin on the crown of his head and offers commentary in half a whisper. Gods, you tall people see far. What’s that thing over there? Caleb, let’s go check it out. Yah!, and she kicks at his shoulders with her heels.

PRO:

She’s small and weighs next to nothing, and over time he grows more familiar with her, more comfortable with her. There’s an intimacy between them after eight, nine months of sharing inns and haylofts and beds. He picks her up. He forgets to ask, sometimes — he knows she does not like to be treated as a child — but often he’ll lift her and she’ll settle into his arms like a cat, her arms strong against his neck, her pose almost regal as she leans against his shoulder, he her willing courtier. 

There is something he likes and cannot name about it. About how she is so small and strong and yet so fragile, how he can embrace her and she almost vanishes entirely in the cavity of his chest and arms. Some twisted possessive masculine thing, perhaps, some impulse he thought long dead and murdered: she is small and she is a goblin, but he looks at her and thinks: I can protect her. Not his family, not anyone he cared for or loved, but this clever child, this dear girl. They usually touch or overlap slightly, sleeping — her head on his ankle, his elbow brushing her spine — but the night Mollymauk is killed, it is snowing, it is freezing, bitter cold, they are afraid and they are sad and they are broken, all of them. She sleeps curled up against his chest, her cheek pressed to his heart, and he pulls her as close as he can, wraps his arms around her. She is so small, it is easy, it is possible. She is so small. Perhaps he can keep her, at least, safe.

CON:

“I wish you were a normal size,” Nott grumbles one day.

Caleb blinks. “By human standards, I am a normal size. I am very average.” 

“I wish you were a halfling. Or a gnome or something,” she adds quickly. “Just sometimes.”

“Why?” he asks, amused, nearly smiling.

“No reason.” 

They keep walking for a minute.

“Do you wish you were human sized?” he asks presently.

“A human-sized goblin would be a freakshow for sure.”

“Then a human, say.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. “I don’t mind being small. It’s just that it would be nice, to be able to pick you up for once, or for people to think you were the kid and I was the adult, or…”

“You’d carry me if we were the same size?” Caleb asks, with amusement. 

“It’s not weird. You do it all the time,” she says, her voice sharp with embarrassment. 

“I didn’t think you minded.” He feels an unexpected pang of hurt, choses his words carefully. “I do not mean to…”

“I like it,” she says quietly. “It makes me feel like… you know, like I’m special or something.” Which she says so quickly it slurs into one mumbled word. “I just want to do it too, take care of you, like a normal… — like I —” 

She doesn’t rephrase or finish her sentence, although he waits in case she does.

[all-pacas]

speaking of fanfic — i started to write this ages ago, and it’s one of those things i like but i don’t think i can ever finish. so here; i’ll post it. it’s like — it feels like half of a story, or two thirds, but i have no final part. but here, i like it anyhow:

Nott keeps watch half the night, and thinks a few times about leaving. The human is sleeping in the bedroll, he's snoring softly, and she doesn't think he'd notice. But she doesn't.

It's a fine bedroll, after all. In the chaos of the fire, they'd managed a run on a nearby general store as the owner fled to help with the containment. Not subtle, but prisonbreak robberies rarely are: Nott had filled every one of her pockets (and she has many) as the human had snatched a haversack and filled it haphazardly. He was now using the bag as a pillow as he slept, the bulkier and heavier items strewn about the campsite.

Nott had already done a thorough inventory: an iron pot, a jar of matches, a length of rope, a jar of pickles, three candles, the bedroll, a length of twine, three books, a box of tea leaves, a tin of salt, dried mutton, four potatoes, medicinal herbs, alchemical supplies, two pencils, a sheaf of papers, and three green peppers. The human had eaten a pickle and two of the potatoes for his dinner; Nott had eaten most of the mutton.

It was the books that had made her think the human might be worth keeping around. 

She'd been filling her pockets with buttons and sunflower seeds and the human had been searching for practical goods. She'd looked up from a pile of medicinal herbs to see him flipping through a book left on the counter, not useful at all. He'd slid it into his coat, and she'd thought: okay. Not knowing why she had. Just that it was a comfort. To know he would take things just because he liked them. Too.

It was that memory that kept her by the bedroll as he slept. Kept her from stealing off into the woods with the twine, pickles, and mutton. He was willing to steal not just to survive, but for himself. And that should be rewarded.

When the moon has set, she picks up a branch and uses it to poke him, to wake him up without touching him directly. He starts and stirs.

"Your turn," she says. He blinks, looks around sleepily. The mess of their loot, the campfire ashes. She's not sure how clearly he can see it. Humans can't see well at night, can they?

"Of course," he murmurs, and slides out of the bedroll. Nott curls up on the forest floor where she's already sitting. Wonders if she can really sleep. If he will leave her. Maybe she ought to grab that mutton while she can. He walks off to take a piss, stumbling through a bush. Returns after a minute. "Oh," he says. "Why don't you use the bedroll?"

It has been a very long time (hasn't it?) since Nott has slept in anything resembling a bed, resembling anything more than a pile of mulch and leaves. Her ears twitch. She hunches her shoulders. He smiles faintly. Polite, not sincere. "It's warmer."

She figures: if she's sleeping in the bedroll, he won't take it in the middle of the night. Not that she needs a bedroll, but if he stays and keeps watch until morning, then they can divide their hoard, and she can be sure she gets the meat.

"Okay," she says, slipping silently to her feet.

The bedroll is still warm. It smells of human. Their jailers hadn't exactly been keen on fetching them bathwater and she can smell the man, his specific scent, already inlaid in the cloth. Musty and sweaty. It's somehow familiar, almost comforting. It's been a long time since she's…

"What ought I to call you, by the way?" the human asks, as Nott curls up into a tight ball at the edge of the bedroll, her face buried into the cloth.

"Nott," she says, her voice muffled. "What about you? What's your name?" she asks, something she had not thought much about, cared much about, before this moment, in this warm bedding.

He's silent for a moment. "Caleb."

After almost a week of camping together, Nott and Caleb agree they need to visit a town. She'd be fine with just some farm, really: steal a eggs, maybe a chicken, her goblin body doesn't need much aside from protein, but she still likes the taste of tomatoes and they're in season — but Caleb insists he'd like to do some proper shopping, sleep in a proper bed for once.

"Caleb," Nott says patiently, "I'm not going to get a room at an inn."

"Have you never slept in an inn before?" he asks, blinking, as if this is somehow the point.

"No," she says, honestly enough.

"Then you will enjoy it," he says. "It is much warmer and dryer than the forest floor, and I would like a chance to bathe."

"Caleb," she says again, "there is no way any innkeeper in this city will let me in their inn."

He blinks at her as if he's only just noticed she's a goblin. For a moment she half expects him to say something like what do you mean, why wouldn't they, and then she would have to answer it's because she's a goblin, hasn't he ever noticed? Looked at her hands? The wrong number of fingers, the freakishly long toes. Bat eyes, gigantic ears, the teeth and fangs and nose? That level of ignorance isn't sweet or charming but painful, hurtful, because how dare he not notice what she sees every second of every day since —

"Ja, okay," he says. "We will disguise you, then. Let me think."

Her heart twists feebly in her narrow chest. "Look, we've had a pretty good run, you and me. How about we divide the last of our spoils, you can have it all but I want the twine and the buttons, and… and then we say goodbye."

He has an expression she can't read at all. Cannot even begin to guess. "If that is what you want," he says at last.

"Yes," she says boldly. And then immediately: "Maybe." And then: "No. Maybe."

He crouches down on the dirt before her, so he can more easily meet her eyes. "We will disguise you," he says seriously. "You have been a good companion and I would like to treat you in some small way."

Nott doesn't know why, because it makes no sense, but she believes him.

[all-pacas]

i once started & abandoned a story where caleb and nott were (platonic) soulmates and it was Angsty because of course both thought it was just a terrible fate — nott had a soulmate already, thank you, and wouldn’t wish her goblin self on anyone — and caleb doesn’t want anything to do with what a soulmate implies, and so they both never talk about it and hope the other doesn’t know and it was VERY MELODRAMATIC.

anyway i found a bit of the story that i’d cut out while tidying my stuff just now and i honestly still Like It, even though it’s just melodramatic as shit:

Nott isn't a good liar. She never has been. She normally doesn't even try. Avoid talking about things that would get her lying: sure, that's doable. People don't ask her serious questions, she's noticed, and since that's the kind she doesn't want to answer it's all pretty tidy.

Caleb, she thinks, is probably a really good liar.

She doesn't know if he's lied to her. She doesn't think she'd know if he did. She doesn't let it get to her, because then she'll be at it all day, and where would it stop? It isn't like she's been honest with him, either.

But still. Sometimes she wonders.

Not so much right after almost dying from a random blue dragon she fell onto in another world in Twiggy's Happy Fun Ball — that was all a lot, and even after Caduceus heals her it's a lot, and she's tired and sore in the weird way that healing magic leaves you, where your body is fine but your mind still half thinks you're bleeding to death: she wants booze and to sleep and doesn't care about the order, but there's Caleb at the railing.

And did she mention they've reached an island? Nott really wants to run off the ship and never come back, sleep and booze can be on shore, but Caleb is looking over towards her and —

She hops up into his arms when he asks her to and he takes her back to their room. She doesn't really like to be carried like this normally, like she's a child, but she can feel the tension rushing through him, the liquid look in his expression, and Nott lets it go. Closes her eyes. He still smells like he had in that jail cell when he'd told her he was her new soulmate: scared and too thin, but now less alone. At least.

For a short while she'd been afraid that because they were soulmates, she'd have to fall in love with him and forget Yeza. That never happened, thank the gods, but she'd also never been able to stop looking for him, looking after him. Following him around. Keep close to me, she'd told him, thinking half about the guards… but a lot about herself. Even then.

She's so fucking selfish. She had been so tired of being alone and lonely and frightened.

In their room, she hops out of his grip and sheds her cloak, all her bloodied clothing until she's left in just undershirt and shorts and bandages. She's always used them to cover her hands and feet and neck and ears, so adding another few loops to her left arm wasn't difficult. Sometimes she thinks about unwrapping it, letting Caleb see —

But see. That's where the lying comes in. He's never said anything. He doesn't want to be her soulmate, or… either way, he's pretending he doesn't know about it. She saw the look on his face all those months ago in the cell. Saw it clearly with her dark vision. He was horrified and that was fair.

Every day that hurts worse and worse.

"You nearly died while I ran away," Caleb says at last from the bed, where he is sitting slumped and defeated.

"It wasn't that — yeah, it sucked. It really sucked. You know how bad dragon breath smells?", Nott asks, blinking over at Caleb. "I almost died."

And in the moment she thought she had, she had seen and thought of three figures, not two. So, you know, it's on her mind.

"I should not have left you."

"You would have died," she says sternly, as she examines her cloak. The clothes? Who cares. But this thing is her fancy elven cloak the others bought her in Zadash. There's a couple of small tears, but nothing too serious. "Caleb, you're very weak, I'm glad you got out of there as fast as you could."

He swears under his breath, rubbing his face. "You do not understand…"

"Understand what?" Nott asks, a little sharply. Too sharply. She folds her cloak neatly. Smoothes out a crease. Thinking: fuck fuck fuck fuck, fuck. Fuuuuuuck. She yelled at him. She hops up onto the bed next to him, right at his side, the way he likes her to. She doesn't like it so much. The contact, the closeness, that's all fine. But she notices her rough green skin even if Caleb doesn't. Always hesitates just a second before she touches him with it.

He twists around and bends so they're closer in height. "Nott, if you had died because I had left you, I could not have forgiven myself, I would not have forgiven it."

"I'm a lot tougher than you are," Nott says. She looks away, her lungs feeling heavy, her heart feeling tight. I don't want you to die or get hurt. She knows he feels the same way, in general, but — she lost one soulmate and now she has another and even if he's a little disgusted by her… "But thank you, Caleb," she says primly, her voice tight in her ears. "I appreciate that."

"Please do not talk down to me," he says tightly, too, and she's surprised. He covers her hand with his, his skin as always burning hot. "I know there are things we do not discuss, you and I–"

Something in her feels twitchy and broken, scratching at her heart and ribs and skull: she doesn't want to hear it. Whatever he says.

Sometimes she thinks about unwrapping her arm and showing him the words, like it or not, believe it or don't. But then — then she'd have to explain about the other words, about Yeza and Luke, and everything would come undone, everything would fall apart. She would have to tell him she's a liar.

"Caleb," she says firmly. "It's okay. Everything is fine. I'm not going to die. I wasn't even hurt that bad after Mr. Clay fixed me up. We're going to get you really strong, together. We're gonna stick together."

She sees something close off in his eyes and expression, and then he closes his eyes and she almost can see him count to three or ten or speak some kind of prayer. She doesn't know what to do. She's not a very good liar.

Of the Mighty Nein, Jester and Beau both keep their arms wrapped, Beau with the bandages she uses to brace her arms, and Jester with a pink ribbon. Jester likes to tease and joke about it, ask people if they want to know what it says — if she knows who her soulmate is, or if she is faking the whole thing, Caleb doesn't know. He also isn't certain if Beau's bandages cover anything but skin. He's never asked, because he's never wanted the question thrown back.

Thinking about it, however, Fjord and Caduceus often wear long sleeves. As does Yasha. As did Mollymauk.

Oh: and Nott. She covers her skin, too.

Many of Jester's novels cover soulmarks and fated romances. That isn't quite what Caleb is searching for, and it's obviously fiction, but he pores over them again and again.

The moment the lovers speak first and know? That didn't happen. Unless it had.

The man kisses his lover's soulmark and they both feel a rush of electricity? Romantic drivel.

The moment he nearly dies and she sees the words flicker and begin to fade on her arm?

He thinks back to the blue dragon. His arms had been wrapped, he hadn't even thought to check.

Lately, Caleb is growing more and more sure that Nott is — in fact —

Despite all evidence. With all evidence. He's so fucking confused. But it remains clear that while his little friend cares for him, while she is the best friend he has ever known, the sister he had never had… she's never said anything about it.

When Jester is being coy, Nott doesn't engage.

She doesn't even read the Nein's library of romance novels.

The only conclusion Caleb can draw is that if Nott truly is his soulmate, the person fated to be his closest friend and family for the rest of his life… she is opposed.

And on the face of it, of course that is reasonable. It makes perfect sense. Wasn't that his first thought, a year ago, two years ago, when the words had first been etched upon his skin? That he would be better off without a soulmate, that his soulmate would be better off dead than with him?

[all-pacas]

Nott and Caleb - love (gimme angsty but wholesome besties)

YOU KNOW WHAT MY CRACK IS, PAL

Nott has said it eighteen times, now. 

Not that Caleb is keeping special track, special attention, but: eighteen times. Total. He tracks the grammar, the intent and meaning: verb forms and conjugations, gerunds and infinitives, active and passive voice. Eighteen times, Nott has said she loves him.

The first time had been six months and eighteen days ago. You know I love how much you love books, but we need to get going, she’d said nervously, when he had been lingering overlong in a shop and the Crownsguard had started to take note of the pair. He hadn’t been listening until the fourth word, which had hit him like a shard of ice to the heart. Yet: it had not been serious. Exasperated, if anything, although Nott was far too even-tempered to truly be angry, even when she was right to be, and he’d dismissed it as a figure of speech.

The sixth time had been four months and three days ago. The girls had been riding in the cart together, and Frumpkin had been purring in Nott’s lap; Caleb had been walking, occasionally peeking in on them, just to make sure all was well — a quick glance through his cat, two strides worth of time, only every hour or so. He’d peeked in. Nott had been scratching his (Frumpkin’s) ears, bragging. Yup, I love that about him, too.

About whom? Caleb had wondered, his stomach twisting with suspicion. 

But he smells so bad, Jester giggled.

Caleb had popped out of Frumpkin before Nott’s retort, aware he was hearing something he ought to not, something he should not know, something that sends him stumbling and red-faced and lagging behind the group, lost in his thoughts.

Caleb has said it to three people in his life. Three people that he is conscious of, was cognizant of the meaning in saying it. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine, I love you, had been his last words to his mother before leaving for the Academy. 

For example.

He’s said it to his mother, and to his father.

He said it to Astrid.

Look how all that came out.

The fourteenth time had been after they had escaped the Blue Dragon. Caduceus’s healing had done much for Nott’s wounds, but she had still been sore and exhausted, hadn’t protested much when he brought them to bed. Caleb had barely been able to speak. He’d had only this silly, childish urge — to hold onto her. To not let her out of his grasp and sight, as though losing her would mean her death. Stupid, really. He was the coward here, not her.

But she hadn’t argued, just snuggled up under his ribs, her ears drooping flat against her head. She smelt of blood and ozone and ash. He’d tried to pat her damp hair. It’s okay, she said sleepily, trying to soothe him, although he was the coward and she had nearly died. It’s okay. Don’t worry. You’re fine. I love you.

The sixteenth had been in the tunnels. After it all, after they left Felderwin, the first night sleeping below ground. Nott and Caleb sitting together in a quiet corner, both uncertain the other wished for their company. Nott had spoken in a quiet panic, at length, as he’d sat on cold stone and tried to overlay Nott — skin and bones and long fingered, expressive ears, cat eyed — with the woman they’d seen in her illusion. Soft and dark haired in an embroidered dress. 

And I didn’t want to lie, I mean, not exactly, it was just really hard to tell you the truth, and you never asked, not that I’m blaming you. A- and I love them, of course I do, they’re my family, Caleb, but you’re — I mean, I - I  love you too, and please don’t be mad, please don’t.

His whole body had been heavy. His heart. His tongue in his mouth. He’d put his arm around her. Given her a squeeze. She’d sniffled and leaned against him. We’ll get your fellow back, he’d promised.

Number seventeen: He’s so smart, it’s one of the things I love most about him, she’d bragged, licking breakfast crumbs from her fingers.

Caleb has known he loves her for a long time now. 

He doesn’t know when exactly he started, when he first noticed it. Only that one day he’d woken up in a basement and Nott’s head had been pillowed on his thigh, her body curled loosely in sleep. He’d blinked down at her, surprised by her presence. She’d stirred. He’d felt the tightness in his chest and belly, the warmth and the pain, and he’d thought: I love her. This strange girl. This dear child. Who gave him a scroll and protection and a name.

He loves her.

He means to tell her after the dragon. After Felderwin. After she survives fire giants and lava. He means to tell her after she grits her teeth and clings to him and dives off the Mistake with the rest of them. Or perhaps in the shadow of Mollymauk’s grave. In the inn, when she tells him she loves the Mighty Nein and will stay, he should have said it then, perhaps. Or maybe when she’d flipped through his spellbooks and turned herself invisible, made a manticore forget her in magical laughter, killed a mountain giant in an arena, spoken Yeza’s name for the first time while searching for rocks. 

He’s never said it. 

Not once.

Caleb watches her start, eyes wide, when Yeza takes her hand. She ducks her head and her fingers curl around his, and he smiles to see her bashful. Smiles, to see her happy and wet-eyed. He’s happy to walk behind the couple, happy to see their hands joined together, the way Yeza’s gaze darts from their surroundings to his wife every few seconds, to remind himself she’s truly there. Caleb isn’t — he isn’t sure he could be any happier. For anyone. That anyone could deserve it more.

He hastens his pace to clasp a hand on Nott’s shoulder. Just for a moment. I’m so happy for you. I’m so proud of you. I love you. 

He doesn’t say it.

He walks ahead, and leaves her to her husband.