Archive of Our Own ^beta

He's aware he's nobody's favorite.

Well, maybe Nott's, but she doesn't count, he doesn't think. Not like that, anyway. He needs Nott and Nott needs him, for now, and she's already so dear to him that to simply call her his favorite feels demeaning. She is so much more than that—one half of his whole heart, two ventricles he didn't know he was missing but now can't live without. Whatever ugly part of him that once lived there, she's replaced with her goodness. Perhaps that's his only redeeming quality.

Actually, yes, that is his only redeeming quality. What is he playing at, cavorting around with the rest of this little group like maybe he belongs; it's glaringly apparent that he does not, so much so that not even Jester is able to bear his presence without some form of repayment. And that's fine, that's—that's okay, really. He's used to tucking his pain down behind his ribs, used to ignoring the ache. Maybe when he and Nott leave, he can confide in her, tell her his worries so she can soothe them. But leaving won't be for a long while yet, he thinks, if he can keep the peace, which he wants to do—if not for his own sake, then for Nott's. She deserves people who can care for her; deserves more than a filthy wizard who's afraid of his own shadow. 

He's been horribly selfish in his life so far. Nothing can undo what he's done, but he's trying to be better. He gave the gold to Jester; he'll find someone else for the armor. Money means little, so long as Nott is provided for.

He's trying to stop being so selfish. He's trying really, really hard. 

And failing, clearly.

Pinned against the wall with Molly's nose inches from his own, Caleb does his best to breathe normally, to slow his racing heart. It's beating loud enough for Molly to hear it.

If that's true, Molly gives no indication. "Hey Caleb," he says casually, like this is a friendly exchange and not a hostage situation, "I'm fine if you skim something off the top; that's fair. But... be clever about it. Just distribute sixty, seventy percent of what you find. Kay?" Molly doesn't give him time to answer; just slaps his cheek, light enough not to hurt but hard enough to make a point. "Good boy."

Then he walks away like nothing's happened, leaving Caleb leaning against the wall, shivering. He's not sure if it's nerves or the sudden chill of Molly's missing body heat or both. In any case, that awful phrase echoes in his ears like a death knell.

Good boy.

Shame coils in his stomach, sits there heavy. Good boy. Like he's an ill-behaved dog or an errant child or a tool, like he's a tool; good, Bren, excellent work—like he needs to be praised for meeting the bare minimum of morality. Like it's so hard to picture him being a good person that he needs to be trained on how to try.

Caleb can't imagine what Molly must think of him. And he doesn't want to think about how things would go if Molly were to find out just how monstrous Caleb really is.

So much for interpersonal relationships.

(Who needs those, anyway? He has Nott; she's enough for him. But is he enough for her? Truly? Doesn't she deserve more than him? Better than what he could ever provide?

What if this group can give her that?

A little longer. Caleb will stay with them a little longer, just until he's certain they'll properly look after Nott; he'll stay and be quiet and be obedient, he is so very good at being obedient, and won't handle the money from now on since he has to count out loud like a child anyway. And this way, he will ensure Nott is safe. Then he will free them of his presence, Nott most especially, and leave his entire heart behind with her.)

He's so lost in thought that he barely notices when they reach the inn, ducking out of the rain and into the warmth of the sitting room. It's relatively crowded, but there's a long table near the back that Jester and Nott make a beeline for. The rest of them follow more sedately, Caleb at the rear; he seats himself closest to the stairs so he can retreat when he needs to. Nott plants herself at his side, wiggling a little to get comfortable but then standing just as quickly so she can animatedly gesture as she chats with Jester.

Caleb watches her, smiling for the first time in what must be hours. Then he pulls out a book and begins to read, content to be absorbed in his studies and subsequently ignored. If there's one thing he's better at than self-deprecation, it's distracting himself.

Light conversation is made around the table and Caleb thankfully passes below notice. Drinks are distributed by Beau and Fjord, the food soon to follow, and then they really become a rowdy group, loosened by alcohol and full stomachs and a job well-done.

Caleb buried himself in his book so quickly that he didn't pay attention to the seating arrangements, aside from Nott being beside him. When she nudges him hard enough that he picks his head up, he locks eyes with the person across the table and jolts. Mollymauk gazes back at him, a serene little smile on his face.

"Good book?" he asks lazily, like he's fully aware of what Caleb is doing.

Caleb, for his part, isn't sure what he's doing. He's not doing anything. He's reading and he's avoiding and now he's busted. "Um. Ja."

"Mmhm."

"Caleb!" Nott scolds, grabbing his plate and piling food onto it. "You have to eat, you're too skinny as it is!"

"Ah, I am not hungry, Nott."

"Come now," Molly pipes up, "can't have our wizard falling on his face, hm? Eat your greens."

Oh, like a good boy? Caleb wants to snark, and bites his tongue. 

"Just a little bit," Nott negotiates, her huge yellow eyes beseeching. "For me?"

Well, she certainly knows she's his weak spot. And wasn't he just ruminating on how very obedient he can be?

The thought turns his stomach, makes his heart skip a beat. Whatever Nott sees in his face makes her pause and frown, eyes searching. He does his best to smile and wonders if it looks anything like it should.

"Just a couple bites," she compromises, low enough that no pointy-eared tieflings can hear. "Then I'll leave you be."

A couple of bites—yes, he can do that. He can do that for Nott, who takes such good care of him, who never fails him. He can do this for her.

The way her eyes light up makes the ensuing struggle to swallow worth it. The food is like ash in his mouth, glugging down his throat and settling like a rock in his stomach. He keeps his eyes down on the book in his lap but doesn't process any of the words, too busy trying to shake the feeling of being scrutinized. 

He can't manage it. Time for bed, then, if only to be away from all of these prying eyes. 

"I am going upstairs," Caleb says, touching Nott's shoulder. Ever understanding, she doesn't even turn to look at him; only reaches up and squeezes his hand in acknowledgement, then lets it go. It gives him the opportunity to escape upstairs before any of the other party members can notice.

But at the very same time he stands, Jester happens to glance over at him. "Cayleb!" she cries, dismayed. "Where are you going, you can't be sleepy yet! It's not even that late!"

"Yeah, man," Beau says around her tankard, "don't you wanna hang for a bit?"

"Nein, danke," Caleb excuses, hastily trying to get around the table. Something snags around his ankle and he trips; would have hit the ground if not for Mollymauk standing and seizing him by the arm, pulling him close. 

"Not sulking, are we, dear?" Molly asks, tilting his head.

Do not sulk. Head up, Bren. Back straight. Eyes forward. You must hold yourself accountable—

"Nein," Caleb chokes out. The word scrapes on the way up. "Nein, mir ist—ah, sick. Sick to my stomach. A— a stomachache." He's dizzy. His stomach churns like he's swallowed something rotten. The room feels too bright, too close.

Molly hums, unconvinced, but releases him all the same.

Caleb turns sharply on his heel and walks.

He does not run.

He does not.

Although, running has always been his best talent.

The hallway stretches long and narrow before him. His vision blurs at the edges. He keeps his pace measured, deliberate, until he's certain he's out of sight, then the control fractures and his steps quicken. His hand fumbles at the door latch, and he slips inside and shuts it behind him with more force than intended.

There’s silence.

The room feels colder without Nott here. Colder and strangely clinical, like a space awaiting examination. Caleb has grown too dependent on her presence—he knows this. The simple fact of her being nearby settles something in his chest. Her breathing in the dark is proof of life. 

If she were here now, she would ask questions, and he would lie. And the lie would taste worse than the truth.

No—it is better this way. Better to suffer alone, where his misery cannot spread. Where it cannot infect the air, cannot cling to someone else's clothes, cannot become their burden too.

He presses a hand to his mouth and inhales through his nose. Four counts in. Hold. Four counts out. Eins, zwei, drei, vier. It doesn't help.

He should not have let himself forget. This is what he is; he is disgusting, unworthy. There is a reason he is alone.

Caleb sinks to the edge of the bed, staring at the empty space across from him.

He needs—not comfort. He does not deserve that. No, he needs… stability. Anchoring. Something small and warm and uncomplicated, that will not judge him for his flaws or expect him to be better.

His fingers twitch. Chest aching, Caleb reaches into his coat, aiming for the pocket with the incense, and his fingers meet only air.

Ah. Of course.

His components have been dwindling for weeks. He'd stretched them thin, cut corners where he could, told himself he would replenish them when it became necessary. The incense was important, but so long as Caleb and Nott and Frumpkin were careful, they could go longer without needing it. 

It is necessary now.

He moves anyway, crouching beside his pack and undoing the straps with stiff, methodical care. He empties it onto the bed: a book, folded parchment, chalk worn to a nub, a single stick of incense snapped cleanly in half. 

He stares at the meager spread as though something might materialize if he looks long enough.

It doesn't. Of course it doesn't. This is what comes of foolishness. Of sentiment. Of giving away coin he did not have to spare. All of this heartache just to receive no credit for it.

Head up, Bren. Back straight. Do not sulk; you chose this.

He gathers the items back together with deliberate precision. Fold. Stack. Pack away. 

For as much as he tries to make the motions controlled, his hands shake anyway. When he finishes, the room feels even colder somehow.

Lowering himself to the bed, Caleb presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until bright stars bloom in the dark. 

It would have been a simple thing—easy. He knows the spell like the back of his hand. A circle of chalk, a spark. A familiar weight settling against his shoulders.

Instead, there is only empty space.

He lets his hands fall.

Head up, Bren. Do not sulk.  Remember: you chose this.

Mollymauk has always been good at reading people.

It's impressive, really, considering he's only been alive—or as close as counts—for two years. Two years is barely enough time to master walking and talking, much less the delicate art of social manipulation. All things considered, Molly thinks he's doing rather well.

Of course, he never would have made it alone.

Sometimes, in the early hours—when sleep won't come and the dark stretches too wide—he wonders if he's anything more than a patchwork of borrowed pieces. Whatever asshole he was before he came out of the ground, sure, but also the accumulation of everyone who came after.

The carnival taught him spectacle. An older woman in Nicodranas taught him tarot. His sense of humor belongs to Orna; his whimsy to Jobe. His swords, his coat, and—on his better days—his kindness belong to Gustav, who took one look at an amnesiac tiefling in a ditch and decided he was worth the trouble.

Molly is very good at reading people.

Still.

Last night sits uneasy in his chest. The look on Caleb's face when Molly let him go—blank, carefully blank—nags at him in a way he can't quite shake. It was fine. It was necessary. Caleb will understand.

Probably.

To appease his guilty conscience, Molly draws his deck out, shuffles, and places a hand over the cards. He sends up a brief prayer to the Moonweaver, then shuffles again, and again, until it feels right.

Then he draws the top three cards.

The first: his past. 

The Six of Swords, upright—transition, departure, moving on. A necessary pain. A figure ferried across troubled water toward a distant, unknown shore.

Predictable enough. Molly left the circus—or, well, the circus left him. Either way, he's crossed the river and there's no going back. Now he's here, with new companions and new horizons, and the vague hope that this particular boat won't capsize.

The next: his present.

The Two of Cups, inverted.

Molly frowns.

Imbalance. Fracture. A partnership out of step. Words said poorly, and heard worse.

… Not the card he would have selected for this situation.

He tilts it slightly, as if the angle might soften the meaning. Relationships are complicated things. Friction is inevitable, especially amid change. A little tension keeps people sharp; it doesn't necessarily mean anything is broken.

Besides, if there were true discord in the group, he would have noticed. He's very good at noticing.

Which makes what comes next sting all the worse.

He assumed Caleb would recover, is the thing. Caleb is something of an enigma, though Molly thinks he's learning the shape of him: the reticent set to his shoulders, the unhappy curve to his lips. Yesterday had been deliberate, calculated. A necessary course correction. Caleb would understand—anyone would understand—that a light reminder about group dynamics was practical, not cruel. Molly had kept his touch brief, his tone measured. The entire encounter was meant to leave Caleb abashed, maybe resentful in the moment, but not vengeful. 

When Caleb retreated, Molly didn't give it much thought. He'd recover by morning, surely. Caleb and Nott have been fending for themselves too long; they needed to learn the rules of being part of a group, to bend just enough to keep the machinery moving. It wasn't cruelty. It was… training, of a sort.

So, Molly shoves the tarot cards at the bottom of his deck, pockets it, then descends the stairs for breakfast with a sense of quiet satisfaction. He'd done what he thought was necessary. Everyone's fine.

To prove it, Jester bounds down, cheeks flushed with morning energy, brandishing her coin purse. "Ohhhh Molly!" she chirps, eyes bright. "I was thinking we should do a market day! We could go see the shops, get a few things! Maybe fabric, I want to make a new dress. Or—"

Molly hums, smiling faintly. Yes. Yes, this is a good plan. A simple, harmless outing. And by the time they return, the others will be up and about, and it will be apparent that Caleb didn't think twice about yesterday's scolding. The tarot reading doesn't have to mean anything; sometimes they don't.

Everything's fine.

The market hits them with a splash of color and sound. Stalls bristle with fabric, trinkets, and oddities; bright awnings snap in the breeze, vendors hawk loudly, and the faint, persistent aroma of roasting meat and fresh bread and too many bodies drifts in the air. 

Molly hums in approval. This is exactly the kind of chaos he thrives in—loud, tactile, and full of opportunities to poke and prod the world without anyone truly noticing.

Jester barrels ahead, chattering nonstop as she drags Molly along. "Ooh, look at this ribbon! And this—oh!" She holds up a bright pink swatch. "It's so pretty! What do you think, Molly?"

Molly smiles, letting her drag him from stall to stall. He helps carry her bundles, nods at shopkeepers, tosses out practiced compliments that make merchants beam, all while keeping one eye on the crowd. At one point, his eyes alight on a dingy little shop called Magical Materials and Mementos, which makes him think of Caleb.

And Caleb—Caleb is doing fine, surely. Yesterday was fine. Molly wasn't incorrect to confront him; had done so in a kind, but pointed way. Caleb is fine.

To shake the thought, Molly focuses instead on Jester's enthusiasm. "Not to spoil the fun, dear," he says lightly, eyeing the fabric piling up in her arms, "but that's quite an armful for the weight of our purses."

"Oh no, I have plenty!" Jester assures him cheerfully.

"That package came in from your mother after all?"

Jester beams, holding up her bulging coin purse. "No, but guess what? Caleb gave me all the money he collected yesterday off of those people we killed—every last bit! I didn't even ask; he just… handed it over. Said he's not good with money and he didn't want me to be sad, so I should have it. Isn't that sweet?"

Molly falters mid-step. "Caleb… gave you money?"

"Yep!" Jester holds a bolt of fabric up against her cheek. "I think this clashes with my skin tone. Molly?"

"Quite—sorry, you said Caleb gave you money?"

Jester huffs, rolling her eyes fondly. "Honestly, Molly, you're acting like you've never met him! Caleb's nice when he's not, y'know, busy being grumpy. I think he just doesn't know how to socialize."

"Right," Molly says slowly, toying with one of his earrings and trying very hard not to notice the slow drop in his stomach.

"I'm going to spend some of it on parchment for him," Jester continues blithely. "Or, ooh—maybe another book? Though I suppose only he would know what kind he'd want. Except he wouldn't let me give any coins back. What do you think, Molly?"

Ha, ha. What does Molly think?

Molly thinks perhaps the one thing he wholly owns in this world is his stupidity.

He'd assumed, of course, that Caleb would keep something for himself. It had seemed obvious—even reasonable. Just distribute sixty, seventy percent had been Molly's compromise, because he'd looked at Caleb and thought—

Well. Uncharitable things. 

But Molly, of all people, should know better.

Godsdamned Two of Cups.

Running a hand down his face, Molly exhales a little. Now, he thinks, he owes Caleb. An apology, for sure, but maybe a little indulgence too. Molly believes in the power of a good peace offering.

"I'm sure he'll appreciate whatever you choose," he says to Jester, hiding his frustration behind a practiced smile. "You know how our wizard is."

Jester nods eagerly, oblivious to the tension coiling in Molly's chest. "Oh! Can you help me pick something?"

Molly hums, setting the weight of Caleb's generosity aside for a moment, letting the atmosphere of the market sweep him along. He helps Jester pick out fabric—something in a garish shade of pink, naturally—and nods along as she chatters on about the Traveler. He carries her bags when they grow too cumbersome, offers opinions on ribbons he doesn't care about, and smiles at shopkeepers with practiced charm.

But he can't shake it. Caleb had given everything away. Not sixty percent, not seventy. Not even eighty, for fuck's sake. Every last copper. 

Yes, perhaps it should have been divided among them. Perhaps that would have been sensible. But to keep none? To hand it all over because he didn't want Jester to be sad?

Honestly, Molly, you're acting like you've never met him. I think he just doesn't know how to socialize.

Yeah. Yeah, that's pretty apparent. Unfortunately, it wasn't something that occurred to him while pinning Caleb against a wall and telling him to be smarter about theft. He even called him a good boy, like he was training a dog. Slapped his cheek. 

The memory curdles, and the pit in his stomach tightens. Good boy. That was a bit much, even by Molly's standards.

"Molly?" Jester's voice cuts in. She's holding up two nearly identical blue scarves. "Which one?"

"Left," Molly answers thoughtlessly.

She beams and pays for it, tucking it into her bag with a satisfied hum.

They finish up quickly after that—even Jester's attention span for shopping has limits—and head back toward the inn. The walk is pleasant enough—Jester skips a little, humming under her breath, and it's difficult to feel down in her presence.

But still, Molly can't stop thinking about yesterday. The way Caleb had gone stiff when Molly touched him, the careful blankness in his expression, how he'd refused to look Molly in the eyes. How he'd then proceeded to avoid Molly the entire night.

And Molly had accused him of sulking. 

Responsible for his own stupidity, big time.

The common room is half-full when they return, warm and loud with the sounds of afternoon drinking. Fjord waves from a corner table where he and Beau are hovering over a map. Nott is nowhere to be seen—probably off "shopping" in her own way. And Caleb—

Caleb is sitting alone at a smaller table near the stairs, hunched over his spellbook, ink-stained fingers tracing careful lines across parchment. His shoulders are curved inward, making himself small. He doesn't look up when they enter.

Molly pauses in the doorway.

Jester breezes past him, already calling out to Beau about the scarf she bought, but Molly doesn't follow. His attention is immediately snagged by the wizard at the back table.

Caleb's eyes flick up—just for a second—registering their arrival. Then he immediately looks back down, deliberately avoiding.

The pit in Molly's stomach tightens.

Right. So Caleb hasn't forgotten yesterday, and he's not inclined to forgive it, either. Fair enough. Molly wouldn't forgive either, if their positions were reversed. Which means Molly will have to make it up to him somehow. Though, how in the world he's meant to do that is a mystery; it's not like Molly actually knows what the man would appreciate. All he has to go on is that Caleb is a wizard and enjoys books, and he can hardly pick out a book for the man, much less spell ingredients.

... Although. There had been that shop—Magical Materials and Mementos.

Molly had clocked it earlier the way he clocks all useful things in a new town—the good taverns, the friendliest faces, the places to buy what you need. A magic shop is perfect. Not a spoken apology, but a quieter gesture. 

Molly allows himself a small, private smile. 

Then he crosses the room.

"Hello, magic man," he greets cordially, unruffled by the way Caleb stiffens. The best way to cut through awkwardness is by acting like it's not there, and Molly is more than happy to do the heavy lifting. "How are you this fine afternoon?"

"Ah. I am well." Caleb's fingers twitch against the edge of his book. "And—and you? I take it your shopping trip was successful?"

He doesn't look at Molly. His gaze slides instead to Jester, who is animatedly recounting the morning's exploits to Beauregard. Beau looks approximately one breath away from staging her own death to escape—though it's a token protest. Even she can't fully resist Jester's charm.

Molly, watching Caleb as Caleb watches Jester, is the only one to see the moment his expression shifts. For a fleeting second, the frown disappears. The perpetual scrunch between his eyebrows eases. And he looks—not happy, but something softer. Contented, maybe.

Molly doesn't think he's seen that look before.

He does think he'd do almost anything to keep it there.

"Very successful," he answers, keeping his tone light. He's trying to draw Caleb back into the conversation, but the moment he speaks, those shoulders curl inward again. Damn. "In fact," Molly continues undeterred, propping one foot on the chair and resting his elbow on his knee, "I spotted some shops the rest of our group might enjoy."

"O-oh?"

"Mm. Think I even saw a magic supply shop." Molly watches Caleb's face carefully. "Thought you might like a look."

Caleb goes very still. His eyes dart toward Molly and abort the movement at the last second, fixing instead on the table.

He's a clever man, Caleb Widogast. Molly's certain he can spot the shape of a plan forming.

Caleb clears his throat. "I will… ask Nott to accompany me when she returns."

"Daylight's a-wastin'," Molly chirps, straightening. "Why not go now? I could use another stretch."

"You just stretched," Caleb replies flatly. "With Jester. In case you've forgotten."

Oh. Hello, snappish Caleb. Molly infinitely prefers him to Sulky Caleb.

"Never hurts to double up," Molly says with an easy shrug. "Besides, I know the way."

"I'm certain I can manage."

"Oh, but I insist."

"Mollymauk—"

"Caleb."

The name lands like a card slapped on a table. Final.

Caleb finally looks at him—not the sidelong glances or careful avoidance, but direct eye contact. Blue eyes meet red.

Up close, the wariness is obvious. But beneath it, there's exhaustion. Resignation. 

Molly wonders if he thinks he's about to be scolded for giving all the money to Jester. The poor bastard probably expects a lecture—some pointed commentary on group economics and proper coin distribution.

But honestly, Jester's right. Caleb's problem isn't malice; it's ineptitude. He doesn't know how to navigate this messy, communal, shared-coin, shared-risk, shared-burden business. Molly had the benefit of a circus, of people who passed around coin and food and affection without ceremony. 

Without that foundation, who knows what he'd be like? 

Caleb, under-socialized creature that he is, just needs someone to demonstrate how it works.

Easy fix.

"Mollymauk," Caleb tries again, quieter now.

"Humor me," Molly says, softer in return. Just trust me, magic man.

Caleb sighs—a small, defeated sound—and looks down at his spellbook with such naked longing that Molly has to smother a grin. For all of Caleb's more frustrating qualities, Moonweaver help him, Molly does like the man. He's prickly and paranoid and incapable of accepting kindness, yes—but also clever, and careful, and unexpectedly generous in ways he probably doesn't even recognize.

There's someone worth knowing beneath all that self-imposed misery. Molly's sure of it.

At last, Caleb closes the spellbook with deliberate care, tucks it away, and stands. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and jerks his chin toward the door. "Lead the way, then, circus man."

Molly beams.

He keeps up a steady stream of conversation as they walk—half because he loathes silence, half because he's not entirely convinced Caleb won't vanish the moment he looks away. Constant conversation keeps Caleb a somewhat active (if unwilling) participant.

By the time they stumble upon Magical Materials and Mementos, Caleb looks like he'd do just about anything to slip away. Molly, unrepentant, presses a hand to the small of Caleb's back and ushers him through the doorway. A bell gives a polite jingle as they step inside.

The shop is just as dingy as the outside—narrow but tall, shelves crammed to the rafters with jars of powdered bone, bundles of dried herbs, glittering vials that catch the light and glow faintly. It smells of sulfur and dust and something oddly sweet, like honey left too long in the sun.

Molly inhales, satisfied. Perfect. A proper peace offering, delivered exactly as intended. He can already picture Caleb's eyes lighting up at the sight of rare components, the careful way he'll inspect labels, maybe even crack that rare, genuine smile—

He turns.

Caleb is standing exactly where Molly left him, just inside the doorway, shoulders slumped miserably. "Alright. We are here. Can we go?"

"Go?" Molly blinks. "But you haven't even looked at anything."

Something like frustration flickers across Caleb's face—quick, sharp—then collapses into exhaustion. "Mollymauk," he says, "you have made your point."

"Excuse me?"

"Is it not becoming cruel?" Caleb's voice stays low, but there's an edge now. Bitterness. "I understand. I have—" His lips twist. "I have learned my lesson, ja? Like a good boy."

Molly opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Ah.

Well, this is going spectacularly poorly.

"I deserved that," Molly acknowledges carefully. "But I'm—that's why we're here, you know? I'm trying to make it up to you."

Caleb stares at him.

Molly huffs and crosses his arms.

"...Make it up to me," Caleb repeats slowly. His eyes narrow slightly. "By bringing me to a shop where I cannot afford anything."

"That's why I said it's my treat—"

"So I am to be pitied now?" Caleb's voice stays quiet, but there's an edge creeping in. "The wizard who gave away his money like a fool, who needs charity—"

"That's not—" Molly stops. Tries again. "You're not a fool."

"No?" Caleb huffs, short and sharp. "Then what would you call it? I gave everything to Jester. Did not keep even a copper for myself. And now you drag me here to—what, exactly? Show me what I could have bought if I were smarter about it, if I had—demonstrated proper group economics?"

"Godsdammit, Caleb, I'm trying to apologize—"

"By humiliating me?"

"I'm not trying to humiliate you!"

"Then what is this?" Caleb gestures sharply at the shop around them, at the shelves of components he can't afford, at Molly standing there with his coin purse. "You bring me here, you offer to pay—"

"Because I want to."

"Why?" The word comes out ragged. Caleb's hands curl into fists. "Why would you want to do this? I made the wrong choice. So punish me and be done with it, but do not—" His voice falters. "Do not pretend this is kindness."

Molly stares at him. "Punish you," he repeats.

Caleb won't look at him now, eyes fixed somewhere past Molly's shoulder. "I know I fucked up. I should have distributed it properly. Should have been smarter, like you said, ja. But I wanted Jester to be happy, and I thought—" He stops. Swallows. "It does not matter what I thought."

"Caleb–"

"That is all we need to say on it," Caleb says, suddenly straightening up. "Now let us go back to the inn and discuss our next steps, and I will avoid handling money in future—"

"Stop—back up," Molly says firmly, fighting to keep his patience. "What are you talking about?"

Caleb's glare is venomous. "Don't patronize me. You bring me here to—what, demonstrate how much gold I should have kept? To show me what proper distribution looks like? I'm not sulking, Mollymauk. I understand the lesson."

Molly blinks.

Oh. This has gotten wildly out of hand.

"Caleb—"

"I made a mistake," Caleb cuts in, words clipped. "I gave away money that should have been shared with the group. And now you're making your point by forcing me to watch you spend—"

"I talked to Jester this morning." Molly's voice comes out firmer than intended, but it works: Caleb's mouth snaps shut. "She told me you gave her all the money. All of it."

Caleb goes very still.

"And I realized," Molly continues carefully, "that you hadn't been skimming at all. You were… carrying it. I assumed you were going to keep some. But you didn't. You gave it all away because Jester was sad."

Silence.

"So I'm not here to punish you, Caleb. I'm here because I fucked up. I accused you of something you weren't doing. I was a right arse about it." Molly spreads his hands. "This is me trying to make amends. Badly, apparently."

Caleb's breathing has gone shallow. His eyes dart across Molly's face, searching for the trick. Molly holds very still, letting himself be examined. Letting Caleb look for the lie and, hopefully, find none.

"There's no punchline," Molly adds, softer now. "I just want to buy you some components. That's it. That's the whole plan."

It doesn't appease Caleb—if anything, his color rises. "I am not a saint," he snaps. "I considered keeping it. Of course I did. It was more money than I have ever seen—more money than my parents made in their whole lives. I was going to keep it."

"But you didn't."

"But I would have."

"But," Molly says, taking a step closer, "you didn't."

Caleb doesn't meet his eyes. "You should not apologize to me. I do not deserve it."

…That's a knot for another day. "Then let me at least ease my own conscience, ey?" Molly says. "Pick out a few things. Isn't there something you need to restock on? Some new spell ingredients you want to try?"

Caleb tilts his head, frowning like he's trying to parse out Molly's ulterior motive.

Molly should probably be offended by the assumption. Instead, he's just… sad. Sad that someone taught Caleb to expect cruelty from people who claim kindness.

"There are… a few things," Caleb says at last, reluctant. "It is not often I find a shop with such extensive inventory. But it will not be cheap."

Molly shrugs. "Grab whatever you like. I've already bought everything I want, and trust me—I'll certainly let you know if it's too expensive. I'm no saint, either."

Caleb's lips quirk, almost a smile. Then, rather than respond, he turns and begins to browse.

Molly tucks his hands in his pockets and leans against a shelf, content to observe.

It's captivating, honestly—watching this man who hunches in on himself, who stutters through sentences, who won't meet anyone's eyes, now moving with absolute certainty. Caleb navigates the cramped aisles like he's walked them a hundred times, fingertips skimming shelf edges, plucking components with the sureness of someone who knows his craft inside and out. For all he claimed to need nothing, he knows exactly what he's looking for.

And there—in the careful way he inspects each label, the visible relief when he finds what he needs—Molly sees it. Gratitude. Not spoken, but present in every movement.

That, more than anything, makes Molly glad he pushed.

In the end, Caleb has collected an odd assortment of items—incense bundles wrapped in twine, sticks of charcoal that smudge his fingertips black, a stoppered vial that glows faintly in the dim shoplight. A packet of herbs, a spool of silver wire, a large amount of phosphorus. Sulfur, guano, a few caterpillar cocoons, waxed paper. Molly has little doubt that this is truly the very least of what Caleb needs, nevermind what he wants—but it's a good armful all the same, and by the time they bring it all to the counter Caleb is having some trouble balancing it all.

The shopkeeper tallies it slowly. Too slowly. 

When he finally names the total, it is—

It is a lot of gold.

Caleb winces. The expression flashes across his face and is gone just as quickly; he ducks his head, shoulders curling inward.

Molly doesn't hesitate. He drops the coin purse onto the counter with a solid thunk and begins scooping the components into his arms before Caleb can so much as inhale. "Right then," he chirps brightly, already pivoting toward the door. "Pleasure doing business."

Caleb hurries after him into the street, nearly tripping over a loose cobblestone in his haste. "That was insane!" he hisses, clutching the bundle of incense to his chest. "Are you—are you losing your mind? That was so much money! I never intended you to purchase all of it—go back inside, return—"

"It's my money to spend how I will," Molly says easily, adjusting the precarious armful he's carrying. "And I decided to spend it on a friend."

"At least get your change—!"

"Has anyone ever told you not to look a gift bird in the mouth?"

"It's—" Caleb falters, his argument derailed. "It's ‘a gift horse,' is it not?"

Molly grins sidelong at him. "Just making sure you're paying attention."

Caleb scowls, which only makes him look more rumpled than severe. "It was excessive," he presses, lowering his voice as a pair of townsfolk pass. "You did not need to purchase that much. I was going to put some back—I could have—"

"Could have what?" Molly cuts in. "Mr. Caleb, I know full well these ingredients are the bare minimum of what you need. So I was happy to purchase them. You're welcome, by the way."

"I did not say I was ungrateful."

"You implied it."

"I did not—"

Molly stops walking so abruptly Caleb nearly collides with him. "Caleb."

The wizard freezes.

"Shut up," Molly says, not unkindly. "For once in your life, just accept something."

Silence falls between them. It's not hostile, but it's not quite comfortable, either. After a beat, they both glance down at the chaotic mess of ingredients in their arms.

"This," Molly admits, "was perhaps not my most elegant exit."

They duck into a narrow alley to sort it properly. Caleb kneels first, spreading the components across the cobblestones with careful hands. He repackages everything with swift, practiced efficiency—charcoal bundled tight, phosphorus tucked deep in an inner pocket. He takes extra care with the incense, securing it in waxed paper to keep it dry.

There's a strange energy about him now that Molly can't quite name. It isn't nerves—or at least, he doesn't think so. There's no tension in Caleb's shoulders, no rigid set to his jaw. If anything, he looks lighter.

Caleb tucks the incense bundle into his coat, rises, and gives his pockets a small pat—as if making sure it's truly there. He's moving like he's almost buoyant, like if he were anyone else he'd be bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"What are you going to use it for?" Molly can't resist asking.

Caleb glances at him, eyes bright, and suddenly, Molly understands. That strange energy is excitement. Caleb is excited.

Molly's heart skips a beat.

"I," Caleb says, his smile unfurling slow and genuine, "am going to summon my cat."

"You have a cat?" Molly can't quite keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"Yes—he is my familiar. His name is Frumpkin."

Something warm and stupid blooms in Molly's chest. Frumpkin. "I like it," he says. "So you're going to summon him and… then what?"

Caleb blinks at him. "Then what, what?"

"I don't know." Molly shrugs. "Do you… use the cat for anything?"

"Oh, ja! He is very good at running errands, fetching things. We can communicate, and I can use Sight to look through his eyes—very useful when scouting."

"Are we scouting something?"

"Oh—no." Caleb shrugs, almost sheepish. "He is also a normal cat. I like having him around. He…"

 He hesitates. His gaze flicks to Molly—quick, assessing, measuring. Then he blinks and gives a small nod, like he's decided to step off an internal ledge. "He makes things better," he confides quietly. "The world is—a lot, sometimes. Overwhelming, ja? But Frumpkin…" His mouth twists, embarrassed by his own earnestness. "Ah. It is silly."

"No," Molly says at once, the protest slipping out before he can temper it. "No, it's not silly at all. I want to meet him. He sounds lovely."

Caleb's expression softens. His voice turns warm in a way Molly has never heard before. "He is very affectionate. It has been some time since I saw him. When I summoned him last, it was hastily—with poor components. Barely enough to tie him to this plane."

His hand drifts to his pocket again, pressing lightly against the incense bundle. "But these supplies will allow him to bind tightly. Enough to stay for as long as he wishes. And enough for me to summon him again, should he be banished."

They walk in companionable silence for a moment—just the sound of their footsteps and the distant murmur of the market behind them.

Then, abruptly, Caleb stops.

Molly stops too, glancing over. "Caleb?"

Caleb doesn't answer right away. There's something shifting in his expression—something unguarded working its way to the surface. It softens the lines around his eyes first, then eases the perpetual tension in his jaw. The change travels slowly, deliberately, until it reaches his mouth.

And when Caleb finally looks at Molly—really looks at him, blue eyes meeting red without flinching, without hesitation—he smiles.

It's genuine. Dazzling.

"Thank you, Mollymauk."

Molly's heart gives a painful, traitorous thud.

Oh.

Oh, he's in trouble.

"You're very welcome, my dear," he manages, and is privately proud that his voice comes out steady.

It only occurs to Molly later, after a night of merriment involving a wizard, his pet cat, and many drinks, that he forgot to look at the last tarot card he drew this morning.

It sits at the bottom of the deck, where he’d placed it in his haste to get down to breakfast. Molly waffles for a minute, torn, but the only other thing in this world that is truly his own is his sense of curiosity.

Like ripping off a bandage, he grabs the bottommost card and slaps it down.

The Star, upright.

Of course. 

Molly huffs quietly. The Star stares back at him, patient and knowing.

"I know," Molly says, tucking it away with the others. He doesn't bother to shuffle the deck back together. "I know."