[Just making a face at him like they both know this argument isn't the same. Because it isn't.]
You said nothing a cleric can't fix. Beauregard told me earlier that it's been a long time. [He's in denial, not entirely stupid. He listens to these little twists in the tale.] It's not as if I should be here in the first fucking place. Whatever this is, it's a reprieve. If it can help you and Beauregard, you both know that's going to be the right choice.
[Ugh ugh ugh. He can tell this is clearly upsetting him, it's upsetting himself, but he also doesn't want to just agree to the premise that it's useless to try. He's also never had Caleb disagree with him specifically about ... anything?
Sitting there, elbow on the table and hand over his mouth for a moment, nails tapping on the tabletop. Just looking at him, frustrated.]
Look, it isn't-- nobility. It's getting the two of you out of this fucking place. I just need to be able to live with it. [Or, well. He makes a face.] Or not live with it. You get the point.
Your death won't buy anything except your peace of mind. You can get out of feeling the weight some burden you think you can't survive - fine. But don't talk to me about what you can live with.
[He can't help taking this, saying its better to die than to carry that kind of guilt around, a little personally.]
[Well, he'd already died for these people once. It'd be a waste to watch them die in front of him, after all of that effort. They've already seen it once, it wouldn't be as hard. But he keeps that to himself. If backs are against the wall ...
He's got no idea why this reaction is so strong, though. Pushing the palms of his hands against his eyes for a second, until his vision goes white, and then holding them up for a moment before crossing his arms. Leaning back.]
[Getting kicked out of the library, apparently, because Caleb is yell whispering at him. Caleb is grabbing his belongings and shoving them in his coat.]
[Making things worse by arguing with the Librarian - it was just a discussion, they're allowed to talk, why not just let them stay - but he's only getting more shooshing and hurried out of the library back, grabbing his own coat and following Caleb. Picking up books for him, if he lets him.]
[He can! They aren't checked out so you're just stealing them! But he just kind of goes outside to go walking. He's not really in the mood for this anyway; he was just planning to end a difficult day by obsessing over some aspect of his research that he can't succeed on in this state anyway.]
[Just stealing them then. Just stealin' them. Following him? Look, it just seemed like another bad place to end a conversation, what with the yell-whispering and the getting kicked out of the library, which was a thing Caleb had specifically told Molly not to do to him. So he feels a little bad for that. If not the stubbornly sticking to his ground on the whole self-sacrifice thing.
If he tells him to go away or tries to ditch him he'll fuck off, but otherwise he'll just follow quietly for a while.]
Molly just sits down not too far away, twiddling his thumbs, flipping over the books he just accidentally stole in his hands before he sets them to the side. Quiet still, until he finally just decides to break the awkwardness again.]
... It was the wrong time to bring it up.
[Making a face. This is a very bad 'apology', but he's ... trying?]
[This is sort of the wrong way around? Molly had the right to ask; he's more the one who demanded he ask and then was somewhat callous in his answering.]
. . . What's nice about a group is different people can be good at different things. [Like knowing a nice way to talk to someone.] But instead you have Beauregard and I. [. . .] She isn't so bad, though.
[He's quiet again for a beat, not liking the way dead sits in his mouth, rotting. But then again, Caleb is too, apparently. So maybe he can't take it too personally. Just a couple of dead guys.]
Not so bad. [Gently. They spend quite a lot of time defending each other to Molly. He gets it?] You're both-- Quite different. In a good way. I see that.
. . . None of that whole story about Yasha was true, if it isn't obvious. Or, well, the part about her having some problems with a guy from her past was true, but not the part where we wouldn't help.
You made things a little difficult on us, insisting on believing the worst of yourself.
[He huffs through his nose - sort of half-amused at the fact he was causing so many problems on purpose. But he's opening his hand to look at the red eye on the palm.]
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You said nothing a cleric can't fix. Beauregard told me earlier that it's been a long time. [He's in denial, not entirely stupid. He listens to these little twists in the tale.] It's not as if I should be here in the first fucking place. Whatever this is, it's a reprieve. If it can help you and Beauregard, you both know that's going to be the right choice.
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What does that even mean?
[Sorry, there's a lot of information in that sentence.]
Doesn't that just mean that if I die here and you get out, you're in the exact same position as before? Or, fuck, even better, you'll get your wish.
[Right?]
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[He's drawing back into himself a little, scratching at his left forearm.]
They are going to make killers out of all of us, children and all, whether we try to be noble here or not.
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Sitting there, elbow on the table and hand over his mouth for a moment, nails tapping on the tabletop. Just looking at him, frustrated.]
Look, it isn't-- nobility. It's getting the two of you out of this fucking place. I just need to be able to live with it. [Or, well. He makes a face.] Or not live with it. You get the point.
[...]
Fine.
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[He can't help taking this, saying its better to die than to carry that kind of guilt around, a little personally.]
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He's got no idea why this reaction is so strong, though. Pushing the palms of his hands against his eyes for a second, until his vision goes white, and then holding them up for a moment before crossing his arms. Leaning back.]
What are we doing here?
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If he tells him to go away or tries to ditch him he'll fuck off, but otherwise he'll just follow quietly for a while.]
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After a minute of walking, he finds a grassy spot somewhere and just sits down.]
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Molly just sits down not too far away, twiddling his thumbs, flipping over the books he just accidentally stole in his hands before he sets them to the side. Quiet still, until he finally just decides to break the awkwardness again.]
... It was the wrong time to bring it up.
[Making a face. This is a very bad 'apology', but he's ... trying?]
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I wouldn't have liked it better if you'd done it on a less ugly day.
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[Shifting, awkward, which is kind of usual for him. Or maybe not so much lately.]
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[He legitimately doesn't know what Molly is trying to apologize for, so. Just giving his cat scritches, watching him evenly.]
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[Not at all elucidating hand gesture. Disgruntled sound. Tail thwap on the ground.]
Dead, thing.
Just didn't know what to do anymore. We couldn't talk about anything without it being there.
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[This is sort of the wrong way around? Molly had the right to ask; he's more the one who demanded he ask and then was somewhat callous in his answering.]
. . . What's nice about a group is different people can be good at different things. [Like knowing a nice way to talk to someone.] But instead you have Beauregard and I. [. . .] She isn't so bad, though.
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Not so bad. [Gently. They spend quite a lot of time defending each other to Molly. He gets it?] You're both-- Quite different. In a good way. I see that.
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[Like, he's right that the timing was bad, but wrong about who should be saying sorry.]
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[ He hadn't actually said sorry or anything. Just sort of alluded to it.]
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[. . .]
I was a little cruel.
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Can't say it was the softest landing, but you were telling me what I asked.
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You made things a little difficult on us, insisting on believing the worst of yourself.
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Just ... had an odd feeling about it, is all.
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