[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.]
You're right that we acted strangely. There's no way to, uhm, put things back to normal, exactly.
[. . .]
The way people exist in your mind when they are no longer here is different. We care for you, we always have, but it's easier to care openly. And then to put all of that back in the jar. . .
More of an asshole than you were remembering, maybe?
[He says that pretty lightly though. Just a joke to cut some of the tension, maybe.]
Suppose I-- [...] Didn't really recognize you, when I got here. Beauregard is different too, but I could recognize her. Cleaned up the trash a bit, the unpleasantness is more endearing. [Waving a hand.] But I'm not really sure you and I ever really met before.
No, I don't mean that. We didn't forget about you being an asshole. I only mean that the petty things stop feeling important.
[He still remembers the things that drove him crazy about Molly, but in retrospect they are all sort of charming. Meanwhile, he's getting legitimately angry with Beau over the way she debates what a sandwich is.
He goes quiet at the second part, thinking it over, looking up at the sky.]
I don't know how much of a person there even was to meet. No one you would want to. You know, the night before. . . I was seconds away, seconds, from just walking away from you. Fuck Jester, fuck Fjord, fuck Yasha. Fuck you, fuck Beauregard, fuck Nott. I would have left any one of you to die, and I thought I was a fool for deciding not to. When the tides turned in that fight, same thing. I kept my distance the whole time, I was moments away from turning and leaving all of you behind.
[He doesn't bother to explain why. Even at that point, as selfish as he was, he was a little attached to them. He didn't want to leave those three to be tortured and sold. And he struggled too much to contemplate leaving Nott behind; as much as she claimed she would go with him, he knows she didn't want that.]
But I'd been alone for a long time. I was alone, and then I had Nott, and then I had the rest of you, but I was still alone. I didn't know how to be anything else. I could travel alongside people who would keep me from starving and keep bandits off of me, but I didn't know how to be part of it.
It's different, now. And I don't. . . I don't want to lose any of you. And you count in that.
All that really matters then. What you did, not what you thought about.
[It isn't as if he hadn't thought about leaving himself. It's why the story about the fact that he did made enough sense that he told himself he could believe it. But he hated it. He fucking hated the idea he'd leave, after all of that. How that was the moment he himself had decided, no, I'm sticking with this lot. I like them. The idea of it falling apart after that was hard to swallow.
He sort of unwinds from his place a bit, uncrossing his arms and leaning foward, sticking out a hand - the one with the red eyes on it.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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?
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
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.]
no subject
After a minute of walking, he finds a grassy spot somewhere and just sits down.]
no subject
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?]
no subject
I wouldn't have liked it better if you'd done it on a less ugly day.
no subject
[Shifting, awkward, which is kind of usual for him. Or maybe not so much lately.]
no subject
[He legitimately doesn't know what Molly is trying to apologize for, so. Just giving his cat scritches, watching him evenly.]
no subject
[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.
no subject
[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.
no subject
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.
no subject
[Like, he's right that the timing was bad, but wrong about who should be saying sorry.]
no subject
[ He hadn't actually said sorry or anything. Just sort of alluded to it.]
no subject
[. . .]
I was a little cruel.
no subject
Can't say it was the softest landing, but you were telling me what I asked.
no subject
You made things a little difficult on us, insisting on believing the worst of yourself.
no subject
Just ... had an odd feeling about it, is all.
no subject
You're right that we acted strangely. There's no way to, uhm, put things back to normal, exactly.
[. . .]
The way people exist in your mind when they are no longer here is different. We care for you, we always have, but it's easier to care openly. And then to put all of that back in the jar. . .
no subject
[He says that pretty lightly though. Just a joke to cut some of the tension, maybe.]
Suppose I-- [...] Didn't really recognize you, when I got here. Beauregard is different too, but I could recognize her. Cleaned up the trash a bit, the unpleasantness is more endearing. [Waving a hand.] But I'm not really sure you and I ever really met before.
no subject
[He still remembers the things that drove him crazy about Molly, but in retrospect they are all sort of charming. Meanwhile, he's getting legitimately angry with Beau over the way she debates what a sandwich is.
He goes quiet at the second part, thinking it over, looking up at the sky.]
I don't know how much of a person there even was to meet. No one you would want to. You know, the night before. . . I was seconds away, seconds, from just walking away from you. Fuck Jester, fuck Fjord, fuck Yasha. Fuck you, fuck Beauregard, fuck Nott. I would have left any one of you to die, and I thought I was a fool for deciding not to. When the tides turned in that fight, same thing. I kept my distance the whole time, I was moments away from turning and leaving all of you behind.
no subject
[Anyway, looking over directly at him, steady, despite the fact Caleb is looking up and away.]
But you didn't.
[Leave, that is.]
no subject
[He doesn't bother to explain why. Even at that point, as selfish as he was, he was a little attached to them. He didn't want to leave those three to be tortured and sold. And he struggled too much to contemplate leaving Nott behind; as much as she claimed she would go with him, he knows she didn't want that.]
But I'd been alone for a long time. I was alone, and then I had Nott, and then I had the rest of you, but I was still alone. I didn't know how to be anything else. I could travel alongside people who would keep me from starving and keep bandits off of me, but I didn't know how to be part of it.
It's different, now. And I don't. . . I don't want to lose any of you. And you count in that.
no subject
[It isn't as if he hadn't thought about leaving himself. It's why the story about the fact that he did made enough sense that he told himself he could believe it. But he hated it. He fucking hated the idea he'd leave, after all of that. How that was the moment he himself had decided, no, I'm sticking with this lot. I like them. The idea of it falling apart after that was hard to swallow.
He sort of unwinds from his place a bit, uncrossing his arms and leaning foward, sticking out a hand - the one with the red eyes on it.]
To sticking together, then.
(no subject)