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At precisely thirty-eight minutes past two in the morning, Caleb jolts awake, sitting up in bed and heaving for air as if his life depends on it, chest rising and falling at an unnaturally fast pace.
At precisely thirty-nine minutes past two in the morning, he has to bite down hard on his own tongue to keep himself from vomiting, feeling so sick with himself that bile begins to rise in his throat.
He blinks two, three times, trying to stop the hot angry tears that are pooling in the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill and run down his cheeks at any second. His hands go to his head, pressing at his ears to try and stop the ringing, to block out the screams that still haunt and follow him, even now that he’s awoken from his nightmare.
Slowly, his hands begin pulling at his hair instead, tightly. The pain is distracting, just momentarily. It gives him something else to think about for a second or two, so he tugs again, dirty and chipped fingernails scraping against his scalp.
He’s feeling so many conflicting emotions at once, all of them fighting against each other inside him, all of them deafening and intense. His heart aches, and he’s suddenly frightened that something inside him might have broken for good, shattered beyond repair.
His cheeks burn, and his throat is closing up. It’s getting difficult to breathe properly, it’s difficult to get it in and out, difficult to get enough in and out. Instead, it’s all jumbled, all over the place, and his vision blurs as a result. He’s not sure how long he can stand his, how long he can stay coherent and awake like this, with panic sinking its claws into his skin, his brain clouded and anxiety tearing at his lungs, depriving him of oxygen.
He doesn’t want to wake Nott up, she deserves the sleep. She was yawning all evening, she doesn’t deserve to be woken up in the middle of the night. This is the first decent sleep they’ve gotten in a good while, they managed to find a tavern just before nightfall, and Caleb isn’t going to ruin that just because he is pathetic and can’t remember how to breathe properly. It isn’t Nott’s problem. Caleb is a grown man, and he should be able to handle his problems by himself.
His hands are shaking, and he can’t stop inhaling. Air comes in, but not enough comes out. It’s all going too fast, rushing in and out in painfully quick bursts. He doesn’t know how to stop it.
He doesn’t want to wake Jester up, she wouldn’t understand. She would just wake everyone else up, and then they would laugh at Caleb and make fun of him for it, because he is ridiculous and panicking over something as stupid as a nightmare.
He is an adult, he should not be scared of shadows. So why is it so hard to not be?
He doesn’t want to wake Beauregard up. She would just get mad at him for waking her, and then she would probably punch him, yell at him for being weak and then go back to sleep. She might call him a coward. And even if it is true, it is not what Caleb wants to hear in the middle of the night.
He cannot wake Yasha up, for she disappeared not long ago and they still haven’t seen her again. He doesn’t know what she would do if she was here, though. They are both terrible at social interaction, so it most likely wouldn’t end well.
He doesn’t want to wake Fjord up. Because Fjord is… Fjord. And he would not understand either, he would just try and over-explain everything to no avail. And then he would try and wake someone else up to help, and then everyone else would wake up and they would ask him what is going on and why, and he would have to tell them everything.
And then they would all agree that he is a terrible person, and that he isn’t worth spending time with, that he isn’t worth anything. And then they would all leave, and he would be alone again. Maybe they would kill him for what he has done. It wouldn’t be unfair, but he wouldn’t be okay with it either. And that just makes his throat close up even further.
He is so selfish, he is such a terrible person. He has hurt so many people, and yet he still doesn’t want to die, even if it is what he deserves. Maybe. He doesn’t know what the punishment for what he has done is, but he is sure it is nothing good. If Ikithon and the others in Rexxentrum got a hold of him again, they would do something much worse than killing him.
He knows, because he has seen what they had done to people like him. He has done it to people like him, made them suffer in the most unimaginable ways. He’s done it, all of it, without even batting an eye.
Because he was told to, because it was for the Empire.
The pure thought of the Empire sends a cold shiver up Caleb’s spine, his blood turning cold at the thought of his past and the people in it, the very reason he is living in shadows, ducking his head and living under a different name, a different life.
His shaking hands go to his arms, digging his fingernails into the skin and not stopping despite the searing pain that rises. He can’t properly feel it either, so he doesn’t stop, he just continues to dig his nails further into his arms in an attempt to feel it, to feel the pain so he doesn’t have to feel everything else.
His eyes go shut, his eyebrows furrow as he shuts out the world around him in an attempt to save himself, an attempt to make himself shut up already, an attempt to stop the thoughts and voices in his head that are telling him a million things at once.
Just stop it. Make it stop.
And stop it does.
It’s as if a switch flips in his brain, everything coming to a stop, effective immediately. His skin turns cold, sharp and icy dread filling him, flowing in his veins. His breath hitches in his throat the moment he feels a pair of hands on his own, gentle and warm, but not uncomfortably so. Not burning, even against his cold skin. It’s radiating.
His body freezes, goes rigid as if he’s made of stone. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. He doesn’t know who it is, he doesn’t dare open his eyes. He knows he must look terrible, his eyes red, his nose puffy, his hair a mess and his voice raw, fingers clenching and trembling now that they aren’t scratching at his skin, leaving angry marks that’ll be there until tomorrow.
Maybe if he stays completely still, the person will go away.
But they don’t. Instead, the warm hands gently slide down the back of his hands to his wrists, staying there instead, keeping him from doing any more harm to himself. The touch is gentle, the hands are slim and the fingers soft.
It’s not Beau, the hands are too soft for that. Beau’s hands are calloused and strong, and she would not be this gentle with him, not in the middle of the night. It’s not Fjord, the hands are too small for that. He would not be this gentle either. Nott is out of the question, she has even smaller hands, and he would know it was her after a second. Jester’s hands are more broad, the fingers not as long as these, so she is cut out of the equation as well. Besides, she does not wear rings on her fingers, and Caleb feels an obvious touch of metal against his skin, a cold contrast against the warmth.
This information only leaves one other possible option, and Caleb comes to a conclusion that he isn’t sure what to think of. He doesn’t however get much time to form an opinion when the hands gently wrap themselves around his own and lift them off and away from his arms, holding them instead.
“There, much better...”
He doesn’t need to open his eyes to recognize Mollymauk’s voice. He’s hushed, clearly being quiet as if not wanting to wake anyone else. That fact alone makes a wave of relief wash over Caleb. He’s not sure what he would have done if everyone else woke up, and they’d see him like this; pathetic, lonely and vulnerable. A grown man crying over a nightmare, digging his nails into his skin because he doesn’t know how to process his feelings properly.
It’s silent for a bit. He hears Molly sigh.
“Caleb, dear? Can you open your eyes for me? Can you look at me?”
He doesn’t want to open his eyes, doesn’t want to be looked at like this, but there’s something about Molly’s tone of voice that comforts him. He hesitates, and Molly squeezes his hands, grounding him and holding him in place.
There’s something so simple about the gesture that reassures Caleb, as if letting him know it’ll all be okay. So he slowly opens his eyes, his head hung and his eyes glued to the sheets of the bed.
He might have agreed to open his eyes, but he did not promise eye contact. It is difficult enough already to look people in the eyes sometimes, and it certainly doesn’t make it easier now, he doesn’t want to look anyone in the eyes when he is battling an irregular breathing with tears in his eyes, his head spinning and vision clouded.
“Caleb, look at me…”
He can’t breathe. He inhales again, more sharply than before, but it won’t come out again, his lungs just keep expanding instead of deflating, and he suddenly feels as if he’s drowning. His body is shaking, his head making him feel like he might pass out, and his eyes hurt. He feels tears well up in his eyes, and a wave of disgust fills his body, the knowledge of the fact that Molly has to see him like this, so pathetic.
But Molly reacts just as quickly as Caleb’s mind does; he takes one of his hands in his own and extends it, removing it from his arm that’s still got red and angry marks until-- until it hits something, something warm. Caleb realizes it’s Molly’s chest once he feels the steady beating of his heart.
Through his hand, he feels Molly’s chest rise and fall, peacefully and rhythmically.
“Hey, hey, Caleb, I’m right here, I’m right here...” Molly’s voice somehow manages to cut through the static in his brain. “Match my pace, darling, just breathe like me… In and out...”
It takes a little while, but eventually they breathe in unison, Caleb a bit shakily but a vast improvement from before. His throat is no longer sealed shut, and his vision is clearer. Molly breathes in, deep, and exhales. Caleb lets out a shaky exhale as well.
Molly exhales again, Caleb following right after. It hurts his chest to keep the air inside, his lungs almost screaming for him to let it out, but he refuses, only letting it out when Molly does.
“One more, okay...?” Molly says, gently. “Can you do that for me?”
Caleb manages to nod as he inhales, eyes still glued to the mattress. He exhales, and feels the anxiety start to subside along with the air that rushes out of him. With every inhale, his brain starts clearing up again, the spinning of his vision slowly decreasing as he stops hyperventilating and oxygen begins reaching his brain once more.
His hand is still in Molly’s, placed against his chest. But then Molly lets it fall, removing it from his chest and instead laying it against the sheets once more. He doesn’t remove his own hand, though, so the warmth remains. Caleb isn’t sure if that part calms him or not.
“Much, much better...”
Molly’s voice calms him, though, that much he’ll admit to. It’s sending a warmth throughout Caleb, radiating through him and gently warming him up.
Usually, when Caleb wakes up from his nightmares, he prefers the cold, he prefers to put distance between himself and the images in his dreams even if it means freezing. But here, the warmth is welcoming. He’s not sure why, but it has something to do with the way Molly speaks to him while touching him, always so gentle and careful as if he’s fragile, made of glass.
He would argue that he is not, that he is a grown man who can handle his problems on his own, but he can’t get the words out. He must look stupid, he figures, with his mouth open but no words emitting. So he closes it again, and hears Molly hum in response, sees him shift against the mattress.
“...Caleb?”
He gulps, swallowing what feels like a piece of stone, stuck in his throat and keeping him from responding. He focuses in harder on the bedding, on the treads of the sheets he sit on.
Molly sighs in response.
“Caleb, do you want to talk about it?”
Silence falls over them, only the snoring of Beau audible in the background. Caleb’s eyes are glued to the sheets. He doesn’t know what to say, what to do. He wants to apologize, to tell Molly that he’s sorry for disturbing him in the middle of the night, for bothering him with his problems like this. He wants Molly to go away, to leave him be and go get some sleep.
But at the same time, he doesn’t want to be alone.
A part inside him is desperate for this, craves the touch that Molly is providing. He almost wants to lean into it, wants to disappear in it. He wants to envelope the way Molly’s fingers gently rub across his hands, tracing invisible circles.
He doesn’t want to look Molly in the eyes, he doesn’t want to see the disappointment and judgement that he knows is there. The disgust and shame of having to help Caleb like this, of having to know him.
He is so sure that Molly is going to give up on him and go back to sleep, when he sighs and begins talking again.
“For the record, I know what it’s like... To have nightmares, you know. And to wake up out of breath, just like you did just now.”
Molly begins, voice still hushed, still as gentle as it was before.
“It used to happen all the time back at the Circus when I first joined, not just with others, but with me as well. And what helped the most was having someone be there when you woke up, someone who would help you out of it. Someone who was there, maybe not even talking, but just reminding you that you weren't alone.”
Caleb continues staring at the mattress, feeling his stomach knot with anxiety once again, listening to Molly’s words. He inhales, shakily, skin burning where his hands touch Molly’s.
“Now, I don’t know what happened, I haven't got a clue what's torn at you this badly and made you who you are today, but... I know it must have been bad. I can tell, I can feel it. And I know nightmares when I see them. I know what helps.”
There’s a moment of silence again, as if Molly is trying to pick his words carefully, figuring out how he wants to phrase this.
Look, what I’m trying to say is… You’re not alone, Caleb. Even if it feels like it, you never are and you never will be, not while we’re around. While I’m around.”
Again, no response. It’s not that Caleb doesn’t want to respond, it’s that he doesn’t know how to. The words don’t come to him like they usually do when he talks to people, there’s no emergency escape here or some back-up, there’s no plan B. It’s just him and Molly, sitting on a mattress in the room of a tavern, their friends piled around them. It’s just Molly’s hand gently cradling his own, gently reassuring him.
It’s obviously Caleb who is at fault here, unable to even say thank you for what Molly has done for him, thank you for making sure I did not hyperventilate and pass out or maybe die from a heart attack, because I am such a coward who cannot handle situations like these on my own, even if they happen quite often.
It’s just Caleb who is being ridiculous, he is taking so much from these people and giving them nothing in return. It hurts, it’s almost too much for him to bear.
They call him their friend, but he goes behind their back. They call him a name that does not even belong to him, they call him handsome and talented and smart. Little do they know that talent is what has brought Caleb the most pain in his life, his talent is what has since been his downfall. They even call him a good person. It’s almost laughable, and Caleb has laughed about it before, he laughed at Beau when she said that night wasn’t his fault.
He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just laugh now. Maybe it is because he knows it’s the truth. He knows that Molly is right, he just doesn’t want to believe it.
And that fact alone is what makes the cup spill. It’s the final drop of water that breaks the dam, that leads the glass to shatter. Walls come crumbling down, and Caleb inhales shakily, eyebrows furrowed, while tears slowly well up in his eyes again, for the second time this night.
Molly exhales softly, taking his hands in his again, holding them tighter and closer, making Caleb shiver in response, as a result of the pure closeness. He doesn’t try to stop the tears that start spilling, though. He’s not even sure he could if he wanted to. But he doesn’t want for Molly to see him like this, so he retracts his hands as if burned by fire, and covers his face with them, even if it does no good.
Molly’s hands follow, he feels them on his cheeks, warm and soft. Not at all calloused like his own, not at all rough around the edges, but slender and soft. Gently holding him, letting him know that he’s not alone.
Molly’s voice is pleading, almost desperate, hands cradling Caleb’s cheeks.
“Caleb, dear... Please stop torturing yourself like this.”
Caleb chokes out a wretched sob behind his hands, tears finally spilling from his eyes and running down his cheeks. Molly immediately pulls him in for a hug, keeping him close, rubbing circles on his back with one hand, the other cradling his head.
Caleb doesn’t even resist the closeness as he normally would, he just lets it happen, lets himself cry into Molly’s chest. For once, he lets himself open up. His body shakes with every exhale, every sob that he lets out, tears running and soaking into the thin fabric of Molly’s shirt.
Despite the comfort, he can’t help but feel pathetic. The self-loathing is still there, the anxiety is still in the back of his mind, where it’ll always be. It’s suppressed by how Molly runs his fingers through his hair and gently shushes him with every sob, tracing circles on his back with delicate fingers.
He has a very particular mindset, a very specific set of thoughts when it comes to himself. When he manages to catch a look of his reflection in a mirror or in a reflection of a puddle or a lake, compliments aren’t what comes to mind. He tries to avoid looking at himself, goes out of his way to ignore it when he has to.
Because when he does see himself, when he looks at his reflection - messy hair and a scruffy beard, mud and dirt caked over his skin, tired blue eyes - all he sees are the things he has done. He sees the person he used to be, and he hates it, he has to bite down on his tongue to keep it together. It feels wrong to be in his own skin, it feels unbearable at times. And yet there is nothing he can do about it, not yet.
Then again, Caleb isn’t sure that any amount of dunamancy can help with how he perceives himself, how he acts regarding himself. Even if he does manage to go back, to reverse the wrong he did, he isn’t sure he will ever forget it. He will look his mother and father in the eyes, and he will still hear their screams. He will not be able to sleep in the house he grew up in without waking up in a cold sweat. He will not be able to live in the Empire, not whilst knowing what they did to him and Eodwulf and Astrid, and so many others before and after them.
In a way, he pities himself. Not for what he did or for what he has had to go through. He pities himself for believing that he can undo his wrong, rewrite his mistakes, bend reality to his will. He pities himself for believing that he deserves more than what he has sometimes, that he deserves a second chance.
Because in reality, he doesn’t deserve any of the things he gets.
He doesn’t deserve Nott, who is so patient and kind with him, who protects him and makes sure he eats enough, who helps him calm down and helps him get his hands on the books that he has been keeping an eye on through the shop window.
He doesn’t deserve Beau, who, despite all of her poorly timed jokes and brash attitude, tries her hardest to be there for her friends, who helped him get into the library he wanted to.
He doesn’t deserve Jester, who calls him smart and handsome, who offers to buy him new clothes and fresh food, who compliments Frumpkin and does her absolute utmost to be kind to (almost) everyone.
He doesn’t deserve Yasha, who listens to what Caleb has to say and helps him figure out other people, teaching him how to reconcile with Beau after things have gotten out of hand, who offers her help when Caleb needs it.
He doesn’t deserve Fjord, who calls Caleb out on his shit when needs be, who manages to lighten the situation when the rest of the group have gotten too far into an argument, who manages to keep a level head in tense situations whereas Caleb would panic.
He definitely doesn’t deserve Molly, who is being so kind to him tonight it might be one of the things making Caleb cry as well. Molly who is brushing his fingers through his hair, letting Caleb take his time and letting him know he’s not alone.
He doesn’t deserve any of them.
Still, it hurts to imagine being without them. He has quickly grown attached to what was originally just a tool, a way for him and Nott to pass through even quicker and more efficiently, a way for Caleb himself to get what he wanted. But he has grown to care for them, which he didn’t see possible until recently.
And they have grown to care for him as well, it seems. Molly’s arms wrapped around him is enough of a sign, and it makes Caleb choke out a last sob, burying his face into his chest, letting himself go limp in the others arms as his crying slowly eases out into silence.
It’s been too long since he’s been touched like this, really touched. He has been touched a lot since he met the rest of the Mighty Nein, but this is different. The hugs he has endured from them during the past two months have been short-lived and more of a courtesy, something that was over as quickly as it began.
But this right here is different, because Molly is holding him so tightly yet so gently, and he doesn’t seem to have any plans of letting him go any time soon. He smells like lavender and incense, like lit candles and rain.
“Caleb…” Molly begins again, sounding hesitant to continue. “I want you to know, that... It’s okay to talk about things like these. It will help when you do talk about them. But I’m not pressuring you into anything, not at all. It’s just a suggestion.”
Molly’s fingernails scrape across his scalp, and it’s almost mesmerizing. It’s been a long time since he’s been touched at all. And Molly is so gentle with him, so kind. A few more tears make their way down Caleb’s cheek and are absorbed into Molly’s shirt, staining the fabric.
“Look... I’m not going to sit here and tell you that everything will be okay once you open up, it’s not like it’ll take away everything that’s resting on your shoulders and dragging you down.”
Caleb’s breath hitches in his throat, making him hold his breath for a moment or two, anxiously awaiting Molly’s next few words. He’s unsure if Molly is going to demand that he open up, if he is waiting for a response or an explanation that’ll tell him what happened, why Caleb is like this.
But Molly doesn’t ask for either of those things. He just continues.
“...But I know for a fact that it’ll get better. It’ll lessen the burden, that’s for sure. I’m not going to force you to tell me what happened, but I want you to know that I’m here to listen if you ever need it.”
Caleb wants to cry again, but nothing comes out, nothing spills from his eyes and rolls down his cheeks. He guesses he must have gotten it all out, then. He’s not sure how he feels about it. He tries not to cry regularly, especially not in front of people; and he’s just broken that last rule, having cried in front of Molly.
He’s so overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with the comfort, perhaps, with the affection that he still doesn’t think he deserves, as if Molly is giving it to the wrong person. He feels so full of everything, as if he’s taking and taking and taking from these people and giving nothing in return. It’s overwhelming to receive comfort like this, to be held and to be told that it’s all going to be okay. It is something that he has been deprived of for so long, something he hasn’t received in a long time.
So to get it all now, at once, makes it all a bit too much suddenly. So he pulls away, out of the embrace, a bit hesitant but just as well determined. Molly’s grip on him goes loose immediately, respecting his boundaries and wishes.
“Back in the game?” He asks.
Caleb nods, still unable to form any words. He does however look at Molly for the first time. Nervous blue meet kind red, and Caleb breathes a sigh of relief. Molly looks so patient, so giving. It warms up something inside Caleb.
He opens his mouth to speak, taking a few seconds to phrase it properly.
“...Thank you. For... For this.”
His voice is raw and throaty, it’s obvious that he has been crying a lot. But Molly just smiles, kind and understanding.
“No problem, it's no problem at all.”
Silence falls over them for a bit. It doesn’t feel awkward or strained, but Caleb averts his eyes to the mattress, to a loose thread in the bedding that he begins pulling and prodding at. Molly breaks the silence shortly after.
“Want to go back to bed? You could use it.”
Caleb hesitates, and his tone is anything but confident when he responds. He’s nervous to admit it, nervous to open up and talk about what is bothering like him this, but he doubts Molly would make fun of him now, not after he has spent this long making sure he is okay.
“I-I don’t know if I can fall asleep again...”
Molly purses his lips, thinking something over. Caleb isn't sure exactly what.
“Fair, fair... I might have an idea, though.”
Caleb pauses, eyebrows raised in visible confusion. Molly offers a smooth smile in return, patting the mattress below them with one hand.
“Come on, lie back down and I’ll show you. Promise it's nothing weird."
Caleb hesitantly settles back into bed, back turned against Molly. He’s a bit confused yet also intrigued about what Molly is planning, what he has in mind. Normally, he’d want all of the details, he’d want to run through it meticulously before jumping headfirst into something, but tonight he is tired.
And he trusts Molly. So he’s not too worried.
He feels the mattress dip beside him as Molly shifts. He considers turning around to see what is going on, to double-check, but he stops when he feels the same slender fingers as before threading through his hair gently.
They start at the base of his nape, then card upwards, careful and gentle to not tangle or pull at any strands. Fingernails gently rake against his scalp, tracing some kind of image that exists only in Molly’s brain and nowhere else.
The pure comfort of it is enough to let Caleb’s eyes fall shut, resting on his side with Nott at the foot of the bed and Molly sitting next to him on the mattress. Not to mention Beau and Jester in the other bed across the room, along with Fjord who’d accepted his spot on the floor with minor complaints.
Molly tucks a strand of hair behind Caleb’s ear, tolerant and calming. Caleb exhales an easy sigh of satisfaction, limbs going loose as he relaxes and finally lets himself rest, lets himself get a break. Lets himself get what he deserves, accepting the comfort that a friend provides, someone that he trusts.
“...Thank you, Molly.”
His voice is lower than a murmur, even lower than before. Drowsy with sleep and thick with exhaustion. Not hesitating on the fact that he said Molly, not spending a single second thinking about Molly rather than Mollymauk. And Molly’s own voice is just as low, but his tone is nothing but accepting and calm, just as kind as before.
“Of course.”