Chapter Text
“You gave him your phone number?!” Beau demands.
“Yes I did, what about it?” Caleb asks, arching his eyebrows.
“To be fair, he’s already got our address,” says Nott.
“Hang on,” says Mollymauk, “that phone can actually receive calls?!”
“He has a flip-phone,” Beau says, absently, “not their fucking zombie Nokia.”
“Shut up, our Nokia is fine,” Nott says.
“Ja, and you don’t need to say ‘flip-phone’ like it’s some kind of embarrassing disease.”
“I mean, I kinda do,” says Beau. “You have the same phone as my grandma does.”
“Bullshit,” says Caleb, “you haven’t seen your grandmother in years.”
“Can we get back to the part,” Beau says, pointedly, “where you’re meeting a stranger you met on — fuck, I can’t even say ‘on the Internet.’ A stranger you’ve been exchanging perfumed and passionate correspondence with, when the roads are clear enough for the horses to make it between cities. You don’t even know what he looks like. You’ve never spoken to him on the phone. You’re gonna get murdered so hard, and I am going to laugh.”
“Will you at least avenge me?” he asks. “When you’re done laughing.”
“We’ll see.”
“Don’t worry, they’re meeting in public,” Nott says, unearthing a packet of ramen noodles from under a pile of doorknobs.
“I think we are all forgetting I’m the oldest here,” Caleb says. “I’m not a twelve-year-old meeting an old man I met in the...anime chatroom.”
“I know you use the Internet,” Beau says, throwing her hands up. “Why do you do this to me?”
Caleb flips the electric kettle on, frowns, then reaches over the pile of books where it’s perched to plug it into the wall. “He is traveling six hours by train for this, I’m quite sure if he wanted a murder victim he could find one closer to home.”
“Isn’t he a wizard?” Beau asks. “Can’t he just…” She wiggles her fingers and then swings her hands from one side of her body to the other, “woosh!”
“No, he cannot. Teleportation is strictly regulated, the Cobalt Soul just fucking spoils you. Most people can’t just go wherever they want whenever they want for free.”
“I think it’s quite romantic,” Molly says, lightly. He’s buried himself beneath the pile of ragged blankets from Caleb’s mattress, having dragged them all over to the corner of the room beside the space heater, lying in a ball on the floor, horns sticking out and red eyes glowing faintly from somewhere within the blanket mountain.
“Shut the fuck up, you’re two,” Beau says, automatically.
“Essek is a respected academic,” Caleb says. “More or less.”
“More respected, less academic,” Nott says, helpfully. “He’s definitely a spy.”
“He is definitely not a spy,” Caleb says, sighing.
“I don’t wanna know how you know that,” Beau says.
“You really have to get over that whole respecting the legal system thing,” Molly says, then coughs for about thirty seconds. “You ever wonder why we’re not a democracy? Because maybe you should!”
Caleb bites his tongue so hard he leaves imprints of his teeth. “The point is, he is not a spy, he is not going to murder me, I am meeting a longtime correspondent after many years and my friends should perhaps be happy for me.”
“Just say friend,” Nott says, gently, “‘correspondent’ makes it sound weird.”
“They both use wax seals on their letters, it was already weird,” Beau says.
“Gods, I don’t envy whoever you date,” Molly grumbles. “You have no sense of romance at all.”
“We are very happy for you, Caleb,” Nott says firmly. “I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time.”
The blanket pile that is Molly rolls over to face the wall. “They’re not even going to fuck, that’s the worst part. They’re just going to take up a table at the public library and talk about books for eight hours.”
“I mean, that’s basically fucking for Caleb,” says Beau.
“Please get out of my flat now, Beauregard,” says Caleb.
“Keep me updated,” she says.
Nott reaches into the crack between the cushions of the armchair that is her bed and pulls out her own shitty flip-phone. “I’ve got you covered, don’t worry.”
“I want your books when you die,” Beau tells Caleb, pulling on her coat and stomping her feet into her boots without undoing the laces.
“And I want the basic respect of my nearest and dearest,” says Caleb, “yet here we are.”
“I respect you, dear!” Molly calls.
Beau swings the door open, a chill wind rushing up the stairwell and directly down the back of Caleb’s shirt. Frumpkin hisses and bolts for the armchair. Molly hisses in an unsettlingly similar fashion, but doesn’t otherwise react. The autumn days are still mild, but by the time the sun goes down there is no doubt that winter is quickly approaching.
Drawing his knees up against his chest, Caleb hunches over his flip-phone and pecks out ‘Looking forward to seeing you.’ He can feel his cheeks heating even at this simple declaration.
He doesn’t send it.
*
‘I would welcome the opportunity to work with you in real time at any point in the future,’ Caleb had written. He has trained his hands not to tremble even under the most distressing circumstances, so his penmanship remained elegant and precise. ‘I am admittedly limited in my technological capabilities, but I would be pleased to speak on the phone with you at a time of your convenience. Alternatively, you are welcome in Zadash should that be an option for you, and I would be pleased to set aside a few days to work with you in person. My phone number is enclosed, as is my email address— I apologize in advance for the inevitable delay in my responses should you choose to contact me by email.’
He had had a very small panic attack after he dropped the letter in the postbox, retreating to a nearby park so he could sit on a bench, noonday summer sun beating down relentlessly on his long sleeves and long hair while he tried to do the breathing exercises Caduceus had previously suggested.
He spent the next week hyper-aware of the flip-phone in his jacket pocket, simultaneously dreading and anticipating the soft chime of the ringtone or the aggressive buzz of vibration. When it comes he’s covered up to his elbows in soap bubbles, scrubbing a pot furiously that he and Nott have forgotten in the microwave for...rather longer than he’d like to admit. He barely catches the call in time, fumbling the tiny plastic device, swearing as his blood rushes in his ears.
“Yes, may I speak to Caleb Widogast?” the voice asks in carefully deliberate Common, far more fluid than he knows his own can be.
“Ja, yes, this is him, speaking,” Caleb babbles out, cursing his own awkwardness.
“Ahh,” the voice says, and then nothing for a long five seconds. “This is...Essek Thelyss. We have been corresponding regarding magical theory related specifically to temporal and transmutive properties — You provided your number in your last letter, so I am…”
“Ja!” Caleb says, hurriedly. “Ja. Essek. Mr. Thelyss.”
“Essek, please.”
“Essek. Hello, I am glad you called.”
He does not sound remotely how Caleb imagined. Caleb had imagined an older man, speaking generically flat Common, perhaps with a Tal’Doreian accent, someone with a confident professorial tone. None of which makes much sense, when he thinks about it. Of course Essek’s first language is Undercommon, he is natively born Xhorhasian. Of course he is young, he had mentioned as much in his early letters. Of course he falls back on the smoothly distant courtesy of a professional, he works for the government. Of course he is fucking awkward, he is too similar to Caleb not to be.
“Yes. I-I am glad as well.”
“Yes,” Caleb says, again. There is a long silence.
“I would...like to work with you,” Essek says, rushed. “In person. I am happy to speak on the telephone, but...I have some days I can take away from my work. I would not mean to presume.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it,” Caleb says. It is easier to slip into reassurance as Essek’s obvious uncertainty bleeds through. “My schedule can be flexible, and I would be pleased for you to come to Zadash. You and your books.”
Essek laughs, startled and sharp. “Yes. Obviously.”
“Tell me when you know your travel dates,” Caleb says. “I will find places for us to go, and books to show you.”
“I have books I think you will like, as well,” Essek says. “I have...a pile, actually. I’ve been gathering them for...a while.”
Caleb can feel his cheeks getting hot, and wraps an arm around himself. “Ja, I would like that.”
“Yes.”
The silence returns.
“Can I text you?” Essek says, “when I know. Or should I call—?”
“Text messaging is fine, ja,” Caleb says hurriedly. He doesn’t think his heart can handle the stress of waiting for another phone call. “I have been keeping my phone charged.”
“Ok,” says Essek, “then I will do that.”
“Ok.”
There’s another long silence. “Thank you for your time,” Essek says, finally, crisp and oddly formal. “I’ll be in touch regarding the details as soon as I have more information.”
“Ok,” Caleb says, again, a little taken aback.
“Have a lovely day,” Essek says, and the line goes dead.
Caleb puts the phone back on the counter and goes to splash his face with cold water and sit on the bathroom floor for a while.
*
The day before Essek is due to arrive Caleb cleans the entire flat in a burst of frantic energy. Nott is at work, but Molly shows up shortly after noon with a cardboard tray of coffees and a distractingly enthusiastic smile. Caleb throws a sweater at him and drinks half his black coffee in a rapid series of gulps. It’s cooled by the time outside — they don’t live anywhere near a coffee shop — and he has to swallow hard to keep it from coming straight back up, but he appreciates the flavour and the thought.
“I don’t think he’s going to care if your table is disinfected,” Molly says, wrestling the sweater on over his horns. It was a gift from Jester, and the bright orange clashes painfully with the dark green of Molly’s simple dress and the purple stars on his leggings. Naturally, he looks delighted. Caleb is just pleased he’s managed to, if only temporarily, bundle the tiefling into something more appropriate for the weather. Molly’s immune system doesn’t need any encouragement to fold like wet paper.
“What if Beauregard is right and he is some kind of axe murderer?” Caleb says, setting the coffee aside and swiping the rag one final time over the stained wood table.
“Then we’ll be there to rescue you. Or Beau and Nott will, at least, I have some respect for your privacy. And if they fail, well, you’ll be dead, won’t you, so it won’t be your problem.”
“Do not let them follow me,” Caleb says, horrified, “Mollymauk, do not let them ruin this for me.”
Molly flops on the sofa, head hanging upside-down off the arm, tail swishing lazily in the air. “It’s sweet that you think I could stop them.”
Caleb groans. “This was a terrible idea.”
“You’ll be fine. There’re lots of people at the train station, he won’t be able to murder you right away.”
Caleb freezes. “Should I...be meeting him at the station?”
“Well I suppose I just assumed you were going to, he’s coming here for you.”
“Yes,” says Caleb, “but we are adults. It isn’t as if he’s staying with us, he has a hotel, he’s not just coming to Zadash to spend time with me. I’m sure he has other things he wants to do.”
Molly’s tail flicks faster. “I can say with almost absolute certainty that he is just coming to Zadash to spend time with you. I’m not sure why you wouldn’t meet him when he arrives.”
Caleb watches the spade of Molly’s tail moving back and forth, bangles clinking. It’s mesmerizing. He can feel his heart pounding in time.
“Would you like a reading?” Molly asks, tail flopping down and curling on the floor beside him, hand already reaching towards the neatly stacked pile of blankets where Caleb has placed the set of cards he’d found during his cleaning spree. “It could help.”
“Not right now,” Caleb says, “but thank you. I will let you know if I change my mind.”
Molly shrugs easily. “Sure.”
“I will send him a text message,” Caleb decides, finally, and sits down on the floor where he’s standing to do exactly that.
Twenty-three minutes later, he sends it. The little indicator below the message says ‘7’, but he’s not sure what that means.
“Did you write him a novel?” Molly says, once Caleb flips his phone shut and sets it on the nearest stack of books.
“Of course not. I simply wanted to explain my thought processes fully.”
Molly sighs dramatically. Caleb rises to his feet and reaches over to lift Molly’s head from where it’s still hanging off the arm of the sofa, hair brushing the floor. “You’re going to pass out,” he says. Molly remains limp, letting the full weight of his skull rest in Caleb’s palm.
“It feels weird,” he says, “I like it.”
“I’m sure,” Caleb says, and shoves gently until Molly is forced to sit up.
*
After a series of increasingly awkward text messages, it is agreed that Caleb would meet Essek at the (Caduceus approved) tea shop near the hotel where Essek is staying. Caleb arrives half an hour early, and by the time it’s hit the agreed-upon time Caleb has resorted to reheating the water in his teapot with subtle bursts of fire when no one else is looking to stay relatively calm.
Zadash may consider itself a cultural hub, but northern Empire is still northern Empire, so when the bell on the wooden door clatters and a delicate, white-haired drow enters in business casual clothes more expensive than Caleb’s monthly rent, he knows it’s Essek. He raises a hand as soon as the other man’s gaze sweeps the cafe, and it’s only Caleb’s official and self-guided training in reading body language that allows him to notice the way Essek relaxes, just slightly.
Essek glides across the cafe, and there’s something unsettling about his gate, but it’s only once he is almost in front of Caleb that he realizes he’s floating a couple inches off the floor. It’s odd enough that Caleb fumbles his greeting.
“Caleb?” Essek asks, polite smile firmly in place.
“Ja,” Caleb says, then moves to stand, reconsiders, offers his hand instead (almost knocking over his tea cup) and withdraws it as soon as he realizes Essek isn’t moving to shake. Essek's own arm jolts uncertainly at his side, because Caleb had given him approximately half a fucking second to react. This is why Caleb should never meet new people. “That’s me, hello.”
“Hello,” Essek says. “May I sit?”
“Please.” Caleb does not move to push out the chair across the table from him, which at this point is a fucking accomplishment.
Essek settles himself, then flicks his fingers in a rapid, unfamiliar arcane gesture, and his phone lands softly on the table in front of him.
“That’s a neat trick,” Caleb says, delighted.
Essek ducks his chin, flattered, and it’s amazing how even a hint of honest emotion can make him seem so much more real. Well, no. It’s something he’s seen Mollymauk and Fjord do unconsciously, and thinking back Wulf had—
“How was the trip?” Caleb blurts out.
“It went well,” Essek says. “I’ve never traveled so far out of Rosohna.”
Caleb thinks this information affects him far more than it has any right to. “I hope Zadash does not disappoint, in that case,” he says.
“It hasn’t so far,” says Essek, then he freezes, perfectly still for three seconds before shoving himself back up out of his chair. “I should order...tea. Because we are at a tea shop and that is how capitalism works, excuse me, please.”
Caleb watches Essek flee and covers his mouth with a hand to hide whatever his face might be doing. He thinks that if Essek had maintained that mask of courteous confidence, or worse if he had been legitimately at ease, Caleb would have simply shrunk further and further into himself until there was nothing left. They have been writing to each other for years. Caleb may not know Essek the way he knows his other friends, but he is familiar enough that Caleb would not be able to slide into his own mask of arrogant charm, and he’s glad of it; he wants to know Essek better.
Returning to the table, Essek leans startlingly close as soon as he sits down. “We’re being watched,” he says, softly. “At the risk of being melodramatic, do you have any enemies?”
Caleb’s stomach drops, and for a moment the world is nothing but static and light and weightlessness. He breathes. In. Out. Feels the wood of the table under his palms. Closes his eyes.
“Yes,” he says, “but even worse, I have friends.”
Essek is quiet, and when Caleb opens his eyes he is watching him as if waiting for Caleb to finish his sentence.
“I mean, uhh, that my friends are rather over-protective, and I suspect at least one of them has decided that I am incapable of taking care of myself.”
Essek purses his lips. “And that is...friendship?”
Caleb pauses, bites back on his instinctual defence of his friends. “It is... caring,” he says, thoughtfully. “I think there is a lot to be said for contextualizing someone’s actions— we’re told so often that intent doesn’t matter, but I think sometimes knowing the intent negates the harm.”
Essek frowns. “I’ve found intent matters very little, but I suppose our experiences have been very different.”
Caleb scans the tea shop, then, when that turns up no one suspicious, he checks out the window. The tiny figure on the bench across the street is mostly shielded by a newspaper, but the green skinned fingers wrapped around the edges of the paper give her away. Not much she can do about that without magic. Disguise Self is one of those spells that is illegal for civilians, he’d almost learned that the hard way. So much easier to hide when you can be someone else entirely.
“She’s harmless,” Caleb says, clearing his throat and forcing his thoughts back to his current situation. “She’ll get bored eventually.”
“One hopes before you do,” Essek says, and smiles.
*
The next evening Caleb brings Essek back to his flat to show him a modified spell in his spellbook. They’re both a little drunk on expensive wine, but Caleb is far too careful to open his spellbook where anyone can see even intoxicated. He’d lost his first spellbook, of course, after everything, but even a decade later he’d known the right places to look for the high quality paper and ink he became accustomed to at school, and Nott had helped him find the right contacts to obtain it for him anonymously.
Logically he understands that plenty of wizards go their entire lives with spellbooks that can be read by anyone who gets their hands on them and which don’t back up to a personal server after every new addition, but Bren learned to value quality in excess, and while Caleb his shaken off most of those habits like ill-fitted costuming, there are still a few indulgences that have become baked in. All that being said, anyone who knows what they’re looking at would recognize the materials of his spellbook, and that is the precise sort of attention he needs to avoid.
He leads Essek into his home only to find Nott and Molly both present, the smell of burned food and astringent chemicals thick in the air; four of the books on the far left bookshelf are no longer in alphabetical order. It’s horrifying.
“Oh look, Nott, Caleb’s brought a nice boy home!” Molly chirps. He’s drinking from a massive pink mug that Caleb’s never seen before in his life, sprawled out on the floor painting his claws.
“Wow!” Nott says. “Look at this person who is completely unfamiliar to me! I am startled! Amazed! A complete stranger in our home!”
“I’ve changed my mind, we’re leaving,” Caleb says, but Essek has already brushed past him in the doorway and is trying to slide a book out from under the leg of the coffee table. Sighing, Caleb hurries to stop him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He only realizes his breach of social boundaries when Essek, crouched, tips his head back to look up at him. His eyelashes are almost translucent, but caught in a beam of lamplight they are very long, brushing his cheeks when he blinks.
Caleb pulls his hand back, but he can still feel Essek’s warmth against his leg. “Those are not good books,” Caleb explains. “They are under there because they are being punished.”
“Excuse me?”
“I have a lot of books you will be interested in,” Caleb says, “but not those ones. They are, uhh, well. They are serving their best purpose holding the table steady.”
Essek laughs softly. “That seems harsh, but I will trust your judgement.”
Caleb takes a step back. “Come here,” he says. “I will show you some good books.”
Caleb isn’t looking at Molly, but he can feel his eyebrows wiggling. Nott is sharpening a knife. Essek places his hands on the coffee table and pushes himself up, swaying slightly. He doesn’t resume floating, but there is still something gracefully alien in the way he walks.
Essek is dressed finely, even in casual clothes, tight black jeans and a dark purple button down that looks tailored. There are iridescent gemstones dotting around the shell of each ear, connected by a silver chain as thin as a strand of hair. His gold eye makeup is ever so slightly smudged, and there is the faintest streak of something in his hair that Caleb strongly suspects is ink. On the surface he does not fit in this space, the contrast of his near perfection stark against the shabby reality of their home.
Yet, Caleb reminds himself, Essek has come further from his own home than he has ever done in his over a century of life just to see Caleb in person. He speaks of friendship like it is something he has only considered in theory, and barely even that. Even at his youngest and most arrogant, Caleb had not leapt into the unknown on his own so easily. He wonders if he is a calculated risk for Essek. Wonders how the equation is balancing. Essek is smiling eagerly at him, content to wait for Caleb to share his knowledge, even though Caleb is fairly sure any arcane understanding he has pales in comparison to Essek’s.
It is surprising how easily perspective can shift Essek from something distant and untouchable to something isolated and vulnerable. Something exactly the same as Caleb had once been; the same as all of his friends. It is strange to be on the other side of this; strange to be the one who is settled. For all that Caleb is awkward with Essek’s presence in his flat, he is quite suddenly even less comfortable with the idea of him returning to his silent hotel room alone through the darkened streets. He does not fear for his physical safety, yet his protective instincts are roused nonetheless.
He pulls his spellbook out of his jacket and adds it to the pile of books he’s been gathering from the shelves. “We can start with these,” he says, and steps over Molly on his way to the sofa. Essek follows, politely skirting around the tiefling obstacle. He settles himself on the lumpy cushions and Essek sits close beside him.
“Alright,” Caleb says, opening the first book, “this is what I was talking about at lunch.”
Essek leans in close. Molly’s tail curls around Caleb’s ankle, even as he continues to focus on his manicure. It is the closest Essek and Caleb have been yet, and he is surprised how uncomfortable he isn’t.
This should feel unsafe.
This should feel awkward.
This shouldn’t feel right.