Forgiveness (Can You Imagine?) – Critical Role, Widomauk

[thecrazyalaskan]

 

Title: Forgiveness (Can You Imagine?)
Author: fireweed15
Fandom / Setting: Critical Role – Campaign II: The Mighty Nein
Characters / Pairings: Mollymauk "Molly" Tealeaf x Caleb Widogast / Widomauk
Rating: T
Word Count: 774
Warnings / Notes: Written for Round XI of Hurt / Comfort Bingo: Fever / Delirium [Wild Card]; prompt from here; dubiously self translated Zemnian German
Summary: Caleb's fever burns away some of his aloofness.

This was an itch only planning and feverishly no pun intended translating English to German and back again at 2am could scratch. Hashtag no regrets

Things… could have been better.

The weather on the road had been consistently unforgiving, all but wearing away at the Mighty Nein's collective spirits. The sensation certainly wasn't helped by the fact that sickness sunk its claws into Caleb days before their arrival at this small, almost nondescript inn halfway between towns.

As the rest of the group negotiated rooms with the innkeeper or tucked into the first proper meal they'd had since setting off, with Nott's blessing (and a gentle, albeit thinly veiled reminder of her vow of protection), Molly half guided, half carried Caleb up the stairs to one of the rooms. The days of travel, coupled with the illness Jester had yet to fully identify with her healers' kit, had taken their toll, and by the time Molly had asked and gotten permission to help him change and gotten him settled into bed proper, Caleb was, however fitfully, asleep.

The silence settled into the room, broken only by Molly's quiet sigh as he rolled his shoulders and neck, taking in the dressings of their accommodations. The space was sparse, with a pair of twin beds and a low table between them. On the table sat a copper wash basin with a neatly folded cloth draped over the edge.

In the absence of healing spells and Jester's healing kit, it would do nicely. Molly crouched at the foot of the bed, opening Caleb's bags long enough to retrieve the wizard's waterskin and the tin cup from his mess kit. He tipped the waterskin slightly, just enough to fill the cup half full, and placed it within his reach, before emptying the rest into the basin.

As he dipped the cloth into the basin and loosely wrung it out, Caleb stirred slightly, his brow furrowed as a soft moan escaped his lips. "Nnngh…"

Molly glanced over in time to see Caleb's eyes flutter open, even as he winced against the dim light. "Caleb?" He sat on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on the human's forehead, frowning as he felt the burn of his fever. "Feeling alright?"

Caleb leaned his head into the touch. "V-Vater…?"

Ahh. He was thirsty—an easy enough fix. Molly withdrew his hand to reach for the tin cup. As he did, Caleb's hand slid forward on the bedclothes and clasped the tiefling's other hand, something almost awestruck creepy into his weary features. "Du… du bist in Sicherheit."

As much as Molly liked to project an air of confidence and je ne sais quoi, even he had to admit he was out of his depth when it came to Caleb's native tongue. "Caleb, I don't speak Zemn—"

The temporary lack of a mutual language was lost on Caleb, and he continued to speak in Zemnian, his expression pained and his voice thick with sorrow. "Es tut mir Leid… Ich wollte nicht, Er zwang mich—ich wollte nie—"

"Easy, take it easy—" There was something deeply unsettling about the desperation in Caleb's voice, and gods only knew what he was actually saying—

Caleb clutched Molly's hands like a lifeline; the tremble in his was deep running and profound, and his forehead was visibly damp with sweat. "Bitte—Bitte verzeih mir—"

"Shhh…" With no small measure of effort, Molly tugged his hand free from Caleb's grasp and pulled the cloth from the edge of the basin. "It's okay—" He pressed the damp, cool cloth to Caleb's forehead and cheeks, occasionally dipping a little lower to pat at the sides of his neck. How had they let this fever get so out of control? "I'm okay, see? We're both fine."

Caleb's pleas trailed off, his chest heaving in a way Molly knew couldn't have been doing his illness any favors. When his eyes, glassy with fever and unshed, upset tears, fell on his companion's face, it was obvious he wasn't truly seeing him. "…M-mutter auch?"

Well shit. Even confused and delirious, it was obvious Caleb was expecting an answer to his question, the fact that Molly understood none of it be damned. Damn damn damnit— "Mutter auch."

Whatever he'd said seemed to be what Caleb wanted to hear, as his grip on Molly's hand loosened. "Oh… gut. Sehr gut."

He fell back asleep almost as quickly as he'd become delirious, aided by the gentle press of a cool, damp cloth to his forehead; all the while, Molly's fingers remained loosely interlaced with his. Helping care for him shouldn't have hurt this much—and yet knowing something had been brought to the surface, something that spoke to pain and distress, made Molly's heart ache as he sighed deeply. "I will never understand you, Caleb Widogast."