Chapter Text
Caleb does not intend to think of Nott like that. Especially not after their conversation at the beach, where she’d been so brave, honest and frighteningly sincere, and he’d been... himself. Sex should be the last concept he has on his mind.
Out of the entire Nein, he's never even seen Nott completely naked. In the bathhouse in Zadash, she’d been under the illusion of a half-sized half orc; and when they’d traveled alone together it was simply practical that they bathe as little as possible.
But she has seen him naked plenty of times. Which-- Caleb ignores how he can feel the back of his neck flushing, and how his hands nervously skitter around until he jams them under the hotel’s gorgeous down pillow with its warm red cover. Fine. Gutte. He narrows his concentration to those collection of woven threads, nothing else. He breathes in very deliberately, holds the breath over his heart, then exhales.
The distraction doesn't hold for long.
In his lonesome borrowed room, in Jester’s mother’s beautiful home, he remembers the beach. The sand under his boots and the warm sun on his hastily-changed Xorhassian clothing; Nott’s-- Veth’s-- disguised form beside him. Her implication and vague hand gestures, half-embarrassed, which if she hadn’t been wearing her illusion would’ve sent her ears twitching like fluttering leaves. Caleb’s extremely blunt realization that’d made his face start burning.
It’s not that he didn’t know she had slept with Yeza. They’d been married, and that was generally how children happened.
Obviously he’d known that she was interested in sex, too, from spending so long on the road together and the way certain men and women would catch her eye for a quick second glance, even as she hid behind her porcelain mask and hood. It was staunchly none of his business. She was a grown woman by goblin standards (and had been by halfling standards as well, although the past tense hurts, it hurts). She could do what she pleased.
But now the whole situation with Yeza had Caleb agitated, on Nott’s-- Veth’s -- behalf. Not that her private life is any more his business than before. It’s complicated. She's always been afraid of rejection, for good reason, and-- he wishes that Yeza had shown her more affection, physically, because that was what she’d wanted.
Is it that strange to want your best friend to be happy? To think she’s beautiful? For her to be treated like she wants-- with affection?
Surely it can’t be. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s in love, as Beau asked him back in the Xorhaus that extremely awkward night. Wanting your favourite person in the world to feel-- accepted. Appreciated.
No.
Picturing them naked was on another level, however. The problem is he’s curious, now, as he had always been curious.
He’s seen unclothed women of many species in his life-- which he is also not thinking about, thank you-- but he has not even considered, before, goblin anatomy aside from basic traits. Goblins bled, breathed, ate and slept. (Burned, as well, he thought miserably.) They have similar body plans to humans: two arms, two legs, no tail or horns, two eyes, two ears.
For all that there were still stark differences. Nott’s ears are much more sensitive than Caleb’s.
"Sensitive" was the wrong word. Perceptive. Expressive.
Expressive ears, luminous eyes for seeing in darkness that bloomed outwards feline-like when she was particularly happy (or high as balls), clever fingers with clever claws, a mouth which was dear to him because it was hers. He’d felt the narrow band of her spine as she’d nudged backwards into his shins when they’d shared a bed. Her ribs probably showed, as well, from just above her hips to below her skinny shoulders.
Her breasts were like two scoops of wheat under her nightshirt, draping barely an inch in front of her. He’d politely ignored the roundness of her nipples under the same shirt it during colder nights, but now he wondered, would they be paler or darker than the surrounding skin, or simply a different hue of green; or the same, and only distinguishable by texture?
The thought catches and now he is imagining texture. The softness of her long thin hair. The pleasant dryness of her hands, with the slightly rougher pads on the palms and ends of her fingers before her claws; not unlike a cat’s, perfect for swiping things or catching yourself when scrambling away. Caleb had felt the difference when they’d held hands before.
He considers feeling Nott draw her hand across his pectorals, or to touch his face, the slight scrape of her beans against the scruff of his beard or his chest hair above the scars. Her sharp hips and shallow breasts, warm to the touch, eyes bright as moons with the center warm and rounded as she’d lie almost nose to nose with him.
Caleb holding her sides, familiar from so many nights of them huddling together to keep warm and then for comfort; but now with nothing between his blackened-fingertips hands and her green skin, pockmarked by her own scars which proved her name. They’d feel either raised and rope-like or strangely smooth under his fingers. Maybe she’d arch her back into his touch, with the rumbling pleasure-sound she makes that’s not exactly a purr but isn’t quite anything else. Her jewellery would glitter in whatever light there was. It would be beautiful. Her teeth might glitter, too-- for all she hid and disguised herself, she tried to stay as clean as possible, now that they had the time and means.
If he was honest (he wasn’t) he could admit her teeth could excite him, sharp and shining as they were, in the same part of his gut that liked the way magical fire felt in his hand, so close and so dangerous and yet no danger to him. What would the texture of her lips be? He’d lean closer to kiss her, carefully, like-- well, like--
Like he’d seen her and Yeza kiss.
No. Suddenly it’s all too much. Too disrespectful. As he recoils from the thought, startling himself, the rest of the world returns. His eyes snap open and Caleb realizes, mortified, that he’s been panting into the sheets. He’s not completely hard yet but ten years ago he would have been.
Thank all the gods no one else is in here. He rolls onto his side, consciously moving his legs as little as possible to not encourage himself. It is still incredibly uncomfortable, and really would be faster to just deal with directly-- he can feel his heart hammering on his ribs-- but he refuses.
Caleb runs through all the swears he knows in his own language and Common, mumbling them steadily into the pillow, and tries to shut his thoughts out.
*
(It doesn’t work.)
*
He wants to kiss Nott. Now that the idea has taken root in his brain, like she'd taken root in his heart, he can’t shake it. It's terrifying. The sheer audacity of himself to inflict his feelings on anyone, let alone her, who’s married and has a child and a chance at happiness, and--
Loyalty is one thing, he can and did offer his loyalty. Friendship is understandable and dear to him. Love is a disaster. Caleb can't possibly be in love with her. He can't.
He wants to kiss her.
Days that feel like months later, Caleb is temporarily a giant eagle. The lower intelligence of the beast frees his mind of anxiety in a way he still doesn't fully expect even after several transformations. In the moment before he drops the polymorph he looks over at Nott and thinks, very simply, love, and his eagle body waddles over to try combining a very human motion with his current shape. He pecks pecks pecks the top of her head.
Then the spell vanishes, and he finds himself following his momentum even as all the doubts and self-recrimination and anxiety come rushing back and his stomach vanishes to another plane.
His lips brush her skin. A complex emotion (part joy and part sorrow and part indescribable) washes over him so strongly his vision fades out for a moment.
It is nothing. It is an innocent, chaste kiss on her forehead, right beneath the sideways bangs that nearly cover her amber-light eyes, and he doesn’t linger.
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