#stiffening at every whisper and eyeing anyone who throws more than a cursory glance his way

[metagalacticx]

So build your house//On my back man it's cool//I'll be the one//To make your steps up quick and smooth

scott mccall

[flowercoasts]

this dream isn’t feeling sweet (1/1)

words: 3.2k

After a meeting with her father ends poorly, Beau tries to distance herself from the group. Nott doesn’t let her.

Read on AO3 or

Beau’s sitting by herself and nursing a glass of shitty ale when Nott finds her. 

“You look like shit.” Nott says bluntly, pausing a foot away from Beau. Behind her, the rest of the Mighty Nein sit around a large circular table, playing a round of card games that Beau opted out of pretty early on once she realized that Jester and Nott would just cheat the whole time. Fjord’s loud groan from across the room probably means that the great detective duo are still winning.

“Fuck off,” Beau replies half-heartedly. It’s more of a grumble than anything, with the way her face is practically buried in her tankard and her head is lowered to the bar. She knows she looks like shit - she certainly feels it. It’s not like Beau can help it though - her head hurts like a goddamn stampede is marching around in there. There’s nothing she can do to stop the pounding in her skull or the whispers in the back of her brain that sound eerily like her father. Or herself. Both, maybe. Either way, it’s so fucking loud.

Why are you here, Beauregard? You don’t belong here.

Nott just hums, and there’s a scraping of metal as she clambers up onto the barstool next to Beau, her wide yellow eyes shining with something that makes the dread in Beau’s gut sink even further. It’s Nott’s signature ‘I’m going to meddle now’ look, and whenever Nott gets that look, nothing ever ends well. Beau really does not need something else to add to this horrible fucking day. She just wants to get super fucking trashed, maybe start a fight, and then pass out. Hopefully in the morning, she’ll just wake up with absolutely no memory of the night before but at least ten bruises to fill her in on the details.

“What.” Beau slams her empty tankard down on the bar a little harder than necessary when a minute passes of Nott remaining silent. “What do you want.”

“Who said I wanted something?” Nott waves down the bartender.

Beau raises an eyebrow as Nott gets six shots, all filled generously with the high shelf shit that Beau herself was eyeing earlier. It’s so strong that she can smell it from a seat away. “You always do.”

“That’s not true.”

There’s no reply to that. Beau just stares at Nott with a raised eyebrow as the goblin studiously ignores her and throws back a shot, quick. Her clawed fingers tap on the bar’s countertop restlessly.

Nott sighs, concedes. “Alright, maybe I do want something.”

It’s Beau’s turn to hum and continue the silence now, and she waves down the bartender too, except instead of six shots she just tells the bartender to get the whole bottle. He eyes her a little pitifully when she asks, but a well-practiced glare makes him avert his gaze easily. 

There’s certainly one thing you’re good at Beauregard: driving others away.

“Beau.”

“Yeah.” The alcohol burns easy down her throat, soothing away a bit of that ache in her chest. Jester’s laughing, loud and bright at the table with the others. It’s more than a little frustrating that out of everyone’s side talk and chatter, Jester’s the only one who Beau can hear clearly. She really doesn’t want to inspect whatever that means right now, not after the day she’s had, maybe not ever. Another gulp it is.

“I need to talk to you.” Nott’s fiddling with her other five shots, all full but untouched at the moment. If she doesn’t drink that soon, Beau probably will.

Beau smirks, but there’s none of her usual mirth in it. “We are talking.”

Nott huffs. “You know that’s not what I mean.” She turns around on the stool so that she’s facing Beau instead of the bar, and Beau doesn’t miss her long side glance over at the table where the rest of the Nein are seated. When Nott turns her gaze back to Beau, her yellow eyes are determined and tinged with that little bit of sadness that makes Beau’s jaw clench. 

“Not sure I do know what you mean,” Beau says through gritted teeth. That pity in everyone’s eyes is what made her leave the table in the first place - she doesn’t need more from Nott, not right now. Not ever. A swirling heavy ball rolls around in her stomach, glowing and angry; Beau has to breathe through her nose heavily to keep calm.

“Why are you being so difficult?”

“Always am.” Beau slams back another swig and turns around in her seat for the first time that night as she moves to stand from the bar. Everything right now is making her skin crawl. It’s so stifling in here. As soon as her boots hit the ground, a small  green hand darts out, fingers wrapping around her wrist and holding her in place. 

Nott’s yellow eyes are shiny with genuine concern. “Beau. Please.”

Jester laughs again, and Beau flinches at the sound. It’s still so clear, even when her brain is so foggy. Even when her hands shake, just slight enough to pass off as a chill. Everything else is blurry except for that laugh, and, as Beau cuts a cursory glance at the table the Nein are huddled around, Jester’s grinning, wide and bright, and Beau has to fight every urge within herself to walk towards her. Beau can’t. Not now. Not when that ball at the pit of her stomach is making her nauseous and Nott’s careful fingers are wrapped around her wrist like Beau will break under too much pressure. Fuck, maybe she will. Her head feels like it’s about to burst open, so anything could happen at this point.

Beau sighs, nods. 

Still clutching the bottle of alcohol she bought, Beau steps towards the stairs leading up to the second floor of the inn, where her room is. Well, where her and Jester’s room is. Nott follows along, her fingers slipping away from Beau’s wrist, but still keeping close anyways, like Beau will somehow wander off in this tiny tavern. Though, Beau kind of wants to leave this conversation, because there’s no way it’ll end well, so it’s a valid concern.

The bottle bangs against her thigh, a steady beat that keeps her grounded with each foreboding step towards Beau’s shut room door. She focuses only on that instead of how nauseous she feels. Beau shoves the door to the room open, more forceful than strictly necessary, but it slams solidly against the wall, satisfying an ache for a moment as she settles on the bed, taking a large swig from the nearly-empty bottle.

Nott follows her in a bit after, taking small cautious steps like Beau will dart away if she moves too fast. It’s still up in the air. Beau just watches her, looking for nothing in particular. Watching the way Nott’s eyes are wide and sad, maybe. Or how her claws are tap tap tapping against each other - a nervous tic. Maybe she’s looking at the slight sag in Nott’s shoulders. 

“So.” Nott halts just in front of Beau, who’s sitting on the bed passively. “... What’s up?”

Beau raises an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

“Yeah.” Shifting quietly on her feet, because she’s always quiet on her feet, Nott looks away. 

Beau just stares. And stares. Takes a swig and stares some more.

“What?” 

“Seriously?” A frown crosses Beau’s face, suddenly stricken with a weird nauseous anger. “You wanna talk to me and all you wanted to ask is ‘what’s up’?” 

“Beau -“

“This is stupid. I’m fine, whatever.”

Never were good at making friends, Beauregard. No one had to even tell them to leave before you chased them away.

Nott clicks her tongue against her teeth, an ugly, abrasive sound. “You’re not fine. Literally anyone can see that, Beau.”

“Yeah. Well.” Abruptly, Beau pushes herself off of the bed, making Nott have to jump out of the way to not run into Beau as she takes a step towards the door. “They’re wrong.”

A hand wraps around her wrist, the same one, but this time rougher, more insistent. “Beau, don’t you dare run away right now. You’re not okay, and I need to talk to you.” Nott yanks on her hand and Beau stumbles, more unsteady on her feet than she thought. Must’ve had too much to drink. “Sit down.”

Beau grunts, flopping facedown down onto the bed. It squeaks under her weight. The whole thing smells like dust and stale air, but it’s weirdly comforting in it’s familiarity. 

“Beau.”

Grunts again.

“Look at me.”

No response. 

This is why they leave.

The room lapses into a weird nebulous quiet then, just tense enough for Beau to feel comfortably uncomfortable as she presses her cheek further into the mattress. It’s scratchy against her skin, coarse and rough in the way that most shitty inns are. The slight sting it leaves on her skin is grounding, and she focuses on that as the second pass by. 

“He was wrong, you know.” Beau stiffens as Nott shuffles closer, wooden floorboards creaking under her weight. “He was wrong about you.”

Beau grits her teeth and wills her throat to stop feeling so tight, so choking. It means nothing and it should mean nothing, not anymore. It’s not a big deal, so why is her hand shaking against the bedsheet? She lets out an unsteady breath, still pressed firm and tense against the bed. The faint voice from before pounds against her skull, invading her thoughts with echoes of her father’s voice. Her voice.

You’re still a disappointment, Beauregard. 

“We know you, Beau, and your father, he -“

“He’s right,” Beau croaks out, flipping over onto her back to look Nott dead in the eyes.

“No, Beau. He’s not.” Nott leans forward, placing her small hands on Beau’s ankles. “He’s not.” 

Coughing lightly, Beau looks away from Nott’s too-heavy gaze. “Sure.”

You didn’t truly believe you were good, did you? After everything you’ve done?

Nott sighs, and her grip tightens a little where it’s placed, warm on Beau’s cool skin. “Okay.”

Judging by the weird flat tone of voice, Nott doesn’t believe her. That’s fine. Beau doesn’t believe Nott either. 

“There are like, at least 20 different people that are for sure way worse than you. You’re not even in the top 25. Maybe top 50.” Adjusting her grip, Nott stares up at Beau, her expression a little pleading even with the lightness to her tone.

“Eh.” Beau sits up. “Doubt that.”

“What do you mean, you doubt that - you know we met Trent Ikithon, right?”

“Yeah but 20 is kinda a stretch.” 

“Beau -”

“I’ve killed probably more people than any of those people on your list,” Beau says. Her shoulders are still tense, but her hands aren’t trembling now. Not when she’s in her preferred territory. 

All you’re good for is making everyone else uncomfortable.

Nott narrows her eyes. “I’ve killed just as much.”

Oh, a competition. “I punched a kid the same week I met you.”

“I shot you in the ass.” That one doesn’t seem worse, honestly.

“I got my girlfriend locked in jail.” Saying it out loud still stings, but it’s a good kind of pain. Just the right amount of edge to feel alive enough to sit up straighter, lean towards Nott’s increasingly sad eyes.

The corners of Nott’s lips pull down slightly. “I killed Caduceus.”

“I lied to Molly the last night we had together.” Beau has to win this. She doesn’t know why. The pounding in her head won’t stop though, and the drink in her hand has done nothing but make her feel even shittier about the whole day. The only thing that’s making any sense right now is this sharp pain as she digs into old wounds. It feels like resurfacing into a burning fire - all consuming, cleansing. 

You’ve always loved picking at your own wounds.

“I let my son and husband think I was dead for years…” Nott looks so unbearably sad, and just a little scared. Could be at Beau’s suddenly excited face. Could also be her own registering of shit that she’s done. It makes the nausea soothe a little in Beau’s stomach, but the thought of feeling relief at Nott’s pain causes the sick in her throat to well up all over again.

She needs to win. She has to. 

“I was so terrible as a kid that my own dad had to hire people to kidnap me.” 

The room goes quiet, thick with tension and untapped secrets like bombs waiting to go off. Beau wants to tap each one of them, just to see how big that explosion would be. Probably would wreck them both. 

Nott lets go of Beau’s ankles, her claws scraping unpleasantly against Beau’s skin. Her yellow eyes are so full of a heavy sadness it hurts to look at. But Beau stares anyways, unblinking.

You hurt everyone you know. 

“Beau, that wasn’t -”

There’s still a point to be made here. No one’s won, yet. “I lie to everyone, all the time. I lie to you. I lie to the group. I lie to Jester.”

“Beau -”

“I have a crush on my best friend that I still haven’t told her about. I sleep next to her every night, anyways.” The wound feels raw, aching, but still not enough. Beau laughs mirthlessly and runs a hand over her hair. “I hope she finds out.”

That confession gets Nott to slap her hands on Beau’s knees, her fingers tight and shaky where they rest against the scars littering brown skin. “Why?”

“I want her to hate me.” 

“Beau,” Nott whispers, her voice a crackly and scratchy thing. She looks more scared and sad than before. “Why -”

“Because, Nott.” Beau leans forward, nodding and smiling just like her father taught her to. It’s only a little bitter around the edges. I love to ruin others. “Thoreau’s right.” 

There. That’s the point. She needs Nott to get that. Even if the wounds are still sore and aching and open, even if she still feels like throwing up, even if her head is still pounding. Beau needs Nott to understand. 

If there was any good in her ever, it disappeared the moment she started stealing from her dad. Everything from then on was just a pit of quicksand and regret, chewing her up with teeth sharper than knives. It’s all Beau knows, all she ever can be. 

She needs Nott to know that her father was right, even if it makes her sick to her stomach to think about.

Yellow eyes stare at her, taking her in. Nott sizes her up, chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully. No doubt she’s trying to figure out the fastest way to end this conversation. Good. Beau can finish her bottle in peace and fester her wounds on her own. Beau eyes the room’s window. Maybe she can even sneak out and find some kind of fight. Or start one.

Nott sucks in a breath, releasing it slowly. Her claws tighten around Beau’s skin, leaving indents. “...I know how you feel -”

“You don’t know how I feel,” Beau cuts in, quick. Her eyes are sharp as she leans back, away from Nott. 

“Beau, I do. I fell in love with my best friend, and we got married.” At Beau’s sharp intake of breath, Nott shakes her head and presses on insistently. “Despite what anyone thought about us.”

“Nott this is so far from that -“ Beau runs a hand over her hair and looks away, takes another swig from her bottle.

“How? How is it so different?” 

“Because.” 

Nott leans forward, frowning heavily. “Where I’m sitting they seem pretty similar.”

“They’re not.”

“Why.”

Because I’m Beauregard Lionett.

“Look, this isn’t a fucking fairytale, we die nearly every fucking day. No way in any way will she ever feel the same.” The nausea comes crawling back in full force and Beau shifts on the bed. Scratches irritably at the back of her neck. 

“Life doesn’t have to be a fairytale for things to work out,” Nott says, and leans in even closer, like closing the distance between them will help get her point across, somehow.

“No,” Beau replies sharply. “It has to be a fucking miracle.”

With a heavy, exasperated sigh, Nott lifts her hands from Beau’s legs, reaching forward to grip tight around Beau’s arms, instead. “Why do you keep thinking like that, Beau! Seriously, what -”

Beau growls and rips away from Nott’s grasp. “It’s a goddamn pipe dream and I know it, but there’s still this stupid piece of hope in me and you’re not helping by trying to convince me I have a chance.” 

“How do you know she doesn’t like you? How are you so sure?” 

“I just am, okay?” Beau stands abruptly, pushing past Nott. The goblin follows her as she goes to the window. 

“Why can’t she like you back?”

“This doesn’t work like that.”

“Why, Beau.”

“It just doesn’t.”

“But why Beau?”

Because I’m Beauregard fucking Lionett and not even my parents wanted me. I’m unlovable and abrasive and rude and hard to look at, remember?

Beau looks away.

The moon hangs high in the sky, interrupted only by a few errant dark clouds as they roll through the night. Rays of light shine down onto the slatted roofs of the houses below, all quiet and dark in slumber. 

Something tugs on her sash. It’s not hard enough to move her, but it’s just enough pressure to register as Nott’s. Beau hears her sigh. 

“Your father was wrong, Beau. He always has been. I’m sorry… I’m sorry you ever had to listen to him.” Overwhelming sadness and longing creeps up Beau’s tight throat but she wills it away, far down where no one can reach it. “You deserve so much more.”

Beau keeps on looking out the window. 

After a minute of silence, Nott shifts, the rustle of fabric the only indicator that she’s moving away.

“Beau.” A pause. Beau stares resolutely out the window. “We’re here for you.” And then, so quiet Beau has to quiet her breathing to hear: “You’re good. You’ve always been good. More than enough.”

There’s nothing Beau cares to say. She still has a thousand raging fires under her skin and the pounding in her head hasn’t lessened, but she stays tense and silent as the door creaks shut. Once she’s sure Nott’s padded away, Beau drops the now empty bottle to the floor and rests her forehead against the cool wooden wall of the room. 

Her father said a lot of things to her that day. A lot of it stuck. The one she’s thinking about right now though?

You don’t deserve them.

Beau steels her breath, lifts her hands to her eyes to rub at them until she sees stars and then just stares at her knuckles, thinks about how useless she is without them. The restlessness wells back up, taking its place right next to the nausea and the pain. She glances back out the window and takes in the position of the moon. It’s sometime around midnight. 

Jester would probably be going to sleep soon.

Not looking back, Beau opens the window and hops out, that skin crawling ache following her as she lands on the cracked pavement two stories below. 

Fuck Thoreau for being right.