Help. It's again.

Unwanted wisdom

Age and wisdom are, in most cases, a package deal.

One that Scanlan Shorthalt doesn't care for one bit. He ignores the age as best as he can, and he certainly doesn't make any effort to gather the wisdom.

Both find him either way. And it's not like he can escape once that happens, both being parts of himself, so he deals with it the way he deals with most things he doesn't want to think about. He lets it sit in the back of his mind and pretends it doesn't exist until he's managed to convince himself.

He's very successful at pretending on the outside, no one notices a thing. Nobody manages to escape his distractions long enough to notice the depth behind his eyes, carved out inevitably by the decades and experiences of life he's gotten under his belt. For better and for worse.

Even the rest of Vox Machina don't notice, most times anyway, when that other part of him,  of something more than a simple reckless bard and scoundrel covertly shows itself.

They probably know he's more than that by now, they've travelled and adventured and fought for their lives so many countless days and nights, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, bandaged each other's wounds, held each other's hands during the rougher times.

They probably don't know how much he notices, even though he doesn't seem to, pretends not to. They probably don't know how much he knows and can tell, about them, about people in general, without having to ask or overly investigate. Probably knows more than they'd like about them and others just by looking, observing, that honed sense of foreboding born from long life experience.

They can definitely tell the seemingly small difference in him since he learned of his fatherhood, on a night that seems like an eternity in the past now, but they can't see how deep it goes and he won't let them. He pretends otherwise.

Maybe one day he'll let them see, maybe he never will, Scanlan doesn't know it himself. Doesn't know how his relationship to and his grip on his fears will still shift in the time of his life to come. However much he has left. Maybe it'll be enough to take that step, maybe it won't. He'll make the most of it either way. Hopes it'll end up being enough either way.

The others don't know everything about him, but he hopes they know enough, know that he cares. Really, truly, deeply cares. He hopes Kaylie knows it too, or at least will on the day he leaves the surface of Exandria forever.

Scanlan makes sure to not make a sound, a true struggle when his mind keeps humming lullaby tunes at him and his lack of a filter between brain and mouth demands so much restraint from him in order to keep quiet, as he tugs the blankets around the other members of Vox Machina, sleeping peacefully. It's one of those rare nights. Where peace and quiet are actually a thing.

And he acts like a father would. He shoves the unwelcome thought aside best he can. While it's true that most of his friends are younger than half his age, young enough to be his children, the role of caretaker, once openly acknowledged by himself or others, doesn't come as easily anymore as it did initially. It makes his insides squirm with a vulnerability he just can't face yet.

He escapes his head to refocus on this beautifully peaceful night, tries to commit it to memory for all its worth. A clear sky, comfortable climate, the blankets he's spreading over his sleeping companions aren't overly coarse and for the moment there's no threat on the horizon.

Keyleth smiles in her sleep for it, snuggles into her blanket. Scanlan can't help its infectious nature, feels the corners of his own mouth curl upwards as well. Some local flowers also seem to have been affected by the content druid, though still closed buds for the night, they seem to have had a growth spurt since the young woman lay down next to them. Scanlan knows it'll be a very pretty sight once the sun rises.

A few steps over, Grog snores unbothered, Pike peacefully resting against his side, thrown halfway over his chest and yet absolutely undisturbed by her buddy's racket, neither stir at being covered with the fabric.

Vex mutters in her sleep, about riches and sparkles as far as he can make out, causing him to bite back a chuckle as she eagerly tugs the blanket closer to her body. One of her hands spasms as her grip on her coin purse slips, he helps her righten her death grip on it and receives a pouty yet cute grumble in return that does nothing to help his amusement.

Vax doesn't seem to be breathing in his sleep as he spreads the blanket over him, Scanlan clamps down on any thoughts that want to spring up in that moment. He refuses the urge to check for a pulse, he ignores the slight burning sensation that sparks behind his eyes while gazing upon his deathly still friend. He doesn't want to linger and yet he takes the time to stroke the errant strands of hair out of Vax's pale, cold face that have found their way there.

Percy twitches awake almost immediately at coming into contact with the blanket chosen for him. The almost immediately being the important part there. Scanlan takes great comfort and assurance in the fact that it takes him longer than ten seconds to blink his eyes open instead of an instantaneous snapping to attention in a fraction of a second, something an outsider who doesn't know them and their history can never understand.

Scanlan doubts his friend will ever be anything but a light sleeper, too deep run his scars, but he's improving. Maybe one day he'll manage to soundly sleep through a night. Maybe not. And even if not, at least Scanlan no longer has to fear reflexively getting a bullet sent through his brain for waking him. Any progress is good progress, someone he cannot remember once told him. Though normally more split on the matter, in this case Scanlan agrees.

The groggy, not fully awake look in Percy's eyes is progress. "S- Scanlan...?" The sleepy mumble with little real trace of alarm is progress. "Is it time to change shift?" He shakes his head and gently pushes Percy's shoulder back down while also tugging the blanket up to his chin, distantly hoping the half asleep noble won't remember it in the morning or at least not bring it up again. "No, I've got the watch." That the young man takes his word for it and drifts back off is progress.

That his loyal group of friends exists is progress, that they trust him, more than he trusts himself, is progress. Scanlan doesn't know if it's his own doing or if it was bound to happen when someone lives a life that progresses as long as his. He's thankful all the same. He doesn't mind feeling like a wise old man that night as he sits and watches over his dear friends.