After spending so long in New Crestmount City, Mott was eager to hit the road again. Leaving that city felt like a breath of fresh air, like leaving behind a burden he didn't know he had. He hopes he never has to go back.
They made a straight path to Stawford Town, following the lead that that curator put them on. It took about a day and a half to get here, and now that they've made it, Mott is taking time to relax and nurse his sore feet before they get back to work. Lenny is also taking the time to gingerly remove his bandages for the final time. From here on out, he shouldn't need them anymore. Mott wishes he'd wear them one day more, just in case. Luckily, the wounds aren't red anymore, but pale scars have taken their place. Mott can't help but feel responsible for that. If he'd been stronger, Lenny wouldn't have gotten hurt.
Then again, if he'd been a better person in general, Lenny wouldn't have been put through so much in the first place. So, he guesses it's not much of a surprise that Lenny got hurt because of him.
Lenny stretches, a bright smile dancing on his face. "Finally! Those things were getting awfully stuffy. When are we gonna head out to the town?"
They'd agreed to go searching for the professor as soon as possible. If they can get any scrap of information on Zekrom, even if it's a mere sliver, Mott will be able to feel like they're doing something productive. For so long, he's felt that they've been aimlessly chasing with a blindfold on. Like they're missing the whole picture. With a little more information, they might be able to see a little more of the picture.
Contemplating this, Mott removes the slip of paper from the curator from his bag to examine it.
Professor Hallowood, Stawford Town, Bridge St.
He doesn't know much about the layout of this town, so he doesn't know where Bridge Street would be. He's never visited Stawford Town, and even though he's heard of it extensively, it's not enough for him to have even the foggiest clue of the local geography. The first thing they're going to need to do today is get their hands on a map.
"We oughta go out and ask for directions," Lenny remarks, standing and moving his arms around freely.
Mott tosses a satchel over his back. "No, let's just get a map."
"I bet we could ask the innkeeper and she'd be able to point us the right way."
"I bet she could just as easily point us to a map."
Lenny scoffs. "Why don't you like asking for directions?"
"Because I can read a map just fine, thank you!"
Their light bickering carries them down to the lobby of the inn, where one of the maids overhears their conversation and asks if they'd like help with directions. Mott says 'no' just as Lenny says 'yes.' The girl looks confused for only a moment before she decides to give them directions, anyway. A devious, triumphant smile tugs onto Lenny's face. Mott huffs.
Turns out, Bridge Street isn't that hard to find. It is, in reference to its namesake, right beside the bridge in town, running parallel to the wide canal that splits the town into two parts. The inn is on one side of this divide whereas the street is on the other, so all they really have to do is travel across the bridge and they'll be right on the street. Luckily, the bridge is visible from the inn, so it won't be a terribly long walk.
Her directions are clear enough that they can confidently set out without even glancing at a map, but that doesn't mean Mott's happy about it. He's feeling a bit like dead weight, over here. At least let him navigate!
As they walk along the path toward Bridge Street, Lenny spins around with a smile and a gasp to soak it all in. Mott can't say he blames him; the town is gorgeous. The people here pride themselves on innovation and creativity, and it shows in their architecture. Shining cobblestone streets weave through symmetrical rows of pristine, expertly-crafted buildings. Decorated arches crest overhead every few blocks, supporting intricate aqueduct structures that work against gravity with pumps and other state of the art tools to combat the drag of the hill that angles toward the canal. Gardens adorn every rooftop, fed the occasional drop from the aqueducts but mostly reliant on natural rain to water their crops. Along the sidewalks, painted murals brighten the town. Machinery, vegetation, and art intertwine together in this city, forming a place unlike anything Mott has ever seen. It's like a utopia.
Based on what he's seen so far, it's a perfect city in more than just appearance: he has yet to see a single beggar or impoverished citizen. Everyone seems to be coexisting in a fair, collaborative community rather than an abyss of wealth disparity. No one is excessively rich; no one is excessively poor. It's harmonious.
As wonderful as this all is, upon reaching Bridge Street, they are confronted with an unforeseen complication: they have no idea where this professor lives. Other than the town and street name, the curator didn't provide them with any other address. The professor could live in any of the houses on this street, and based on how long the road stretches and how many buildings are crammed together, there are… a lot of options to choose from.
Mott is just about to sigh with preemptive exhaustion and resign himself to the mortifying ordeal of going door to door and knocking when he hears a booming voice shout, "Little Lenny!"
A gasp escapes Lenny before they even turn around. But as soon as they do, they're met with a familiar, stony face.
"Oh no," he whispers under his breath.
"Hilda!" Lenny cries, throwing his arms in the air and racing to her.
Hilda's face is warm despite its jagged edges, and she even allows a low laugh when Lenny leaps to hug her neck. She nuzzles her head down to meet his embrace, rumbling pleasantly. With a burst of excitement, Lenny squeezes her as tight as he possibly can, which to her probably feels like nothing. Mott worries that Hilda might try to return the favor and accidentally kill Lenny on the spot. Fortunately, she doesn't. Instead, she lets him down, regarding him happily.
"It's been too long, Little Lenny," she proclaims, fondly. She still has the pink bow Lenny made for her, tied at the base of a sharp protrusion on the top of her head. A satchel is on her back, polished and new. There's some fabric and needles poking out of it. "I am happy. You are here, and that is good."
"Shucks, I'm happy too!" Lenny exclaims, nearly vibrating in place. "I had no idea you lived here; if I'd known, I'd have raced here straight away!"
She laughs, a deep, thunderous sound, and leans her forehead against his, closing her eyes. Lenny beams and stands on his tip toes, basking in the affection. Mott shakes off his nerves. Cautiously, like approaching a feral animal, he joins the scene.
"Hey… hey, Hilda," he says, trying to keep his voice from cracking anxiously. He fails. She opens her eyes, turning her head slowly toward him. Almost menacingly. He swallows. Clearing his throat, he asks, "How've you been?"
Silence. She doesn't move. She doesn't even blink. All she does is stare at him in hardened silence, her eyes as sharp as knives.
Mott sweats a little.
Without warning, a rancorous laugh roars out of her. She throws her head back, booming at the sky. Mott would like to say it doesn't scare him as much as it does.
"Look at this!" She nearly bellows, slamming her shoulder against his. Mott winces. "Little Bastard has grown into Big Bastard!"
"Thanks, Hilda," he drawls. Tenderly rubbing his arm, he can't help the grin that tugs on his face. "It's nice to see you too."
Naturally, Lenny wastes no time rattling off every detail of their lives the past few months she's been separated from them. He lists the friends they've made, the adventures they've had, and everything in between. Thankfully, he leaves out certain… recent events, almost entirely glossing over their chapter in New Crestmount City. Mott feels entirely indebted to him all over again.
Then comes Hilda's question: "Why have you come here?"
Mott only vaguely wonders why she has to phrase everything like a threat before Lenny responds. "We're looking for a professor who might be able to help us learn more about Zekrom. Ooh, maybe you know them, Hilda!"
Hilda tilts her head to the side. "Probably. My wife works with many professors."
"That's perfect! I'm awfully glad we found you, for more than one reason now!" Lenny bubbles enthusiastically, shuffling through Mott's bags to look for the paper they were given. When he rummages it out, he holds it in front of Hilda. "Sound familiar?"
Hilda's eyes widen. Then, they narrow. They lock onto Lenny and Mott, and this time, Mott is sure there's an implicit threat behind them. Although, it doesn't seem to be directed at them.
"Who gave you this," she demands rather than asks.
Lenny, proving he has the self-preservation instincts of a brick, responds just as cheerfully as before. "The curator of the museum in Roselake City."
Hilda nods, grim. "The one who died."
"You knew her?" Mott asks, somewhat hesitant.
"Yes. She died because she knew too much," Hilda declares, her voice quiet. Her eyes dart back and forth. "She's not the only expert on Zekrom who's died recently."
Mott's eyes widen. "No kidding?"
"It's true," Hilda says with a reluctance he can't place. "Experts are in danger. They need to be protected. Word of their research cannot get out. You understand this?"
"Of course," Lenny agrees, nodding seriously.
Hilda sizes them up, taut. "I take you to this professor. You will promise me not to speak of her. Yes?"
"We promise," Mott vows, looking her straight in the eyes. That seems to be enough for her, as she nods curtly and turns to show them the way.
"Who is this professor, anyways?" Lenny whispers, close to Hilda's side.
"Professor Anastasia Hallowood," she says, her tone grave, "my wife."
Meeting Anastasia again is just as unnerving as it was the first time. Hilda is intimidating, sure, but Anastasia is downright scary. Mott still thinks she should be wearing an eyepatch instead of the pink bow wrapped around her head. She's at least wearing one in spirit, or something. Whenever she turns her cold eyes on to him, he worries she's slowly drilling and icicle into his flesh.
Could she kill him? He feels like she could.
"These are your friends, my love?" She asks Hilda, her apathetic gaze sweeping over the two of them as if they're mere specks of dust on a shelf. Hilda nods while Anastaisa seems entirely unimpressed. "The ones with the death wish?"
Mott gulps. He knows she's referring to their quest of chasing Zekrom, but it feels like she's implying that the mere offense of talking to her is a death wish. It seems as though any wrong move might strike her ire and cause him a world of pain. This impression doesn't seem to be striking Lenny, though, as he gawks at the colorful tablecloth draped over the table in the center of the room.
"Hilda, did you make this?" Lenny asks in amazement. Somewhat bashful, Hilda nods. He beams. "That's incredible! You've gotten awfully good at this craft business since I last saw you."
She gives another nod. "I practiced what you taught me. I am good. I sell my crafts in the town square with the other merchants."
Lenny and Hilda chat about cloth and fabric while Anastasia watches their interaction with unsettlingly keen attention. Her disquieting demeanor makes Hilda look cuddly in comparison. Especially when Hilda listens to Lenny ramble on about cotton with a smile in her eyes.
His anxiety in her presence is dulled somewhat by the jovial atmosphere. After a few minutes of listening to Lenny and Hilda catch up, Mott can't help but smile. Despite his apprehensions about Hilda in the beginning, she's turned out to be a pretty cool lady. He'll admit that he missed her from time to time after she left them. Of course, he'll never tell her that.
"You should tell her sometime," Anastasia says to him, quiet. She talks lowly enough to not be heard over Lenny's excessive chatter, giving her and Mott a semblance of privacy, but Mott's heart still stutters with shock. Whether the surprise comes from being addressed or from her seemingly hearing his thoughts, he's not sure. Her eyes slide to him, cool and empty. "It would please her to hear that you missed her just as she missed you."
She can read minds?
"Somewhat," she answers.
Mott frowns, wishing she would quit.
"Apologies. It's a rude habit," she confesses, brushing the topic aside. "I will stop now."
Mott narrows his eyes doubtfully.
"I have stopped," she assures in the least convincing display he's ever seen. It's like she's not even trying to lie. "Truly," she monotones.
Mott proceeds to fill his brain with the most annoyingly catchy song he can muster.
A low curse escapes Anastasia, and she shakes her head and looks away from him. A burst of triumph swells in his chest, proud at successfully ousting her. Although it ended up being a bit of a round-about victory, as now he's got the song stuck in his head, too…
Dammit.
"Fine. I am no longer listening in," she says, and this time, he actually believes her. With a scrutinizing gaze, she runs her eyes over him slowly. "I only want to know why you are here."
"It's like we told Hilda," he responds, "we want to stop Zekrom, and that took us to you."
"Yes. My colleague in Roselake recommended you find me, it seems. She had sent many people my way before her death. Most of them were not worth trusting."
Mott has a feeling that last part is the most important thing to glean from what she's saying. He finds his tone shifting to something softer and more comforting. "I understand that you have a lot to be afraid of right now. Hilda has told me that experts such as yourself have been targeted. Do you know by who?"
Anastasia shakes her head, still sizing him up. Although standing still under the meticulous dissection of her gaze is torture, he does it. If that's what it takes to make her feel better and help them find a way to beat Zekrom, he'll do it. But whatever she's looking for in him, she must not find it, because her eyes meet his and the tension in her body does not lower.
"I have no idea who may be targeting my colleagues. All I know is that they do not want information about Zekrom being released to the public. It is likely that whoever is after us is also linked to Zekrom's mysterious reawakening."
Mott nods in agreement. It would make sense that whoever is behind Zekrom's rampage is also attempting to silence anyone who might be able to stop that destruction.
Lenny and Hilda's conversation has somehow dragged them into the kitchen, where they've begun to mix ingredients together for what looks like some sort of bread. He supposes it's not much of a surprise that they'd end up baking—with Lenny's love for cooking and Hilda's love for baking, it's hard to say who badgered who into the kitchen.
Before Mott can suggest they join the two of them so that he's not alone with the scariest woman in the world, the door bursts open and slams into the wall. Mott turns, expecting some towering, enraged thug, only to come face to face with empty air. That is, until he looks down.
Way, way down.
On the welcome mat, aggressively scuffing their feet, is a little axew. They practically stomp the mud off their stubby legs and throw the door back into place before taking a huge gulp of air and bellowing, "MOM! MAMA! I'M HOME!"
The tubby little dragon turns to storm into the house, only to see Mott's legs. They look up. Mott looks down. They continue to look up.
"MOM! MAMA!" Mott winces as his eardrums throb. "THERE'S A CREEPY MAN IN OUR HOUSE!"
"He's a guest, Amari," Anastasia says, her voice now a soothing balm rather than a chilling force. "Please use your inside voice."
"OKAY MOM! SORRY!"
Amari waddles past them without a care in the world before looking back up and Mott and barking, "SORRY!" and continuing on their merry way. Mott rubs over an ear and watches them disappear into the kitchen.
"Whoever is interested in silencing experts will inevitably come for me," Anastasia continues, as if there'd never been an interruption in their conversation. Anastasia turns her head toward the kitchen, gazing fondly as Hilda shows Amari how to knead dough. "You understand why I cannot let that happen, don't you?"
Lenny's loud, inelegant laugh steals Mott's attention, and his gaze instinctively flicks over. There's a smile on his face and flour on his forehead.
"I understand," he says.
She regards him carefully for another moment before her tension fades and she proclaims, "You do."
He has no idea what convinced her to let her guard down, but he's glad she did. The sharp iciness in her eyes melts into something calmer and more inviting. Without a word, she hovers away from him, drifting down the hall. When she turns and sees that he's not following, she silently gestures him along before vanishing around the corner.
He doesn't waste time. He follows her into the hall, curious to see family portraits on the wall. Anastasia, Hilda, and Amari sit or stand in various poses, drawn or painted in domestic splendor. Never in a million years did he think he'd describe neither Hilda nor Anastasia as 'warm,' but that's the only thought that comes to mind when he sees these pictures.
Eventually, at the end of the small hall, she leads him into a tucked away room that's filled with books. Maps and framed fragments of ancient parchment line the walls, heavily centered around a massive oak desk pressed against a wide window. Mott has seen many studies in his lifetime, but none of them can compare to the sheer intellect he senses in this room. Just by walking in and smelling the faint scent of old books, he can imagine Anastasia bent over her desk for hours, pouring over documents and artifacts.
She approaches a bookcase, shuffling through a few texts before she finds what she's looking for. She pulls out a red, leather-bound book embroidered in gold along the spine. Signs of regular wear of age dot along the cover, and it crackles slightly when she opens it. Carefully placing it on the desk, she flips the stiff pages to the table of contents, perusing it. Mott watches over her shoulder from a distance, refusing to come too close without explicit permission.
After some time of flipping through pages, she lands on one. Beckoning him over, she drifts to the side so he can take a closer look. When he looks down, he has no idea what he's looking at. But it dawns on him an instant later.
"This is an artist's interpretation of Zekrom's stone," she explains, nodding to the image drawn on the page. Mott rakes his eyes over it like he may never see it again, committing each piece to memory: the color, like black obsidian; the perfect smoothness, as smooth as a polished gem; and the intricate engravings around the circumference, depicting a raging thunderstorm. "The interpretation is based on decades of legendary scholarship. Most scholars agree on this interpretation. There's only one problem."
Mott stares at the image a moment longer, somewhat thrown for a loop at the sudden reveal, because it's right there. This stone that he's been searching for, this stone that could end everything—it's right there. Even if it's just an image, the sight of it at all is disorienting. It takes him a long minute to process everything she said. But when he finally does, his head snaps toward her and he repeats, "A problem?"
She nods. "No one knows how big it is."
Mott blinks, allowing himself to digest what she's telling him. "No one knows how… big it is? Why is that a problem?"
"It might not be," she shrugs, returning her gaze to the picture. "It could be as big as you and me. It could be bigger than this apartment. Or—" she turns to him, her expression grave "—it could be as small as a pebble."
Now the problem dawns on Mott. If the stone is incredibly, terribly small, and Mott has the whole, wide-open world to scour for it…
"Oh," he sighs, running a hand down his face. "That is a problem."
She nods in agreement. "Indeed."
They stay there in silence for a long minute, both studying the page as if it will provide them some brand new insight. Nothing sticks out to him. It's not like he's an expert on this stuff, anyway. If anyone were to have a sudden epiphany just by staring at a picture, it would be her. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem like she's having one anytime soon.
After some time, she exhales heavily and shuts the book. Then, unexpectedly, she thrusts it into his arms.
"Here," she states while he fumbles with it. "You may borrow it for as long as you need. There are several passages describing the history of the stone and it's hypothetical whereabouts. Those may be of use to you."
For a second, he's too tongue-tied to speak. But he manages to gather his wits and respond. "Thank you. I'll take good care of it."
She nods. "I've looked into it extensively, myself. I only stopped when the curator in Roselake passed. After her death, I could no longer dig into such information without fear of what may happen to my family as a consequence. But I know enough to get you started. If you have any questions, do not hesitate to ask."
"Certainly," he replies, studying the book in his hands before meeting her gaze. "Thank you again. I know this couldn't have been easy."
She inclines her head but doesn't speak more on the subject. "Please feel free to stay in our guest room."
"Oh, that's not necessary—"
"Nonsense. You are welcome as friends. You may stay as long as needed."
Mott is struck with the realization that once he gets past her cold exterior, Anastasia is actually a pretty chill lady. She's a lot like Hilda, in that way. Underneath all their tough layers, they're rather friendly and easy to get along with. If only they'd let those walls down a little sooner so that Mott wouldn't have felt the urge to pass out at their every interaction. Or, maybe he's the problem, since Lenny has always seemed to get along with them just fine.
Yeah, that's probably it.
"Thank you," he says, struck by how incapable he is to properly express how genuine his gratitude truly is. He puts the book in his satchel with ginger cautiousness. "That means a lot."
She accepts his inadequate appreciation with grace, floating out of the study to show him to the guest room and other areas. As he follows along, he wracks his brain trying to come up with a way to properly thank her—to no avail. He spends the rest of the home tour feeling utterly useless.
They return to the kitchen just as Hilda, Lenny, and Amari are wrapping up their baking. Amari's loud yelling has since quieted down, their eyes drooping open and closed with sleepy slowness. By the time the bread is set to bake overnight, Amari is fast asleep on Hilda's back, snoring as loud as they shout. Mott wonders how their mothers get any sleep at night.
The four of them chat for a few hours, quiet enough to not disturb Amari's slumber. Mott finds himself thoroughly enjoying the conversation no matter what twists or turns it takes. It's been a long time since he's talked with some good friends, other than Lenny of course. Having a nice talk like this is refreshing in it's own way.
After a while, Lenny stretches and yawns, looking about ready to flop over and start snoring himself. Mott nudges him back awake, startling him to his senses. That's about when they all decide they should probably head to bed.
Hilda and Anastasia bid them goodnight, taking Amari to their room to put them to bed. Mott shows Lenny to the guest room, walking slow enough so that Lenny can lean against him. When they get to the room, Lenny wastes no time falling onto the bed.
Mott cracks a grin. "Tired?"
Lenny groans into the pillows in response.
He can't help the light laugh that escapes him as he blows out the candlelight, leaving only the one at a nearby desk burning. Tugging a blanket over Lenny, still wary of wounds that are no longer there, he leaves him to sleep while he goes to stand at the desk. Reaching into his satchel, he pulls out the text Anastasia lent him. He runs his eyes over the cover for a long moment, soaking it all in before he opens the book.
With information on the stone now in his possession, Mott wants to extract everything he can from the book as soon as possible. He's sick of being on an aimless quest—especially a quest that he's not even sure why he's set on completing anymore—and he wants to bring some clarity to it all. He wants to see an end to this mission that nearly killed Lenny. If he has a chance to discover something new, he's going to leap on it. Even if it takes him all night.
It's the least he could do, after everything he's done.
Opening to the table of contents, he peruses the chapters. There's… a lot. The book is thick, he shouldn't have expected anything less, but he's still slightly overwhelmed by the sheer amount of contents stuffed between the pages. One-hundred and seventeen chapters seems like overkill, doesn't it?
It doesn't matter. He'll dedicate all his time and energy to this book and get through it. He'll read ten chapters a day so that he can finish in a little over a week. That will give him time to review with Anastasia and fully understand the content before he dives back into the hone in on key passages. It'll be intense, there's no question of that, but he'll just have to endure it. Anastasia has given him an opportunity to make himself useful. He's not going to squander it.
The first chapter is titled What is Zekrom's Stone? A Brief Synopsis on the Existence of a Legendary Stone. Much like the title, the chapter is very much not brief. Mott stifles a sigh, flipping through over fifty pages of academic jargon. He braces himself to read ten chapters before going to bed tonight, turning to chapter one and starting to read.
...He gets about two paragraphs in before his mind wanders off the page.
Snapping his attention back, he forces himself to reread those two paragraphs to remind himself what he just read before trying to tackle the third paragraph. Four sentences in, he's convinced this paragraph is a misprint. How the heck did the author jump from point A to point B so fast? This makes no sense!
He doesn't know how many hours pass as he painstakingly, agonizingly moves from one page to the next. All he knows is that it costs him an exhausting amount of brainpower and willpower. Eventually, it grows so taxing that he's worrying he's forgetting how to read.
He narrows his eyes at the page in front of him and spends a good ten minutes trying to decipher the language he should already know before a soft rustling of sheets disturbs him. From behind him, in the bed, Lenny drowsily calls, "Mott? What are you still doing up?"
Glaring intently at the word 'the' at the beginning of the next sentence, in the midst of trying to determine whether or not it's a real word, he answers, "Reading."
"It's late." Sure enough, when Mott glances outside the window, the moon is high in the sky. "Come to bed."
Mott opens the window a crack, hoping the fresh air might invigorate him or give him some brain cells. All it does is flicker the candle and make the incoherent words dance around on the page. "In a minute."
Other than the gentle whispering of the breeze, there is no sound in the room. It doesn't help him focus. Nothing helps him focus. How can he focus on something so incomprehensible? But after a minute, the sound of the bedsheets moving and the floorboards creaking distracts him from his attempts at not being distracted. Lenny comes over, leaning against him and yawning.
"What are you reading?" He wonders, squinting at the book like it's hurting his eyes.
Mott exhales heavily, almost like a sigh. "It's a book Anastasia lent me. It has information on Zekrom's stone."
"Have you found anything interesting?"
How is he supposed to tell Lenny that he's found nothing? That he hasn't even finished the first chapter? That he's already forgotten everything he's read? That he hasn't accomplished a single thing?
He can't tell him that. After all he's put Lenny through, he can't add 'being a useless partner' on top of it.
Clenching his jaw, he turns the page. "I'm getting there."
Lenny nods, resting his head on his. Mott's not sure if he's watching Mott read or if he's falling asleep again. He considers nudging Lenny back to bed before Lenny pipes up.
"This is supposed to be read?" He asks, incredulous. "How's anyone in their right mind gonna understand a lick of this?"
Mott stares at a page, tapping his fingers against it. "It's old academic prose. Very, very old."
"I mean, I know I'm not the best at reading, but those don't even look like words to me," he argues, bending down to take a closer look. "Sheesh. I sure am lucky to have you around to translate this nonsense for me."
Mott swallows the lump in his throat. He's read plenty of academic pieces in his time, thrust onto him by tutor after tutor, but this text is a beast unlike anything he's ever picked apart. Of course the one time Lenny needs him to pull through with something like this, he can't.
No. No way. He can't let Lenny down, not again.
He picks up the book, preparing to go somewhere else with it and maybe find a spark of inspiration, only for his weary legs to trip over themselves and for the book to go flying out of his hands and out the window.
"Uh-oh," Lenny says as Mott hits the ground.
Sprawled out on the hard, wooden floor, Mott stares at the far wall in silent shock. Did he seriously just throw the book out the window?!
Scrambling to his feet, he races to the window and throws his head out in a desperate search. Scanning the ground, he finds it soon enough—lying face down and open in a mud puddle.
The book that was going to bring an end to all this, and he threw it out the window.
Okay. Fine. Okay.
Mott sits down in the middle of the floor, not unlike a fussy toddler and hangs his head in exhausted resignation. He feels his whole body shut down, like a machine that just sputtered and died. He's just so tired, more weary and rundown than he's ever been. It's not just physical, either; there's a hollowness in his chest that aches and drains him.
That book was his ticket to making himself useful. And he just threw it out the goddamn window.
It's not long before Lenny sits cross-legged in front of him, tilting his head and regarding him with sympathy. Mott can barely bring himself to meet Lenny's gaze, overwhelmed with guilt. He doesn't deserve Lenny's sympathy.
"Looks like you took a pretty nasty fall," he remarks, brushing some of Mott's disheveled whiskers back into place. "You okay?"
"Fine."
Silence.
"Mott," Lenny says, a stern frown tugging on his face. "I thought we talked about you holding back your feelings."
He bites the inside of his cheek, hesitant. He doesn't want to bombard Lenny with all his problems. But Lenny is asking him to. And if he's being honest with himself, it would feel nice to talk about it.
Eventually, he relents, and it all comes crashing out.
"I've been trying all day to make myself useful, but nothing is working. I don't feel like I've earned your forgiveness, and I definitely haven't proven myself worthy of being your partner. I thought the book could help me make things up to you by bringing an end to this death mission—" he waves a hand wordlessly, as if trying to catch a hold of his spiralling emotions. "—but I didn't. I can't."
For a moment, Lenny is quiet. Closing his eyes, Mott hangs his head again, despair creeping up his throat. Desperation tears at his heart so viciously he could cry. Then, Lenny's hand gently boops his nose.
"You're already forgiven for what happened in New Crestmount, don't even think of it no more," Lenny assures, smiling at him when he looks up. "Also, you ain't a tool to be used. You don't gotta try and make yourself useful. I'm sure not useful all the time. I bump into things more often than not!"
A laugh bubbles out of Lenny, but Mott can only manage a small smile.
"Besides," he continues, "that book was a whole bunch of nonsense, anywho. We'll get Anastasia to explain it to us tomorrow."
Mott does huff a short laugh, at that. He sobers up and asks, "Are you really satisfied with a partner who's a useless, no-good, waste of time?"
Lenny's brows furrow in confusion. "Do you really think that way about yourself?"
Somewhat pathetically, he wonders, "Why wouldn't I?"
For a long, long moment, Lenny studies him. He appears to be sizing him up, as if looking at Mott from an angle he's never seen before. Mott isn't sure how he feels about the scrutiny. Although Anastasia examined him all day, this doesn't feel the same. Anastasia's was unnerving. Lenny's is almost comforting, for lack of a better word. Like Mott's layers are being peeled away, and instead of feeling vulnerable, he feels safe.
"You're none of those things, Mott," Lenny states, his voice soft. He scoots closer, taking Mott's hand between his delicate ones. Holding his breath, Mott gingerly returns the favor, almost afraid of crushing him. "I'm sorry that you feel that way about yourself. But you don't need to prove anything to me—I already know how great you are. I think you need to prove it to yourself."
Mott turns the words over in his mind, contemplating them individually. The thought that Lenny thinks he's great feels too good to be true, almost like it's a lie. Yet, he knows Lenny can't lie to save his life. So, maybe—just maybe—he really doesn't have anything to prove to Lenny despite their recent falling out.
Can it really be that simple? He messed up, tried to fix it, apologized, and now they're okay again? If he'd done something like this to his family, they wouldn't talk to him for a month, at least. Or until they needed something from him.
That would mean the only person he has to convince is himself.
Somehow, that feels a lot harder.
"Maybe I do," he admits, giving Lenny's hand a gentle squeeze.
"Come on!" Lenny urges, jumping to his feet. "Let's go get that book, go to bed, and try again tomorrow!"
They tiptoe down the stairs, taking extreme precaution not to wake the slumbering, snoring dragon as they pass by. When they slip outside of the apartment and wander around to the back, they find the book right where he dropped it and caked with slowly drying mud.
Grimacing, Mott picks it up. Clumps of mud drop from the pages and splat on the ground. Turning over the book, he looks at the pages to see them covered from top to bottom in a thick layer of grime.
"I can't even see the words no more," Lenny comments.
Mott scoffs, "It's not like we could read it, anyway."
His joke ousts an inelegant snort out of Lenny, soon devolving into a fit of bubbly laughter. Mott finds himself grinning and laughing along, thinking that if making Lenny laugh is all he can accomplish tonight, it'll be more than enough.
