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It's not the longest day of Grog's life. It's just damn close.
He doesn't ponder what-ifs much. If a thing is done, it's done—behind him, forgotten. At least, that's how it was. Things have been changing, slowly, so slowly that he—keen though he is—hasn't noticed, so even after drinking with Pike and Kerr and Percy, even after seeing with his own eyes that Scanlan sleeps peacefully, he can't just shake it all off and go to sleep. Something needles him, at the back of his mind, an itch he can't reach.
Kaylie. Through the haze of drink and barely-sidestepped grief, he thinks, Where is Kaylie?
Scanlan wouldn't want her to be by herself. In a town completely unfamiliar to her, wrestling with feelings that Grog can't even imagine, probably. Though his step wavers a bit, he veers wide of the room waiting for him and heads off through the castle.
"Hey," he barks—probably a little too loud—at the first guard he comes across in the foyer, who startles and clatters in his armor, immediately bringing his sword and shield to the read. Dragons, Grog has observed, make people jumpy. "Have you seen a gnome? She has…she looks…" He tries to organize his thoughts. "You know Scanlan?"
The guard, probably deciding that he isn't a dragon, lowers the sword a little. "We don't see many gnomes around here," he says, his voice questioning.
"Look." Grog makes an effort to keep his voice a bit quieter. "You probably don't know, but I'm Grand Poobah de…Something…of All of This and That, and it's very important for me to know if you've seen a gnome that looks like Scanlan. Female. Short brown hair."
He seems nervous now, fidgety. The shield comes down a little more. "My friend William, he just started his watch maybe half an hour ago? Said something about a gnome girl down in the tavern before he came up. Said she was challenging all manner of folk to a brawl. Seemed like no one was taking her up on it. I thought he was just spinning yarn, but—"
"The great house of All of This and That thanks you," Grog says, and pushes past the bemused guard, out into the cool night air of Whitestone.
He takes a few wrong turns on the way there. Despite the sobering effect of Whitestone's chill, the drink sticks, and beneath it, exhaustion pulls even at his hearty bones. He finds his way eventually, though, and pushes the door to the place open.
There's not much left, and most of them have dropped like flies, half-sprawled over tables here and there. An old man nurses his drink in the corner, muttering, and the barkeep turns a page in his book, but besides him, the only person still upright is Kaylie: perched on a barstool, hunched over her drink, brown hair all ruffled up around her head.
The barkeep looks up, and his eyes widen. Grog doesn't know him, but it's clear he knows Grog. It's still weird, all these regular civilized people brightening up at the sight of him. His herd and all that is a long time past, but he still expects fear before gratitude.
"Strongjaw!" The barkeep starts bustling around in his cabinets. "I've got whatever you want, sir, on the house."
Kaylie doesn't even turn around. She snorts, hunching further over her drink. "Sir," she tells the mug, like it's a joke, and snickers. The barkeep shoots her a disapproving look.
"Ale," Grog says, weaving around the tables and passed-out patrons. "Whatever you've got." He hauls himself onto the stool beside Kaylie's, giving her mug a sideways look. "And one for my friend, here."
"Ah—I think she's had enough—"
"You heard the man!" Kaylie says, in a boisterous voice that doesn't even slur, even though she's probably been drinking for hours, now. She's an actor, this one, just like Scanlan. Grog can't help but like her.
Still with that look like he's been sniffing an outhouse, the barkeep pours them both generous mugs of ale and retreats down to the other end of the bar with his book, scowling.
Kaylie takes a deep swig and lets out a gusty exhale afterward. "So? What do you want?"
Grog thinks. He's been doing an awful lot of that, lately. Everything used to be so clear. Bad people crossed him, or his friends, and he'd mess them up. Mostly left everything else up to the thinkers, followed their lead. But he feels—not dimly, but strongly—that this is something he's better suited for than any of them.
"I know something," he says, "about family that hurts you."
She squints up at him, her small mouth twisted into a scowl. "Do you, now? I suppose you think forgiveness is in order, no matter what happened before, just because he died helping save the world?"
"No."
"Well, I think that—" She stops short, as if the word has only just hit her. Her frown softens a little. "No? What do you mean, no?"
"No is no. Straightforward. You aren't that drunk."
She blinks. If she wasn't as good an actor, he thinks she'd have smiled.
"Well then, big man. Since that's not what you think, what do you think?"
Grog takes a long drink of his ale. "Scanlan's one of my best friends."
"Yeah, I heard you earlier. Touching stuff." She doesn't look like it touched her. She's got that hard, flinty look in her eyes again.
"I think he's a good person," Grog says, just to put it out there. In case it helps. "I mean, who else goes after dragons? You've got to be good, right, to do that? I guess I wouldn't know about being good," he adds, in a mutter. "I'm a fucking goliath."
She snorts, taking a pull of her ale. The mug's too big in her small hands.
"But he did it," he goes on. "Still. That doesn't make up for everything else. I know it doesn't. He knows it doesn't. Listen, my herd left me for dead when I was young. Even if it'd turned out that Kevdak killed all the dragons and gave all the treasure back to the people it belonged to, I still wouldn't have wanted anything to do with him. Still would've wanted to kill him."
Her features ease a little more. He's not looking at her, not straight-on, but he gets a glimpse of her face when he lifts his mug to his mouth. She's listening, at least.
"He's alive," Grog says. "That's not much, when he's done what he did to you. But he did a good thing, and he's alive."
"He promised." Her voice is still hard, but quieter. "The only thing I ever asked for from him. Stay alive. He couldn't even fucking do that."
"Yeah." Grog turns his mug. "I know."
They sit in silence for a moment, drinking their ale in turns.
"So what, big man," Kaylie says. She sounds tired now, not so hard. When she's not posturing, which he thinks is probably always, she just seems like a kid. A sad, tired kid. "What's your wisdom? What's your advice?"
"Don't have any. Just my opinion."
She makes a hurry-up motion with her hand, the gesture wobbling.
"He's trying." He thinks of the body, the cold of it. "You deserve…you deserve better. You shouldn't have to endure it while he keeps fucking up. But he's going to. This is new to him. New to you, too. If you want to be in his life…if you want him to be in yours…then it's going to hurt before it gets better. But he's trying. I've seen it. If it makes any difference to you, he's different. He wanted to come back to you. And Vox Machina is here. To help him fix it when he fucks up. Like today."
Grog drains his ale. Mouth feels awfully dry after a speech like that.
"I came, didn't I?" Her face has gone slack, the tension draining out. "Even after all he's done to me, I came."
He nods. In silence, the barkeep comes over to refill both their mugs, and just as quietly backs away, as if afraid now to intrude. Grog thinks he looks a little apologetic, even. Good. Kid deserves a lot of apologies.
"He's exactly what I thought he would be." She doesn't drink, just stares into the murky liquid. "And he's also nothing like I thought he would be. I just…keep hoping. For something. I don't know what."
"So stay," he says. "And find out. Or leave, and make your own family."
She glances up at him, eyes searching. If she's looking for answers, it's the wrong face to turn to. He only has commiseration, understanding. That'll have to do.
"So that's why you're with these people." A furrow forms between her brows. "What, they never disappoint you? Hurt you?"
"Nah, they do. But they try to fix it." He shrugs his massive shoulders. "Better than before."
There's no drinking in this silence. She seems to mull it over, a good long while—or maybe the ale has sufficiently clouded her mind at last.
"Well," she says, finally. "I guess that's something."
He clears his throat. "Thank you," he tells her. "For coming. For helping. He's my family, too. I know you're a tough bard, only in it for yourself, and all that, but…thanks anyway."
She laughs—so loud and bright and abrupt that the barkeep startles and drops his book, and the drunk back in the corner falls off his chair with a loud thump. "Don't get sappy," she says, even though the glint in her eyes looks more like a tear than flint. "Hey, what do those knuckles of yours do, anyway?"
He glances down at them, and—for the second time that day—pulls them off. "Want to find out?"
In retrospect, maybe not one of his smarter ideas. Vex is upset with him about pulling from their funds to pay for the damages, and the barkeep looks on him with exasperation every time he passes through the tavern for the next month.
But it's for family. Grog would do just about anything for family.