for the fic title ask meme: "Diagnosis: Pickles"
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Molly and Jester have another jar of pickles between the two of them, and Fjord watches in disgusted fascination as they inhale them, one-by-one. He glances over at Beau, who’s also watching with a twisted expression on her face. She catches his eye and gives him a shrug, as if to say what can you do?
Jester doesn’t seem to notice their staring, but Molly’s brow is raised, daring someone - probably Beau, if Fjord’s being honest - to comment. None of them say anything, though. The crunch of pickles and the soft fwhoosh of Caleb turning pages of a spellbook are the only sounds in the room for a solid five minutes, before Nott breaks it.
“Can I have a pickle?”
There’s only one left in the jar, but Jester hands it over to Nott with nothing more than a little flourish. Fjord smiles a bit as Nott cocks her head to the side and gnaws on the pickle like she’s a dog and it’s a fresh bone. She’s an interesting one, Nott. He doesn’t know quite what to think of her yet.
“Okay, that’s fucking gross,” says Beau, drawing Fjord’s attention back to her and the tieflings. He grimaces when he sees what she’s talking about: Molly’s chugging the pickle juice straight from the jar. Jester wrestles it from his grip before he can drink it all, and he wipes his face with the back of his hand, leaving behind a satisfied smirk.
Jester throws her head back and downs the rest of the juice like it’s a shot, and then she pauses, looking thoughtful, as if she were trying to discern the subtle flavors of a fine wine. Fjord doubts there’s enough depth of flavor in pickling brine for that kind of thought.
“Molly,” she says, “you tasted the water Fjord threw up?”
“Yeah?”
“Did it taste anything like pickle juice?”
“They were both salty.”
Jester’s head whips around as she goes from facing Molly to Fjord at a breakneck speed. Fjord already knows what she’s going to say before she says it, and from the way Beau’s already stifling her laughter, everyone else knows it, too.
“Fjord, you’re salty, you’re green,” Jester says, somehow keeping a straight face, “you’re turning into a pickle.”
