ThreeDeeBlocks

The doctor had always been known for his composure, cold, precise, unshakable. But now, seated at the worn wooden bar in Oakhurst, there was a faint flush creeping across his face, softening the edges of that reputation. The lanternlight caught it just enough to betray him.

Between his hands sat a sturdy wooden tankard, its surface smooth but not overly polished, the grain still visible beneath careful craftsmanship. He turned it slowly, thumb tracing along the carved rim as if committing it to memory. He remembered when Ren had asked Owen to make these, offhand, almost casual. And yet the result was anything but.

It was… excellent.

Owen had always been good with his hands.

The thought lingered longer than it should have.

He took another sip, slower this time, letting the taste settle. His gaze dipped back to the tankard, turning it again, more absent-minded now. There was something grounding about it, the weight, the warmth of the wood. Something human.

What else could those hands do?

“Ye look like yer courtin’ the thing, Doc.”

Ren’s voice broke through his thoughts, easy and amused. The man leaned across the bar, already reaching for the bottle without waiting for an answer. His words rolled together in that peculiar, ever-shifting cadence of his, rounded in some places, clipped in others, like he’d picked up pieces of half a dozen places and refused to let any of them go.

“Need a top-up, yeah?”

The doctor didn’t protest. He simply nudged the tankard forward a fraction.

“You made this, Ren?” he asked, quieter than intended.

“Aye—well, not the cup itself, nah, that’s yer lumber lad’s work don’t ya know.” Ren tipped the bottle, filling the tankard with practiced ease. “But what’s inside? That’s mine. Brewed it meself. Took a bit o’ trial, bit o’ error… more error than I’d like t’admit, eh.”

He chuckled at his own expense, but there was a clear note of pride beneath it.

As he spoke, he didn’t stop moving, wiping the counter, adjusting bottles, gesturing loosely with the rag in his hand as he explained his process. Something about grains, about timing, about temperature. The doctor didn’t follow all of it. He didn’t need to.

He nodded where it felt right. Offered the occasional quiet “Mm.” or “I see.”

And drank. One tankard became two. Two became something less countable.

The warmth settled in his chest first, then spread, loosening something in his shoulders, softening the sharp edges of his thoughts. Ren’s voice blurred at the edges, but his enthusiasm didn’t. That, if anything, became clearer.

“…an’ then I thought, right, what if I just—hear me out—leave it a day longer, yeah? Turns out, best decision I made all week!”

The doctor watched him as he spoke, really watched him this time. The easy grin, the bright eyes, the unguarded pride in something he’d made with his own hands.

It stirred something old.

Familiar.

He had seen that look before, on younger soldiers, fresh to the field. Before reality dulled them. Before experience carved away at that brightness.

Before it carved away at him.

He had been like that once, hadn’t he?

Hopeful. Certain. Alive in a way that had nothing to do with survival.

His lips curved faintly, almost without his permission, as he looked down into his drink. The reflection there wavered with the motion of the liquid, unsteady.

The military had been many things.

Harsh. Unforgiving. Cruel in ways that didn’t leave visible scars. But… A quiet exhale slipped from him, something close to a laugh following after. It had its moments. Strange ones. Absurd ones. The kind that only made sense when everything else didn’t.

He lifted the tankard slightly, not quite a toast, not quite anything at all. Just… acknowledgement. And took another drink.

The doctor’s gaze drifted from the tankard at last, lifting toward the two men beside him, Ren, still half-busy behind the bar, and Sausage, lounging with that ever-watchful, knowing look.

There was a pause. A breath. Then, with a faint, crooked smile tugging at his lips, he spoke.

“Have I ever told you about the time one of my soldiers thought he was dying,” he began, voice smoother now, looser with the drink, “because, in his words, his… cock was falling off?”

Ren barked a short laugh immediately. “Now that sounds like a story worth hearin’.”

Sausage leaned in slightly, intrigued. “I already don’t trust where this is going.”

The doctor huffed something that might’ve been a laugh into his drink before continuing.

“It was early morning. Barely light out. I was going over reports when this private comes tearing into my tent without so much as an indication he was coming inside—panic-stricken, half-dressed, shouting like the world was ending.”

He gestured vaguely with his hand, as if the memory itself was still loud.

“‘Sir! Sir, it’s falling off!’ he kept saying. Over and over. I thought he’d lost a limb, or been attacked in the night.”

Ren was already grinning. “Oh no…”

“Oh yes,” the doctor muttered. “Took me a solid minute to get anything coherent out of him. Eventually he blurts out that he’d spent the previous night with a… local professional.” A brief, dry glance between them. “And now he was convinced he’d contracted something catastrophic.”

Sausage snorted softly. “Naturally.”

“He described it as swollen. Discolored. ‘Turning black,’ I believe was the phrasing.” The doctor took another sip, entirely unfazed. “At that point, I had no choice but to examine him. He was convinced it was the end.”

Ren leaned on the bar, fully invested now. “Don’t leave us hangin’, Doc. What was it?”

The doctor’s expression flattened slightly, though amusement flickered beneath it.

“I told him to hold still. He didn’t. I told him again. He barely did.” A pause. “And then I found the cause.”

He let the silence stretch just a second too long.

Sausage raised a brow. “Well?”

The doctor glanced between them, utterly deadpan. “A leech.”

Ren froze, then doubled over laughing. “No—no, you’re jokin’—!”

“I am not.”

“The poor bastard—!” Ren wheezed, gripping the counter for support.

Sausage covered his mouth, somewhere between horrified and entertained. “That is unfortunate.”

“He had wandered off near the marshlands the night before,” the doctor continued, as if delivering a clinical report. “Combination of poor judgment and worse luck. The creature had attached itself somewhere… inconvenient.”

Ren was still laughing, shaking his head. “An’ here he is thinkin’ it’s just—what, karma catchin’ up to him don’t ya know?”

“Something like that,” the doctor said dryly. “He was convinced he’d doomed himself entirely.”

“And you just—what? Pulled it off?” Sausage asked, wincing slightly.

The doctor gave a small shrug. “Carefully. Which, for the record, is not something one does while the patient is shouting and attempting to flee.”

Ren wiped at his eyes. “I’m never complainin’ about a bad day again, I swear.”

The doctor allowed himself a quiet, satisfied sip of his drink.

“He was fine,” he added after a moment. “Embarrassed. Traumatized, perhaps. But alive.”

Sausage shook his head, still smiling. “That might be worse, honestly.”

“Mm,” the doctor hummed. “He did avoid me for several weeks afterward.”

Ren snorted. “Can’t imagine why.”

For a moment, the three of them sat in the warmth of the story, the laughter, the absurdity of it. The doctor’s expression softened again, something distant flickering behind his eyes.

Strange, ridiculous moments. The kind that stayed with you.

He turned his tankard slowly in his hands once more, the faintest smile lingering as he murmured,

“The things people panic over…”

Sausage tilted his head, a grin already forming. “You’ve got more of those, don’t you?”

Ren didn’t even wait for an answer, he was already topping up the doctor’s tankard again, amber liquid sloshing gently against the wood. “Ah, go on, Doc. One more. Yer just gettin’ started don’t ya know.”

The doctor exhaled softly through his nose, but there was no real resistance in it. The flush on his face had deepened now, a noticeable warmth spreading up to the tips of his ears. He turned the tankard once in his hands, as if considering, then gave a small, conceding nod.

“I do,” he said. “Though this one is… less unfortunate for the patient, and more unfortunate for everyone else involved.”

Sausage leaned forward immediately. “Even better.”

The doctor took a slow sip before beginning, his voice settling into that storytelling cadence again, measured, but looser now, softened at the edges.

“We had captured a higher-ranking officer from the other side,” he said. “Not in any particularly dramatic fashion, either. He’d been moving between positions—escort was light, confidence a bit too high. We intercepted the group before they realized what was happening.”

He tilted the tankard slightly, watching the liquid shift. “Quick operation. Clean. He didn’t even try to run—just… looked annoyed, more than anything else. As if we’d inconvenienced him.”

A faint exhale left him, something close to amusement. “Which, I suppose, we had.”

Ren gave a low whistle. “Unlucky lad.”

“Quite,” the doctor murmured. “Now, ordinarily, the plan was simple—he would be exchanged for prisoners. Quick, clean, efficient. But before that could happen…” He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. “There was curiosity.”

“Curiosity,” Sausage repeated, amused. “That never ends well.”

“No,” the doctor agreed. “It rarely does.”

He shifted slightly in his seat, resting an elbow against the bar.

“The man had a survival kit with him. Standard issue, but… impressive. Food rations, medical supplies, signaling tools. Everything neatly packed, well-designed.” A small pause. “There was even fishing equipment.”

Ren let out a soft, impressed hum. “They really thought o’ everythin’, eh?”

“They did,” the doctor said. “And naturally, everyone wanted a look.”

His fingers tapped idly against the side of the tankard as he continued. “The kit was opened. Examined. Then, inevitably… divided.”

Sausage snorted. “Of course it was.”

“Rank has its privileges,” the doctor said dryly. “Those of higher standing took the majority. The rest of us received… scraps.”

Ren shook his head, chuckling. “Sounds about right.”

“There was one item in particular,” the doctor went on, “a small tin of preserved meat. It drew quite a bit of attention. Everyone wanted to try it.”

“And I’m guessin’ not everyone got to?” Ren asked.

The doctor gave him a look. “The two highest-ranking officers present took it for themselves,” he said. “Exclusively.”

Sausage laughed under his breath. “Naturally.”

“They made quite a show of it, too,” the doctor added, voice flattening just enough to hint at his opinion on the matter. “Drinks were poured. Toasts made. They opened the tin as though it were some rare delicacy.”

Ren was already grinning. “Ah, I don’t like where this is goin’…”

“They claimed it was exceptional,” the doctor continued. “Unlike anything they had tasted before. Rich. Unique. They were… very pleased with themselves.”

Sausage pressed his lips together, clearly holding back laughter. The doctor took another drink, slower this time, before finishing.

“Shortly after, the vehicle arrived to take the captured officer for exchange. Before he left, the two officers, still quite satisfied with themselves, decided to ask him about the meat. Through an interpreter.”

Ren leaned in. “And?”

He paused, just briefly, as if savoring the memory.

“At first, he didn’t understand,” the doctor continued. “He looked at them—confused. Said he hadn’t been carrying any kind of meat. Not that he knew of, at least.”

Sausage was already starting to grin.

“The interpreter repeated the question. The officers insisted, very proud, the meat, the one from the small tin.” A faint shift of the doctor’s brows. “This only seemed to confuse him more.”

Ren let out a quiet, anticipatory laugh. “Oh no…”

“He kept shaking his head,” the doctor said. “Until, eventually, they showed him the tin itself.”

Another pause.

“He looked at it,” he went on, voice steady, “and then back at them. ‘Ah,’ he said.” The doctor’s expression remained perfectly composed. “‘Those were worms. Fishing bait.’”

There was a beat of silence until Ren choked on his own breath, doubling over the bar. “No—no, you’re lyin’—!”

Sausage lost it entirely, laughter breaking out sharp and loud. “They— they ate it—?!”

The doctor, for his part, simply lifted the tankard again, as composed as he could manage in his current state.

“They did,” he said. “And they seemed to enjoy it.”

Ren was wheezing now, barely upright. “I— I can’t— oh, that’s foul—!”

Sausage wiped at his eyes. “Did they find out?”

The doctor took a measured sip, then lowered the tankard with quiet finality.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Eventually.” A faint, almost imperceptible smile pulled at his lips. “It was… not a good day for morale.”

The laughter didn’t die down all at once, it lingered, breaking into smaller bursts, the kind that caught you off guard just when you thought you’d recovered. Ren was still shaking his head behind the bar, muttering to himself with a grin, while Sausage leaned back in his chair, one hand pressed to his face like he was trying, and failing, to compose himself.

“Worms,” Ren said again, like he still couldn’t quite believe it. “They sat there and ate worms like it was a feast.”

Sausage snorted. “Not just ate—praised it. That’s the part that kills me.”

The doctor let out a quieter laugh this time, low, a little breathy, and far more unguarded than anything he’d allowed earlier. He lifted his tankard, only to realize it was nearly empty, and stared at it for a second as if it had personally betrayed him.

“…they were very enthusiastic about it,” he added, almost helpfully.

“That makes it worse!” Ren shot back immediately, pointing at him. “You’re not helpin’ their case, Doc!”

“I’m not trying to,” the doctor said, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m simply being accurate.”

Sausage shook his head, still grinning. “I’m never trusting any mystery meat again. Ever.”

“A wise decision,” the doctor replied, nodding with perhaps a bit more seriousness than the statement deserved.

Ren reached for the bottle again out of habit, already tilting it toward the tankard. “Ah, go on—one more for the road, yeah? You’re in rare form tonight don’t ya know.”

The doctor watched the motion for a second too long. 

Tempting.

Very tempting.

He tapped two fingers lightly against the side of the tankard, considering… then exhaled and gently pushed it back an inch.

“No,” he said, though there was no real sharpness to it. “That would be a mistake.”

Ren raised a brow. “That bad, eh?”

The doctor gave a small, amused hum. “Not yet.”

He placed both hands on the bar and pushed himself up from the stool, slower this time, more deliberate. Even so, there was a slight sway as he found his footing, a subtle shift that made him pause for half a second.

Sausage caught it immediately. “Careful.”

“I am being careful,” the doctor replied, though the faint smile hadn’t quite left his face.

Ren snorted. “Aye, the floor’s just moved on ye, that’s all.”

“The floor,” the doctor said, glancing down briefly as if to confirm, “is behaving exactly as expected.” He took a step, and adjusted mid-step, correcting himself with practiced ease. It wasn’t graceful, but it was controlled. “…mostly.”

That earned another laugh from Sausage.

The doctor straightened, smoothing down his coat out of habit. The motion was still there, but looser now, less precise, like the edges of him had been softened just enough to show through.

“You’re leavin’ already?” Ren asked, though there was no real protest in it, just curiosity.

The doctor glanced between them, something lighter in his expression now, easier.

“If I stay,” he said, “I will continue talking.”

Sausage grinned. “That’s the idea.”

“Yes,” the doctor agreed. “That is precisely the problem.”

Ren laughed, pointing at him again. “Ahh, so there are worse stories!”

The doctor tilted his head slightly, considering that.

“…yes,” he said simply.

That answer alone was enough to make both of them react, Ren with a loud ohhh, Sausage with a sharp, delighted laugh.

“Now you have to stay,” Sausage insisted. “You can’t just say that and leave.”

“I can,” the doctor replied, far too calm for someone swaying slightly where he stood. “And I will.”

Ren leaned forward on the counter. “Just one more hint, yeah? C’mon—was it worse than the leech?”

The doctor paused halfway to turning away, considering them with a thoughtful, slightly unfocused gaze. With perfect seriousness: 

“There was a goat involved.” 

Silence.

“…I’m not elaborating,” he added immediately, lifting a hand to cut off whatever came next.

Sausage lost it first, laughter breaking out all over again. “No—no, you can’t just drop that—!”

Ren was grinning like he’d just been handed a gift. “Oh, I’m rememberin’ that one. Next time, Doc, you’re not gettin’ away that easy.”

“Next time,” the doctor echoed, the words softer, but not dismissive.

He gave a small nod, something between a farewell and an acknowledgment, before stepping back from the bar. There was still that faint sway to him, but it came with less resistance now, like he’d stopped fighting it quite so hard.

“Enjoy your evening,” he said, voice warm in a way it hadn’t been at the start. Then, as he turned to go, he added over his shoulder, “And if either of you ever find a tin you can’t identify…”

Ren immediately pointed at Sausage. “He’s eatin’ it first.”

“Absolutely not—!”

The doctor let out a quiet, amused breath, almost a laugh, as he headed for the door, the sound lingering just a moment behind him.