amicably_absent | (no subject)

(no subject)

Ambrose, even more than Glitch, made an effort to make himself inconspicuous when he went out into the public arena. He could cope with a large group of strangers he didn't have to address or acknowledge. He had more trouble in some ways, but walking the streets he could manage. He shrugged on his coat, enjoying the swing and heft of the cloth as he started out of the palace.

He hadn't walked this path, but Glitch had and he hoped that that might carry true. But if it didn't, he had left early and had time to let Glitch get directions.

He didn't have a wonderful sense of time, but he knew he needed to be there when the sun was directly over head. So when it was getting close, and the shadows were short and sharp, Ambrose slipped back to let Glitch wander up a side street where some people lurked. "Hello?"

They paused and looked to him, squinting with narrowed eyes. "What?"

"Can you help me? I'm a little lost." Glitch smiled at them.

"I'll say you are, head case." One of the men stood. "Central City doesn't have the time or resources for your type."

"My type?" He looked around as they all started standing up. Something in him vaguely and dimly rang caution.

"Your type. Murders. Rapists. Filth." One of them spat on the ground. "Taking food out of our mouths."

"Hey, what? No. I was a political dissenter!" He stood up straight, pushing his hair back. "I lost my brain for Queen and country."

Oh, well then," one of them said in an odd tone. "I suppose that makes it all right then. You better go about your business."

Glitch smiled, relieved that they were such reasonable, nice guys. "Hey, thanks!"

He turned to walk off again, already having forgotten why he had tracked them down to begin with.

Then something hit him in the back of the head. There was a flare of pain, thick and wet and sharp. His vision fuzzed and darkened, and he felt his knees hit the pavement.

"Be careful. Promise me."

Ambrose heard footsteps. He flipped up onto his hands, kicking backwards and slamming his feet into jaw and chin, head snapping back under the force of Ambrose's kick. He landed with his feet spread, standing over the man's fallen body before looking back over one shoulder with a dark, heavy look.

He ducked a second rock, spinning and dropping into the form stance, one hand out stretched, the other hooked over his head, fingers curled.

His eyes went wide as the gun was pulled out. He twisted as there was the crack of the shot, heat scalding through his coat and over his ribs. He was running forwards already, fly kicking the gunman in the chest, foot snapping up and down onto his chest, standing there he rounded the maneuver with a high kick, spinning to kick his boot heel into the third man's face.

He backed off, the three of them groaning. The remaining three men were looking at each other warily, and at him.

A few steps back, and he had enough space to get away.

He turned and ran, trying to get out of the city. Central City was dangerous. The Longcoats were waiting, ever waiting and the Longcoats were bad.

He had to get to the safe place. Where he wouldn't be hurt. The place with the coffin.

Dodging more people, quiet and dizzy, he slipped through the city and out into the field and woodlands around it.

He liked beaches. There was a beach down by the water. That would go to the safe place, he was sure.

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Glitch looks back around, eyes wide and startled. "You have the most lovely blue eyes," he sighs out softly. "Such a lovely, forget-me-not blue."

He smiles softly, touched by the compliment, but his focus is elsewhere. He needs to know they're both okay. "Ambrose? Can you hear me?"

The big dark eyes keep watching him with that absent amiability, blinking occasionally.

After long moments, there's a bright smile. "Hi! Do I know- oh, of course I do. Wyatt, you look awful."

He imagines he must, with a four day stubble and going on barely any sleep or food in as much time. His voice is quietly hopeful, despite the strain of speaking out loud. "Ambrose? How are you feeling?"

"Who's Ambrose," he asked with a slightly distant smile.

He swallows, hoping against hope it's just a bad glitch or two courtesy of the head injury. "Come on, Sweetheart. Let's get you indoors."

He'll let Glitch prattle on about whatever he wants, he'll listen gladly while tending to his injuries and preparing a bath for him while they wait for Raw and the verdict. Being hit in the head by a rock is bad enough if you don't have the medical record Glitch does.

He hopes the brain damage isn't extensive. He hopes it can be fixed. He'll expect the worst case scenario.

DG's waiting on the porch, and stands up when they come closer. "Everything's ready except the bath, Mister Cain. I...didn't know what else to do."

"Raw?"

She nods. "He's on his way. They're coming by car."

Glitch shrugs and follows, chattering away about why the sky is blue and why clouds don't fall down despite being made of water vapour.

He listens to their conversation, not really following it. He doesn't know why the nice girl would roar. "Do I know you," he asks her. "You have lovely blue eyes as well! I knew a lady with eyes like yours, but not..."

He looks off somewhere else. "Oh! It's the cottage! With the coffin!"

"Yes it is," DG smiles. "I'm DG, Glitch. I'm one of your friends."

The make their way inside, Wyatt constantly checking Glitch's feet in case of stumbling. Inside, the bed's made, there's a few items of clothing laid out on the covers, too big but clean and soft.

"We'll cook something," he tells the young woman. "Leave the bath for later, he just needs his wounds checked and cleaned."

"Right. I'll fry something!" She scurries to do just that, leaving Wyatt to take care of Glitch in the meantime.

"Sit down, Sweetheart," there's a bowl of lukewarm water and a rag on the kitchen table.

"DG is a nice name. I-" He pauses, the thought gone again. "Never mind."

He comes to sit down, not removing his coat or anything else, mostly steady as he sinks into the chair. He looks at his hands, still red stained, and sniffs them. "My hands smell sweet." He licks a finger. "Fruit nectar?"

"Maybe." He picks up the rag, soaking it in the water and wringing out with even, measured movements, then starts cleaning away the worst of the stains on Glitch's face and neck.

Glitch starts at the voice. "Maybe what?"

He wrinkles his nose at the cleaning. "What...? Ow!" He pouts. "My head hurts."

"Raw's on his way here, he'll make it better." He'd make nurse Rennie proud, he'll bet, if she were here to see him now. In the background, DG flits in and out of the cabin, fetching things. Before long, the entire house, small though it is, will smell of food.

The stitches are ripped and popped, but thankfully not infected. The large gash at the back of his head isn't so lucky. It runs through his hair in a sharp 'v'from the corner of the brick.

And the bullet hole is apparent when Glitch absently lifts his jacket to stick his finger through it, wiggling it about.

His insides knotting at the sight, Wyatt carefully removes the black curls stuck in or near the gash and matted with blood and other fluids.

Seeing the hole in his jacket put on display sends another stab through his gut, and it's a wonder he manages to so calmly pull the coat off Glitch's shoulders and down his arms. He crouches beside him. "Let me see that."

Glitch slides his finger out as the coat is taken away, folding his hands in his lap and watching the window for a moment. "See what," he asks mildly.

The vest shows the rip from the bullet. The shirt underneath is black and red, black with burn and red with blood. It's just a graze, seared shut with the heat and slightly yellow with infection.

"I think I'd like a nap sometime..."

He puts the rag away to lift the shirt up and off, silent and growing colder by the minute. Once it's off, he cleans that wound too, and he has no idea why his hands don't shake the way everything else does on the inside. Raw will help. He always does, and where would they be without his generous soul?

"You need to eat something first, Glitch," DG points out helpfully from in front of the stove. Eggs and sausage and tea seemed like the quickest thing to make, and if you pay any attention to dietary propaganda (not that she ever did, really), protein seems to be the next big thing.

Glitch lifts his arm helpfully, letting Wyatt clean the gunshot with a minimum of fuss except the occasional hiccup gasp of pain as the infection is irritated by touch.

He doesn't feel clean. "I went for a swim. And found some trees. There was lovely pomegranates."

Which probably explains the red hands.

"First? Before what?" He looks at the food. "Ooh, that smells nice. Wyatt, you need to eat, you look awful."

He murmurs apology for making it worse, grinding his teeth together briefly to keep the choking worry at bay. He'll have something to eat, just to indulge the man he loves, and then... He isn't sure what else, what comes after.

The hands are next to get cleaned up, with long, gentle swipes of damp cloth and warm fingers. "I will."

Glitch stretches his fingers as they're cleaned, giggling slightly. "You should. You're all gaunt and stubbly." He rubs Wyatt's cheek with his clean hand.

"You're reminding me of when we found you in that tin suit, Wyatt."

"I's been a rough few days." He breathes in, but doesn't really let it out as much as it seeps right out of him.

"I'm better now."

It's an echo of four nights ago, telling Ambrose of the harshness of reality. He doesn't realize.

He leans forwards and cups Wyatt's cheek, leaning in closer. The absent amusement fades for a moment. "You're not better," he whispers. "But I remembered. That it wasn't safe."

The soft kiss to the corner of his mouth is sweet and chaste. Then he sighs and smiles absently. "You're going to have a nap with me?"

He clenches his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut and leans into the kiss with a quiet little noise at the back of his throat. But then it's gone, and so is his brief show of anything but calm control.

"Once we've had something to eat."

"Almost done!" DG exclaims, bringing over cups of warm tea with milk and sugar, gives Glitch a kiss on the cheek just because she can, and squeezes Wyatt's shoulder on the way back. "We're having a fry up of what I could find. Not much, but it'll just have to do."

Glitch leans his head down against Wyatt's, eyes closing. "But I'm really tired. I want to go to sleep inside. I can't remember when I last slept inside a building, not the hollows..."

He takes a tea though, adding sugar and milk. "Mm."

"Soon. We'll sleep soon, but food's practically done. We might as well eat while it's warm." It's the voice of reason, pointing out that Glitch's fatigue is his body's way of insisting on preserving energy. He'll need sleep soon, and, another addendum: if he got a concussion from the blow to the head, and he's slept out there, the damage is already done. More sleep won't make it worse.

In just a few minutes, there's food on the table, Wyatt and Glitch sharing a plate through some sort of mutual but unspoken understanding. It's easier than stealing food off each other's plates. DG and Wyatt both tuck in in silence.

If he got a concussion, he obviously didn't lapse into a coma or at least not a lasting one.

Glitch won't eat if it's his own plate. But he happily steals off Wyatt's, eating slowly and surely. It's an old instinct that stops his eating fast and making himself sick.

He eats a fair amount, silent except for humming random songs, skipping from one to another as the thoughts skip track. He announces he's had enough by pulling several pomegranates from his pockets and laying his head on Wyatt's shoulder, closing his eyes. "Full now."