Fic: Given Half the Chance 4/8(ish)
Title: Given Half the Chance 4/8(ish)
Author: kseda
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Life in the Witch's O.Z. is tough, and bound to get tougher.
Characters: Glitch, Adora, Jeb, and a pack of OCs
This part: A lot of repeated questions with many, many answers.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
It continued that way for much of the week. By the third day Ambrose seemed to remember each of their names, and could follow some basic instructions. This meant that he would spontaneously wipe down the table or close the curtains whether it needed doing or not, but it showed he was retaining information.
The eighth evening found the four of them at the kitchen table playing a card game, the object of which was to match the suit or the number. Jeb was helping Ambrose with their shared hand, looking over the cards and asking if there was a diamond or a two there.
"Come on," Jeb coaxed and tapped the card Russell had set down. "A diamond," he said and pointed to the shape, then moved his finger to the number. "Or a two."
Ambrose bit his lip and studied the four cards fanned in his hand, over and over. Finally, decisively, he made a selection.
"Diamond!" he shouted and set the seven of diamonds over the two.
Adora's cards fell from her fingers. "Ozma," she whispered.
"Cripes," Russell added and shook his head.
Jeb and Ambrose wore matching expressions of shock, and Ambrose's hand went to cover his lips. Jeb pulled the hand away and scooted his chair around to look Ambrose in the eyes.
"That was good," the boy said with a nod. "It's okay, you can talk. You know the words, you know what they mean, you can talk."
"You can," Adora repeated. "We know you can, Ambrose."
For a few moments Ambrose's mouth moved silently, then he made an incoherent squeaking noise, then finally he gasped out "...can talk."
"That's incredible," Russell murmured and finally set his own cards down.
The action made Ambrose glance at his own cards, then around the table, blinking rapidly as he did so. "I can talk," he said again, stronger this time. His voice was raspy from long disuse, the words slightly slurred but intelligible. "I can... who... I'm... who-"
Which was when his eyes rolled back in his head. Russell and Jeb barely caught him as he slid from his chair, unconscious.
"What happened?" Adora cried as she sprung from her own seat and hurried around the table.
"Probably overdid it," Russell said and carefully hauled Ambrose upright. "What's left of his brain can only handle so much at once."
Jeb sighed in disappointment and picked up the cards Ambrose had dropped. "He barely said anything."
"Central wasn't built in a day," his mother chided and helped Russell get Ambrose back to his nest in the sitting room.
*
If Ambrose could remember what an identity crisis was, he'd have said that was an understatement of what he endured. At the time he was having a hard time understanding the concept of identity itself.
He (male) was (existed). It was a starting point, one he was grateful for, "grateful" being an emotion he was becoming familiar with.
Ambrose was his name, that's what they told him. "They" were Adora (sad eyes, soft voice) and Russell (big man, he didn't know what to think of him sometimes) and Jeb (just a boy, but bright) and they were taking care of him.
They hadn't always been there. He could almost remember running, and maybe before that he had been somewhere dark. He didn't want to think about it, so he thought of what sunslight did to dust and soft bread with buttery crust instead.
He had forgotten how to speak, and now that he remembered that he also remembered that there was more still forgotten. He was Ambrose Galitch, he had been an adviser to the queen (what queen), but Azkadellia (he knew that name) had... had...
"Taken your brain," Adora said patiently. "She headcased you."
"So I was someone awful," he said miserably. "Only awful people get headcased."
She shook her head, so, so sad and smoothed her fingers over the plain gold ring on her left hand. "Not anymore. Good people are being punished and bad ones are rewarded. The world's all backwards."
That didn't make any sense so he let it go. He had something more interesting to think about.
"I like your ring," Ambrose announced. It was shiny, he liked bright and shiny things and he thought maybe that there had been another woman. One whose hair was lighter or darker (or both) than Adora's who had worried at a similar ring.
He realized he'd made Adora even more sad, because she was smiling that smile that it hurt to look at. "Thank you," she whispered. "My husband saved for almost an annual to buy it."
"You have a husband?" Ambrose asked, excited for new information. Well, of course she had one, Jeb needed a father didn't he? Or did he?
"I did," Adora replied and shook her head again. "He... we lost him. The longcoats took him from us."
Ambrose did not like longcoats. They were just about the scariest thing he could think of, along with monkey bats and, weirdly, cold metal tables.
"I'm so sorry," he told the woman. He wasn't sure why he was sorry or who she was, but she looked sad. He patted her hand (why were his fingers bandaged?), then noticed her ring. , remembered Adora, and nodded firmly. "I like your ring," he told her and smiled. Maybe a compliment would cheer her up.
Adora did smile, even though it looked like it hurt to do so. "Thank you, Ambrose."
"That's my name," he said, matter of fact. "I'm Ambrose." Which brought him back to that identity thing. "I am."
He was.
*
On a day when the shop was closed Russell brought Ambrose downstairs. The headcase had expressed curiosity and Adora had been encouraging, so Russell gave in. He reasoned she likely needed a break from explaining why they were hiding, what had happened to her husband, what had happened to Ambrose himself.
"Don't touch anything," Russell warned. "You could get hurt."
"Don't touch, could hurt," Ambrose repeated and nodded once, firmly. He'd been persuaded to leave his coat upstairs as the lengthy tails might have gotten caught on something. He still wore his embroidered vest over a borrowed brown shirt while the white one was washed.
Russell showed him around, the smelter and anvil, tongs and hammers, the kettle Freddie Cavendish would be picking up the next day. The process was repeated, then once more to be certain, when Ambrose surprised him by asking about the motorbike.
"Broken," Russell explained. "Something in the motor's not right. That's the motor," he added and pointed, but Ambrose was nodding.
"I know that," he said quietly. He got that tone every once in a while, ghost voice as Jeb called it. It was like and echo of who he used to be. "Motor. Maybe a cog or-" He blinked and suddenly looked at his left hand. "When will it be fixed?"
"What, the motor?"
"My finger. What motor?"
Russell sighed. The conversation had gotten tangled again. "Your finger will be better in a week," he began. "The motor on the bike might get fixed if we find a mechanic."
"Huh," Ambrose remarked. He smiled hesitantly at Russell and ducked his head. "Hello."
With a faint nod Russell took Ambrose's arm. "Come on, let's get back upstairs."
*
Two nights later, the household and a third of the village was awakened by the sound of a motorcycle engine turning over and revving. Russell was the first downstairs, Adora and Jeb right behind him. All three froze and gaped at the sight before them.
Every lamp in the shop had been turned on and moved to the side with the bike. Half the contents of Russell's father's toolkit were spread out on the worktable. Presiding over it all was a baffled but triumphant Ambrose, clad in his pajamas and Russell's apron, hands and face smeared with grease.
"Fixed it!" he shouted over the din. "Well, someone did." He scratched the side of his head with an adjustable wrench.
Russell finally recovered enough to run over and cut the engine. He also took the wrench from Ambrose, who flinched away with a whimper. Quickly Russell set the tool down and showed his empty hands, an action they'd all grown accustomed to.
"You did good, Ambrose," he said soothingly. "Just had to stop the noise and-"
"What noise?" Ambrose asked, looking around. "Why are we all down here?"
Adora approached with a smile and took his dirty hands in her clean ones. "You fixed the motorbike," she told him. "Which is very, very good, I'm proud of you."
Russell nodded. "We all are, but we need to get back upstairs before-"
There was a rattle of a key in the shop's lock, then Lindsay flung the door open. Behind him was Breaman, and Mrs. Flemming, and a number of other people with lanterns. Soon there were half a dozen or so more people in the shop.
"Mercy of the gods, Demason," Mrs. Flemming snarled. "What're you up to waking the whole town at this hour?" Her sharp, dark eyes were full of contempt as they settled on Ambrose.
Russell had positioned himself in front of Adora and Jeb and he'd tried nudging Ambrose behind him as well, but the headcase instead shuffled forward.
"Hello," he began, which got a gasp from the assembled. he smiled nervously. "The name's Galitch. Um. Sorry I woke you all."
Wessinger broke the silence that followed. "Tip's knickers!"
"Ain't that the damnedest thing," Breaman murmured.
Lindsay stepped up and gawked up at Ambrose. "You didn't tell me he could talk, Russ."
"He can do more than that," Jeb snapped and pushed his way forward, away from his mother's grasping hands. "He fixed the motorbike."
"Did he now?" Aggie Maycroft asked and sidled over to her bike. She looked it over, then flipped the green ignition switch. Once more the shop was filled with the din of the motor before she turned it off again. "Starts good as new, too!"
This set the crowd to muttering and Ambrose finally got the sense to back away a bit.
"What's going on, Demason?" Wessinger asked, seizing control. "What have you done?"
"I've not done anything," Russell replied. "Ambrose did most of the work, we just helped him along."
Ambrose had by now retreated behind Adora. "Sorry I woke you all," he repeated. "Sorry I wo-" Adora gave his wrist a squeeze, stopping the loop.
"We'll talk about this tomorrow at the Hall," Wessinger declared. "Ten sharp. I want all of you there." His gaze flicked from Jeb to Adora and finally the headcase before settling upon Russell. "Am I clear?"
Russell nodded, and slowly the villagers showed themselves out. Breaman lingered, giving them an assessing look.
"Maybe I'll bring the wife's vacuum cleaner," he mused with a nod to Ambrose. "You invented the blasted thing, maybe you can fix it."
Ambrose simply blinked in confusion, but Adora stepped forward. "Good night, sir. May your hearth be warm."
With a sigh Breaman glanced to the ceiling before shaking his head. "You need something new, ma'am, they know all the words to that song." With that he docked out of the shop, closing the door behind him.
"Matt Breaman's in the Resistance?" Russell muttered.
Adora shook her head. "I don't know what he is yet," she sighed, then looked up at him. "But I intend to find out."
tbc
Author: kseda
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Life in the Witch's O.Z. is tough, and bound to get tougher.
Characters: Glitch, Adora, Jeb, and a pack of OCs
This part: A lot of repeated questions with many, many answers.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
It continued that way for much of the week. By the third day Ambrose seemed to remember each of their names, and could follow some basic instructions. This meant that he would spontaneously wipe down the table or close the curtains whether it needed doing or not, but it showed he was retaining information.
The eighth evening found the four of them at the kitchen table playing a card game, the object of which was to match the suit or the number. Jeb was helping Ambrose with their shared hand, looking over the cards and asking if there was a diamond or a two there.
"Come on," Jeb coaxed and tapped the card Russell had set down. "A diamond," he said and pointed to the shape, then moved his finger to the number. "Or a two."
Ambrose bit his lip and studied the four cards fanned in his hand, over and over. Finally, decisively, he made a selection.
"Diamond!" he shouted and set the seven of diamonds over the two.
Adora's cards fell from her fingers. "Ozma," she whispered.
"Cripes," Russell added and shook his head.
Jeb and Ambrose wore matching expressions of shock, and Ambrose's hand went to cover his lips. Jeb pulled the hand away and scooted his chair around to look Ambrose in the eyes.
"That was good," the boy said with a nod. "It's okay, you can talk. You know the words, you know what they mean, you can talk."
"You can," Adora repeated. "We know you can, Ambrose."
For a few moments Ambrose's mouth moved silently, then he made an incoherent squeaking noise, then finally he gasped out "...can talk."
"That's incredible," Russell murmured and finally set his own cards down.
The action made Ambrose glance at his own cards, then around the table, blinking rapidly as he did so. "I can talk," he said again, stronger this time. His voice was raspy from long disuse, the words slightly slurred but intelligible. "I can... who... I'm... who-"
Which was when his eyes rolled back in his head. Russell and Jeb barely caught him as he slid from his chair, unconscious.
"What happened?" Adora cried as she sprung from her own seat and hurried around the table.
"Probably overdid it," Russell said and carefully hauled Ambrose upright. "What's left of his brain can only handle so much at once."
Jeb sighed in disappointment and picked up the cards Ambrose had dropped. "He barely said anything."
"Central wasn't built in a day," his mother chided and helped Russell get Ambrose back to his nest in the sitting room.
*
If Ambrose could remember what an identity crisis was, he'd have said that was an understatement of what he endured. At the time he was having a hard time understanding the concept of identity itself.
He (male) was (existed). It was a starting point, one he was grateful for, "grateful" being an emotion he was becoming familiar with.
Ambrose was his name, that's what they told him. "They" were Adora (sad eyes, soft voice) and Russell (big man, he didn't know what to think of him sometimes) and Jeb (just a boy, but bright) and they were taking care of him.
They hadn't always been there. He could almost remember running, and maybe before that he had been somewhere dark. He didn't want to think about it, so he thought of what sunslight did to dust and soft bread with buttery crust instead.
He had forgotten how to speak, and now that he remembered that he also remembered that there was more still forgotten. He was Ambrose Galitch, he had been an adviser to the queen (what queen), but Azkadellia (he knew that name) had... had...
"Taken your brain," Adora said patiently. "She headcased you."
"So I was someone awful," he said miserably. "Only awful people get headcased."
She shook her head, so, so sad and smoothed her fingers over the plain gold ring on her left hand. "Not anymore. Good people are being punished and bad ones are rewarded. The world's all backwards."
That didn't make any sense so he let it go. He had something more interesting to think about.
"I like your ring," Ambrose announced. It was shiny, he liked bright and shiny things and he thought maybe that there had been another woman. One whose hair was lighter or darker (or both) than Adora's who had worried at a similar ring.
He realized he'd made Adora even more sad, because she was smiling that smile that it hurt to look at. "Thank you," she whispered. "My husband saved for almost an annual to buy it."
"You have a husband?" Ambrose asked, excited for new information. Well, of course she had one, Jeb needed a father didn't he? Or did he?
"I did," Adora replied and shook her head again. "He... we lost him. The longcoats took him from us."
Ambrose did not like longcoats. They were just about the scariest thing he could think of, along with monkey bats and, weirdly, cold metal tables.
"I'm so sorry," he told the woman. He wasn't sure why he was sorry or who she was, but she looked sad. He patted her hand (why were his fingers bandaged?), then noticed her ring. , remembered Adora, and nodded firmly. "I like your ring," he told her and smiled. Maybe a compliment would cheer her up.
Adora did smile, even though it looked like it hurt to do so. "Thank you, Ambrose."
"That's my name," he said, matter of fact. "I'm Ambrose." Which brought him back to that identity thing. "I am."
He was.
*
On a day when the shop was closed Russell brought Ambrose downstairs. The headcase had expressed curiosity and Adora had been encouraging, so Russell gave in. He reasoned she likely needed a break from explaining why they were hiding, what had happened to her husband, what had happened to Ambrose himself.
"Don't touch anything," Russell warned. "You could get hurt."
"Don't touch, could hurt," Ambrose repeated and nodded once, firmly. He'd been persuaded to leave his coat upstairs as the lengthy tails might have gotten caught on something. He still wore his embroidered vest over a borrowed brown shirt while the white one was washed.
Russell showed him around, the smelter and anvil, tongs and hammers, the kettle Freddie Cavendish would be picking up the next day. The process was repeated, then once more to be certain, when Ambrose surprised him by asking about the motorbike.
"Broken," Russell explained. "Something in the motor's not right. That's the motor," he added and pointed, but Ambrose was nodding.
"I know that," he said quietly. He got that tone every once in a while, ghost voice as Jeb called it. It was like and echo of who he used to be. "Motor. Maybe a cog or-" He blinked and suddenly looked at his left hand. "When will it be fixed?"
"What, the motor?"
"My finger. What motor?"
Russell sighed. The conversation had gotten tangled again. "Your finger will be better in a week," he began. "The motor on the bike might get fixed if we find a mechanic."
"Huh," Ambrose remarked. He smiled hesitantly at Russell and ducked his head. "Hello."
With a faint nod Russell took Ambrose's arm. "Come on, let's get back upstairs."
*
Two nights later, the household and a third of the village was awakened by the sound of a motorcycle engine turning over and revving. Russell was the first downstairs, Adora and Jeb right behind him. All three froze and gaped at the sight before them.
Every lamp in the shop had been turned on and moved to the side with the bike. Half the contents of Russell's father's toolkit were spread out on the worktable. Presiding over it all was a baffled but triumphant Ambrose, clad in his pajamas and Russell's apron, hands and face smeared with grease.
"Fixed it!" he shouted over the din. "Well, someone did." He scratched the side of his head with an adjustable wrench.
Russell finally recovered enough to run over and cut the engine. He also took the wrench from Ambrose, who flinched away with a whimper. Quickly Russell set the tool down and showed his empty hands, an action they'd all grown accustomed to.
"You did good, Ambrose," he said soothingly. "Just had to stop the noise and-"
"What noise?" Ambrose asked, looking around. "Why are we all down here?"
Adora approached with a smile and took his dirty hands in her clean ones. "You fixed the motorbike," she told him. "Which is very, very good, I'm proud of you."
Russell nodded. "We all are, but we need to get back upstairs before-"
There was a rattle of a key in the shop's lock, then Lindsay flung the door open. Behind him was Breaman, and Mrs. Flemming, and a number of other people with lanterns. Soon there were half a dozen or so more people in the shop.
"Mercy of the gods, Demason," Mrs. Flemming snarled. "What're you up to waking the whole town at this hour?" Her sharp, dark eyes were full of contempt as they settled on Ambrose.
Russell had positioned himself in front of Adora and Jeb and he'd tried nudging Ambrose behind him as well, but the headcase instead shuffled forward.
"Hello," he began, which got a gasp from the assembled. he smiled nervously. "The name's Galitch. Um. Sorry I woke you all."
Wessinger broke the silence that followed. "Tip's knickers!"
"Ain't that the damnedest thing," Breaman murmured.
Lindsay stepped up and gawked up at Ambrose. "You didn't tell me he could talk, Russ."
"He can do more than that," Jeb snapped and pushed his way forward, away from his mother's grasping hands. "He fixed the motorbike."
"Did he now?" Aggie Maycroft asked and sidled over to her bike. She looked it over, then flipped the green ignition switch. Once more the shop was filled with the din of the motor before she turned it off again. "Starts good as new, too!"
This set the crowd to muttering and Ambrose finally got the sense to back away a bit.
"What's going on, Demason?" Wessinger asked, seizing control. "What have you done?"
"I've not done anything," Russell replied. "Ambrose did most of the work, we just helped him along."
Ambrose had by now retreated behind Adora. "Sorry I woke you all," he repeated. "Sorry I wo-" Adora gave his wrist a squeeze, stopping the loop.
"We'll talk about this tomorrow at the Hall," Wessinger declared. "Ten sharp. I want all of you there." His gaze flicked from Jeb to Adora and finally the headcase before settling upon Russell. "Am I clear?"
Russell nodded, and slowly the villagers showed themselves out. Breaman lingered, giving them an assessing look.
"Maybe I'll bring the wife's vacuum cleaner," he mused with a nod to Ambrose. "You invented the blasted thing, maybe you can fix it."
Ambrose simply blinked in confusion, but Adora stepped forward. "Good night, sir. May your hearth be warm."
With a sigh Breaman glanced to the ceiling before shaking his head. "You need something new, ma'am, they know all the words to that song." With that he docked out of the shop, closing the door behind him.
"Matt Breaman's in the Resistance?" Russell muttered.
Adora shook her head. "I don't know what he is yet," she sighed, then looked up at him. "But I intend to find out."
tbc