Beta please?
Anyone care to look over a present tense fic of 1,720 words? I will take concrit on anything from pacing to plot to places I forgot to convert a verb. After the fic I left a couple questions I had, too. Thanks very much!
Title: -undecided-
Pairing: Glambrose/Cain
Rating: pg15
~~~
There's a commotion in the hall and Ambrose just can't get there fast enough because he's always afraid it might be DG sprawled at the foot of the stairs or Cain with a gunshot wound or Raw having a seizure. Or mobats. He's still really afraid of mobats. Also that the queen might faint, or that Azkadellia might jump off the balcony, or that Ahamo might have taken up drinking again.
Usually it's a maid with a dropped tray of sherbets, or kids who've knocked over something priceless with a balsa bird flyer, or similar harmless scuffle.
But not tonight.
Tonight it really is someone he loves on the floor, and there's blood, and the sight of Cain sitting sprawled in the wreckage of a wooden door brings tears up in Ambrose's eyes and it makes the vein over his left brow throb in a manner that indicates he will have a headache tomorrow, a real blinder, if he doesn't calm down.
He pushes his way through the gawkers and gapers and the women with their hands over their mouths and other assorted people who mean well, but aren't really helping. Cain bellows for everybody to get away from him, he's fine, and the directive is taken seriously - the onlookers bunch and back away like a herd of sheep faced with an angry mastiff. Only Ambrose continues forward, and they part to let him through, apparently feeling he's the only one with any real authority to touch the intimidating Tin Man, by virtue of being one of his few friends.
"What happened?" Ambrose asks in a shaky voice, kneeling in the splinters and shards of what had once been the cloak room door. His hands are automatically pulling a handkerchief from within his new coat, and he doesn't have to think about it - where it's stored, how it got there - it's just one of a million details of palace life that have been coming back to his fingertips. He reaches out for Cain's right hand - the knuckles are swollen and soaked in red - and he presses the clean white cloth over them to stop the bleeding. His eyes scan the crowd, hoping for DG, but landing on a servant girl who Ambrose knows is reliable.
"Bring me some ice, dear," he says, suddenly the very picture of sense and reason. "Quickly, now." When she scurries off, he sends someone else to find Raw, and, really getting into the swing of it now, a third party off to fetch a broom and sweep up the mess. Then he instructs the rest of the group to move along, give the man some air, go about their business, and to Ambrose's surprise, they do.
"Are you all right to get up?" he asks Cain. "Can you come across the hall to the salon?" His eyes flick over the details of his friend's countenance, noticing the red flush of embarrassment on his face. "Yeah, I'm fine," Cain grunts, refusing to look at him.
"Well, be fine across the hall, then. Come on." Ambrose gets up, still holding Cain's hand inside the handkerchief, which is now red and white like a piece of poppy brocade. Cain reluctantly climbs to his feet, and Ambrose helps by staying out of the way - Cain is like a bull rising and trying to steer and manuever him would only annoy him.
When he's at full height again, Cain heaves a sigh and pulls his hand out of Ambrose's, wrapping the handkerchief around his fingers tightly. Ambrose starts for the salon doors, relieved that Cain follows his lead. It seems everyone is following his directions tonight. It must be the coat, he surmises, straightening the placard of his splendid new uniform. He ushers Cain inside, pauses to wait for the servant girl who's come jogging up, breathless, with a champagne bucket full of slightly melted ice.
"Will it do, m'lord?" she asks nervously.
"It's perfect, thank you."
Cain sits on the sofa, and Ambrose closes the door to the hall after the girl has gone.
Ambrose sits on the sofa, too, and places the bucket between them. It's cold against his thigh. "Might as well just put your whole hand in," he suggests.
Ambrose is braced for an argument, but Cain sticks his hand in the bucket with a rattle of shifting ice cubes and melting slush and relaxes marginally. "Thanks."
"You're welcome. Now what happened?"
Cain is silent for a good while, staring at the wall of books lining the opposite wall, his gaze drifting higher and higher until he must surely be looking at the ceiling. "I don't know, Glitch," he begins at last.
Ambrose lets the name thing slide, it's the least of his concerns, and besides, Cain's allowed. Cain's the only one allowed to call him any number of things, up to and including "Sweetheart".
"The door fell shut while I was in there, and the latch fell over, and...it was such a small space and pitch black and I panicked." He admits this with a candid honesty.
Ambrose nods knowingly and holds up a finger. "See, I knew you were likely to suffer from claustrophobia..." he begins.
Cain smiles a little, taking his hand out of the ice to get some feeling back as he shakes his head in wonder. "You and your mental health advice."
"I'm just saying... you have to be careful about what situations you put yourself in for a while. Like me, for instance - I'm being very careful to avoid things I find particularly distressing right now."
"Like what?"
"Mobats," Ambrose says at once, very seriously.
Cain doesn't laugh. "Well, you're not likely to find any of those around here," he says, voice as comforting as it must have been annuals ago when he assured Jeb there were no monsters under the bed. "Not anymore. But aren't you supposed to confront your phobias?"
"Yes, but gradually, Cain. Gradually."
"So me marching straight over to that closet over there and walking in....?"
"No, I don't think that would be a very prudent plan. I'll be glad to walk over and stand in the doorway with you if you like. And then maybe tomorrow you could walk inside a step or two, and then when you were perfectly comfortable with that you could move on to...." he breaks off as Cain rises suddenly to his feet and strides over to the storage closet. He opens the door and disappears inside while Ambrose is still processing his intent.
"What happened to GRADUAL?" Ambrose squawks, hastening to catch up. He plunges in with no regard to his personal safety, not caring that he's putting himself in a confined space with a claustrophobic man who's just broken a wooden door down with his bare hands.
It smells like dusty books, Ambrose can see boxes on shelves in the amber light seeping in from the salon. "Shut the door," Cain orders.
"I will not. This isn't how it's done."
"It's how I want to do it, are you in or out?"
Ambrose hesitates, but only because he's trying to think of something that will change Cain's mind. Knowing there's little chance of doing so, he sighs. "In."
Cain reaches around him and pulls the door shut, and it's very dark, except for a fine yellow light near the floor.
"See? I'm fine."
"Uh-huh."
"Really, I am. It's just a closet, people go in an out of them every ... every day."
"Generally with the aid of a light switch," Ambrose feels compelled to point out.
"I refuse to be afraid of the dark, Glitch. I just.... refuse."
Ambrose wants to say it's not as easy as that, that will power can't conquer everything, but it's Cain, after all, maybe it can. He can almost hear the man's heart pounding, though. The sound of his breathing getting heavier and less even is even easier to detect.
Ambrose takes pity on him. "You need to think about something else," he offers. "Something pleasant and familiar and comforting."
He feels Cain's hands taking gentle hold of his face, bruised fingertips brushing through his hair down to his scalp, the right hand right still cool from being in the ice, the other warm. There are lips pressing to his lips as Wyatt Cain finds his way in the dark. Ambrose is willing to be his distraction.
He's fantasized about what a kiss would be like between them, of course, just in the event that one day he opened the windows and found pigs flying, but he hadn't expected it to happen. He certainly hadn't expected it to happen in a dark closet full of outdated encyclopedias. He kisses Cain back hard and hungrily, just in case this is the only time it ever happens and he and Cain never speak of it again. Eventually they both have to come a reluctant, halting stop to catch their breath in the stuffy atmosphere. Ambrose is still clutching two handfuls of coat, waiting for the explosion.
But Cain's voice is gentle, though it's dry. "You, uh, you say this ought to be done gradually?" he asks hoarsely.
Ambrose squeezes his eyes shut, knowing Cain can't see the expression of utter relief. "A little more each day," he concurs, amazed that his voice is as steady as it is.
He feels Cain reach around and push open the door, and the lamplight floods in. His hand slides down to Cain's elbow, and he steps back against the shelving, guiding Cain out first. He follows after, pulling the door shut.
"Well, you did it!" Ambrose says encouragingly.
Cain smiles a little, but his eyes are on Ambrose. He reaches up with his bruised hand and touches a dark curl. "Yeah, I did. 'Bout time, too."
Ambrose feels his face coloring, and smiles back, radiantly.
Together they walk out of the salon, and come across a Viewer sitting on a bench in the hall.
"Raw!" Ambrose exclaims in surprise, having forgotten he'd sent for the healer quite a little while ago. "Why didn't you tell us you were here?" "
Raw steeples his fingers sagely. "Sometimes best medicine is wait in hall."
~~~fin
Now for some questions!
1) I know present tense is fun to write, but not everyone likes to read it. But sometimes it just seems to fit the mood better. How did you feel about the present tense here?
2) In the interest of keeping it short, I skipped over a lot of description. Did you feel you wanted more description of 'the salon' setting or did it not matter?
3)Anything else confusing? Too long? Too short? Too vague? Any other suggestions?
4)Was the ending too abrupt?
/wibble.
Thanks for reading!
Title: -undecided-
Pairing: Glambrose/Cain
Rating: pg15
~~~
There's a commotion in the hall and Ambrose just can't get there fast enough because he's always afraid it might be DG sprawled at the foot of the stairs or Cain with a gunshot wound or Raw having a seizure. Or mobats. He's still really afraid of mobats. Also that the queen might faint, or that Azkadellia might jump off the balcony, or that Ahamo might have taken up drinking again.
Usually it's a maid with a dropped tray of sherbets, or kids who've knocked over something priceless with a balsa bird flyer, or similar harmless scuffle.
But not tonight.
Tonight it really is someone he loves on the floor, and there's blood, and the sight of Cain sitting sprawled in the wreckage of a wooden door brings tears up in Ambrose's eyes and it makes the vein over his left brow throb in a manner that indicates he will have a headache tomorrow, a real blinder, if he doesn't calm down.
He pushes his way through the gawkers and gapers and the women with their hands over their mouths and other assorted people who mean well, but aren't really helping. Cain bellows for everybody to get away from him, he's fine, and the directive is taken seriously - the onlookers bunch and back away like a herd of sheep faced with an angry mastiff. Only Ambrose continues forward, and they part to let him through, apparently feeling he's the only one with any real authority to touch the intimidating Tin Man, by virtue of being one of his few friends.
"What happened?" Ambrose asks in a shaky voice, kneeling in the splinters and shards of what had once been the cloak room door. His hands are automatically pulling a handkerchief from within his new coat, and he doesn't have to think about it - where it's stored, how it got there - it's just one of a million details of palace life that have been coming back to his fingertips. He reaches out for Cain's right hand - the knuckles are swollen and soaked in red - and he presses the clean white cloth over them to stop the bleeding. His eyes scan the crowd, hoping for DG, but landing on a servant girl who Ambrose knows is reliable.
"Bring me some ice, dear," he says, suddenly the very picture of sense and reason. "Quickly, now." When she scurries off, he sends someone else to find Raw, and, really getting into the swing of it now, a third party off to fetch a broom and sweep up the mess. Then he instructs the rest of the group to move along, give the man some air, go about their business, and to Ambrose's surprise, they do.
"Are you all right to get up?" he asks Cain. "Can you come across the hall to the salon?" His eyes flick over the details of his friend's countenance, noticing the red flush of embarrassment on his face. "Yeah, I'm fine," Cain grunts, refusing to look at him.
"Well, be fine across the hall, then. Come on." Ambrose gets up, still holding Cain's hand inside the handkerchief, which is now red and white like a piece of poppy brocade. Cain reluctantly climbs to his feet, and Ambrose helps by staying out of the way - Cain is like a bull rising and trying to steer and manuever him would only annoy him.
When he's at full height again, Cain heaves a sigh and pulls his hand out of Ambrose's, wrapping the handkerchief around his fingers tightly. Ambrose starts for the salon doors, relieved that Cain follows his lead. It seems everyone is following his directions tonight. It must be the coat, he surmises, straightening the placard of his splendid new uniform. He ushers Cain inside, pauses to wait for the servant girl who's come jogging up, breathless, with a champagne bucket full of slightly melted ice.
"Will it do, m'lord?" she asks nervously.
"It's perfect, thank you."
Cain sits on the sofa, and Ambrose closes the door to the hall after the girl has gone.
Ambrose sits on the sofa, too, and places the bucket between them. It's cold against his thigh. "Might as well just put your whole hand in," he suggests.
Ambrose is braced for an argument, but Cain sticks his hand in the bucket with a rattle of shifting ice cubes and melting slush and relaxes marginally. "Thanks."
"You're welcome. Now what happened?"
Cain is silent for a good while, staring at the wall of books lining the opposite wall, his gaze drifting higher and higher until he must surely be looking at the ceiling. "I don't know, Glitch," he begins at last.
Ambrose lets the name thing slide, it's the least of his concerns, and besides, Cain's allowed. Cain's the only one allowed to call him any number of things, up to and including "Sweetheart".
"The door fell shut while I was in there, and the latch fell over, and...it was such a small space and pitch black and I panicked." He admits this with a candid honesty.
Ambrose nods knowingly and holds up a finger. "See, I knew you were likely to suffer from claustrophobia..." he begins.
Cain smiles a little, taking his hand out of the ice to get some feeling back as he shakes his head in wonder. "You and your mental health advice."
"I'm just saying... you have to be careful about what situations you put yourself in for a while. Like me, for instance - I'm being very careful to avoid things I find particularly distressing right now."
"Like what?"
"Mobats," Ambrose says at once, very seriously.
Cain doesn't laugh. "Well, you're not likely to find any of those around here," he says, voice as comforting as it must have been annuals ago when he assured Jeb there were no monsters under the bed. "Not anymore. But aren't you supposed to confront your phobias?"
"Yes, but gradually, Cain. Gradually."
"So me marching straight over to that closet over there and walking in....?"
"No, I don't think that would be a very prudent plan. I'll be glad to walk over and stand in the doorway with you if you like. And then maybe tomorrow you could walk inside a step or two, and then when you were perfectly comfortable with that you could move on to...." he breaks off as Cain rises suddenly to his feet and strides over to the storage closet. He opens the door and disappears inside while Ambrose is still processing his intent.
"What happened to GRADUAL?" Ambrose squawks, hastening to catch up. He plunges in with no regard to his personal safety, not caring that he's putting himself in a confined space with a claustrophobic man who's just broken a wooden door down with his bare hands.
It smells like dusty books, Ambrose can see boxes on shelves in the amber light seeping in from the salon. "Shut the door," Cain orders.
"I will not. This isn't how it's done."
"It's how I want to do it, are you in or out?"
Ambrose hesitates, but only because he's trying to think of something that will change Cain's mind. Knowing there's little chance of doing so, he sighs. "In."
Cain reaches around him and pulls the door shut, and it's very dark, except for a fine yellow light near the floor.
"See? I'm fine."
"Uh-huh."
"Really, I am. It's just a closet, people go in an out of them every ... every day."
"Generally with the aid of a light switch," Ambrose feels compelled to point out.
"I refuse to be afraid of the dark, Glitch. I just.... refuse."
Ambrose wants to say it's not as easy as that, that will power can't conquer everything, but it's Cain, after all, maybe it can. He can almost hear the man's heart pounding, though. The sound of his breathing getting heavier and less even is even easier to detect.
Ambrose takes pity on him. "You need to think about something else," he offers. "Something pleasant and familiar and comforting."
He feels Cain's hands taking gentle hold of his face, bruised fingertips brushing through his hair down to his scalp, the right hand right still cool from being in the ice, the other warm. There are lips pressing to his lips as Wyatt Cain finds his way in the dark. Ambrose is willing to be his distraction.
He's fantasized about what a kiss would be like between them, of course, just in the event that one day he opened the windows and found pigs flying, but he hadn't expected it to happen. He certainly hadn't expected it to happen in a dark closet full of outdated encyclopedias. He kisses Cain back hard and hungrily, just in case this is the only time it ever happens and he and Cain never speak of it again. Eventually they both have to come a reluctant, halting stop to catch their breath in the stuffy atmosphere. Ambrose is still clutching two handfuls of coat, waiting for the explosion.
But Cain's voice is gentle, though it's dry. "You, uh, you say this ought to be done gradually?" he asks hoarsely.
Ambrose squeezes his eyes shut, knowing Cain can't see the expression of utter relief. "A little more each day," he concurs, amazed that his voice is as steady as it is.
He feels Cain reach around and push open the door, and the lamplight floods in. His hand slides down to Cain's elbow, and he steps back against the shelving, guiding Cain out first. He follows after, pulling the door shut.
"Well, you did it!" Ambrose says encouragingly.
Cain smiles a little, but his eyes are on Ambrose. He reaches up with his bruised hand and touches a dark curl. "Yeah, I did. 'Bout time, too."
Ambrose feels his face coloring, and smiles back, radiantly.
Together they walk out of the salon, and come across a Viewer sitting on a bench in the hall.
"Raw!" Ambrose exclaims in surprise, having forgotten he'd sent for the healer quite a little while ago. "Why didn't you tell us you were here?" "
Raw steeples his fingers sagely. "Sometimes best medicine is wait in hall."
~~~fin
Now for some questions!
1) I know present tense is fun to write, but not everyone likes to read it. But sometimes it just seems to fit the mood better. How did you feel about the present tense here?
2) In the interest of keeping it short, I skipped over a lot of description. Did you feel you wanted more description of 'the salon' setting or did it not matter?
3)Anything else confusing? Too long? Too short? Too vague? Any other suggestions?
4)Was the ending too abrupt?
/wibble.
Thanks for reading!