Apples to Apples: Chapter 9/13
Title: Apples to Apples
Chapter: 9/13
Author: tdesphtl
Rating: M (for earlier chapters)
Warning(s): none
AN: You guys are so amazing. Thank you for being so patient and so supportive. I decided this chapter needed to go up tonight because of your awesome-ness and because I'm having a really sh*tty night and needed to do something to get the yuckiness out of my system. *cleansed* :) Enjoy!!
Cain was cold - odd, considering he had fallen asleep with a very warm inventor in his arms . . . Oh. That was right.
The tin man sat up abruptly, glancing around and shivering. The fire was dead, a sole ember fading with a hiss and a wisp of smoke. The sky was a distressing gray, and Ambrose was no where to be found.
Cain stood, his clothes wet with morning dew and sticking to his skin uncomfortably. “Ambrose?” He called uncertainly, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. No reply came, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. “Ambrose!” He tried again, receiving the same result.
He held his breath, trying to calm himself. There was really no sense in riling himself up. Ambrose was probably out getting breakfast. He'd most likely be back any minute with arms cradling a dozen or so assorted fruits. There was no use worrying if there really wasn't anything to worry about . . . yet.
Several birds flew by overhead, screeching with what Cain could only assume was fear. His breath hitched as he stared in the direction the birds had come from, a sinking feeling growing in his stomach. He took a hesitant step, not sure he wanted to find what had scared those birds so badly.
Ten minutes later found Cain still trekking through thick brush, wondering if he should turn back. Ambrose might be back at the camp, safe and sound and complaining that the tin man had wandered off. The sound that reached his ears next, however, drained all hope from that thought. It was a frustrated cry - in a very familiar tone.
“Ambrose?” He called loudly, swiveling his head and holding his breath in anticipation. A pregnant pause wafted in the air, and the tin man's shoulders sank with resignation.
“C-Cain?” A pained voice called, suddenly, and the blond's heart thundered in his chest.
“Ambrose! Where are you?” Cain demanded, turning slowly on his heels in a full circle. He growled when the other man didn't seem to be in sight.
“I . . .” There was an uncertainty in the inventor's tone, a distance that meant he might be in serious trouble.
“Ambrose, stay with me!” The tin man ordered, worry making his voice tremble. “Just keep talking! I'll follow your voice.”
“Cain, I . . . I don't know what happened.” Ambrose's voice was strained, almost too hard to hear, but Cain found the general direction that it was coming from and started towards it with a determined stride. “I'm caught. I can't move. There's . . . There's a lot of blood.”
This only heightened the tin man's worry, and he started to run. Ambrose wasn't talking anymore, and Cain was about to shout to him again when the other man came into view. The sight twisted his stomach, and he nearly tripped as his motor functions failed him momentarily.
Ambrose sat amongst scattered, red-spattered leaves. His arms and chest and face were laden with garish gashes, his left leg caught mercilessly in a bear trap. The inventor's head was lowered towards his chest, his bloodied fingers curled around each side of the trap as his arms strained with effort. He managed to pry the jagged-toothed object open about half an inch before his strength failed and he had to let it shut on his leg again. He whimpered, raising his head as Cain collapsed to his knees beside him.
The tin man took in the tear-stained cheeks, the mangled shin and calf, the blood - gods, the blood - and let loose an anguished breath of air.
“Wh-” He swallowed and tried again. “What happened?” He carefully inspected the trap, looking for the release.
“There was a bear,” Ambrose slurred with a trembling voice, sighing in relief as he lay back against the blood-soaked leaves, his trapped leg propped up. He was getting tired, but falling asleep would not help either of them at the moment. “I-I tried to fight him off with a stick. He got in a few swipes before I accidentally stepped in the trap. M-Must've scared him off.”
Cain paused in his search. Not one word of that explanation had sounded like Ambrose. Glitch was most definitely shining through. And, strangely, it made quite a bit of sense. After a trauma such as that, who would rightfully want to be themself?
The tin man found the release and attempted to trigger it.
“It's broken,” came the inventor's small reply. “And rusted. The hunter who set it probably forgot about it a long time ago.”
Cain sighed in frustration, unconsciously reaching for his hat and finding it missing. He must have forgotten it back at the camp or lost it in his frenzied haste to get to the injured inventor.
“All right,” he said, taking a deep breath and letting it loose slowly as a plan formed in his mind. He'd seen plenty of men - and, on several horrible occasions, children - get caught in these kinds of traps before. None so bad off as Ambrose, though, Cain thought. “I'm going to pry it open as wide as I can. As soon as you can move your leg, I want you to pull it out and roll away. Got it?”
Ambrose nodded sluggishly.
“Hey,” the tin man said softly, placing his palm against the inventor's unmarred cheek. “You with me?”
Ambrose nodded again, this time more firmly. Cain returned the gesture wiping the sweat from his forehead and positioning his hands on either side of the trap.
“One,” he counted, his eyes locking with Ambrose's tired ones. “Two.” The inventor sucked in a breath, grasping his thigh just above his knee, ready to pull his leg from the trap. “Three.” Cain strained, his face contorting. It took nearly all his strength to get the trap open the half-inch that Ambrose had accomplished before his arrival. His muscles trembled with the exertion, but he kept on, pulling until the trap was wide enough for the other man to remove his leg.
The sickening sound of the trap's gnarled teeth ripping away flesh and muscle was almost too much to bear - for either of them. Ambrose whimpered and closed his eyes but was able to tug what was left of his leg free. He clawed at the bloodied leaves and dew-laced dirt desperately, getting as far away from the trap as he could. Cain leaned back some, releasing the trap when he was sure the other man was far enough away from it. The rusted contraption snapped violently, kicking up several leaves and almost taking a couple of the tin man's fingers with it.
Cain was up and crouched over Ambrose immediately, trembling hands fluttering over gaping wounds. “Oh, Ambrose, I'm so sorry,” the blond said huskily, shaking his head. “I should have been here. I should have . . .”
Ambrose grasped Cain's hand weakly, drawing in a shuddering breath and mustering up a watery smile. “This . . . is not your fault.”
Cain swallowed and nodded, opting to give Ambrose his way for the moment. There were more important things to worry about. He looked around, furrowing his brow. “I think there might be a village near here. We can get help.”
“I don't think I can move,” Ambrose admitted, his frail form beginning to shake. “It's . . . cold.”
“You've lost a lot of blood,” Cain pointed out unnecessarily. “I don't think I can chance leaving you here to go for help by myself.”
Ambrose sighed. “Which means I have to move.”
“Sorry,” the tin man apologized with a grimace. “I can carry you. It won't be comfortable, but at least you won't have to walk.”
Ambrose nodded reluctantly.
0 o 0 o 0
The journey was bumpy and much too slow for either of their likings, but Cain trekked on with determination, Ambrose's questionably light weight pressed against his back. The inventor's arms circled Cain's shoulders, his grip losing strength with every passing moment, and the tin man's arms were looped around and under Ambrose's knees, holding him in place and wary of his injured leg.
“Are you-” Ambrose cut off abruptly as Cain nearly tripped on a patch of jagged rocks. The inventor hissed, burying his face at the base of the tin man's neck to stifle a groan.
“Sorry,” Cain said sincerely, wincing as the other man's bloodied fingers clenched the fabric of his shirt tightly. “You all right?”
Ambrose took a deep breath and nodded. “Are you sure there's a village near here?”
“Yea. Just another mile.”
“You said that two miles ago,” the inventor sighed with exhaustion.
“Well, I mean it this time,” the tin man promised, carefully hitching the man up.
“You said that three miles ago,” Ambrose slurred, closing his eyes and resting his uninjured cheek against the man's broad shoulder. He could feel the muscles beneath strain and stretch with every step he took. It was oddly relaxing, and he could feel himself drifting off.
“Hey!” Cain jolted him back to consciousness. “You can't sleep just yet. Not until we reach the village and they check you out.”
“And what if there is no village?” The inventor snapped without meaning to. “What if they don't have a doctor? What if I die before we-”
“Ambrose, just shut your mouth, would you?” Cain huffed angrily. “You can't die if you're immortal, right?”
“I beg to differ,” Ambrose murmured quietly, soft enough to make it seem like a private thought but loud enough for the other man to hear.
Cain sighed, stopping for a moment and hitching the man up again. “Listen,” he said as calmly as he could muster, “the brush is less dense around here, the trees are thinning out, and I haven't seen a trap for a quarter of a mile. There has to be a village near by. Okay?”
Ambrose was quiet, and Cain feared he had passed out until the inventor's thin voice said, “Okay.”
True to the tin man's word, smoke appeared above them as they traveled further in the direction that Cain was dead-set on. He kept the I told you so to himself as Ambrose's breathing became erratic. Every in- and exhale was filled with a liquid-like squishing sound.
“Just hang in there,” Cain said breathlessly, eying the rather steep hill that stood between him and the village with contempt. He planted his feet, one after the other, making sure he had a good hold on both the loose dirt under his boots and the passenger on his back. Before long, he had reached the top without a single mishap. He stopped and took a deep breath, releasing it in a rushed gust of air. He couldn't help the smile of relief that took his lips. There stood the small village he had known was there - but had prayed for nonetheless.
“We're here,” he said with a deep sigh. Ambrose didn't reply.
AN: Again, thanks so much, you guys!! You really keep me going. :) So... next time on Apples to Apples:
"He invented some very nasty things, Mister Cain," the doctor said cautiously, studying the tin man carefully. "For a long time he was thought to be an evil wizard, making torture devices in the very house his parents had died in. Some claimed that he was being possessed by the angry spirit of his deceased father, tormented by the fact that his son had killed him."
Cain was taken aback. "Ambrose didn't . . . He couldn't have . . ."
"Are you so certain?" The old man questioned skeptically.
Cain furrowed his eyebrows, nodding determinedly. "I'm sure. He could never do something like that." But a seed of doubt had already been sown in the tin man's mind. How much did he really know about Ambrose? he knew what the inventor had told him, but how truthful would one be -- could one be -- if their past was seen as questionable? Shaky? Or, dare it be said, evil?
Chapter: 9/13
Author: tdesphtl
Rating: M (for earlier chapters)
Warning(s): none
AN: You guys are so amazing. Thank you for being so patient and so supportive. I decided this chapter needed to go up tonight because of your awesome-ness and because I'm having a really sh*tty night and needed to do something to get the yuckiness out of my system. *cleansed* :) Enjoy!!
Cain was cold - odd, considering he had fallen asleep with a very warm inventor in his arms . . . Oh. That was right.
The tin man sat up abruptly, glancing around and shivering. The fire was dead, a sole ember fading with a hiss and a wisp of smoke. The sky was a distressing gray, and Ambrose was no where to be found.
Cain stood, his clothes wet with morning dew and sticking to his skin uncomfortably. “Ambrose?” He called uncertainly, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. No reply came, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. “Ambrose!” He tried again, receiving the same result.
He held his breath, trying to calm himself. There was really no sense in riling himself up. Ambrose was probably out getting breakfast. He'd most likely be back any minute with arms cradling a dozen or so assorted fruits. There was no use worrying if there really wasn't anything to worry about . . . yet.
Several birds flew by overhead, screeching with what Cain could only assume was fear. His breath hitched as he stared in the direction the birds had come from, a sinking feeling growing in his stomach. He took a hesitant step, not sure he wanted to find what had scared those birds so badly.
Ten minutes later found Cain still trekking through thick brush, wondering if he should turn back. Ambrose might be back at the camp, safe and sound and complaining that the tin man had wandered off. The sound that reached his ears next, however, drained all hope from that thought. It was a frustrated cry - in a very familiar tone.
“Ambrose?” He called loudly, swiveling his head and holding his breath in anticipation. A pregnant pause wafted in the air, and the tin man's shoulders sank with resignation.
“C-Cain?” A pained voice called, suddenly, and the blond's heart thundered in his chest.
“Ambrose! Where are you?” Cain demanded, turning slowly on his heels in a full circle. He growled when the other man didn't seem to be in sight.
“I . . .” There was an uncertainty in the inventor's tone, a distance that meant he might be in serious trouble.
“Ambrose, stay with me!” The tin man ordered, worry making his voice tremble. “Just keep talking! I'll follow your voice.”
“Cain, I . . . I don't know what happened.” Ambrose's voice was strained, almost too hard to hear, but Cain found the general direction that it was coming from and started towards it with a determined stride. “I'm caught. I can't move. There's . . . There's a lot of blood.”
This only heightened the tin man's worry, and he started to run. Ambrose wasn't talking anymore, and Cain was about to shout to him again when the other man came into view. The sight twisted his stomach, and he nearly tripped as his motor functions failed him momentarily.
Ambrose sat amongst scattered, red-spattered leaves. His arms and chest and face were laden with garish gashes, his left leg caught mercilessly in a bear trap. The inventor's head was lowered towards his chest, his bloodied fingers curled around each side of the trap as his arms strained with effort. He managed to pry the jagged-toothed object open about half an inch before his strength failed and he had to let it shut on his leg again. He whimpered, raising his head as Cain collapsed to his knees beside him.
The tin man took in the tear-stained cheeks, the mangled shin and calf, the blood - gods, the blood - and let loose an anguished breath of air.
“Wh-” He swallowed and tried again. “What happened?” He carefully inspected the trap, looking for the release.
“There was a bear,” Ambrose slurred with a trembling voice, sighing in relief as he lay back against the blood-soaked leaves, his trapped leg propped up. He was getting tired, but falling asleep would not help either of them at the moment. “I-I tried to fight him off with a stick. He got in a few swipes before I accidentally stepped in the trap. M-Must've scared him off.”
Cain paused in his search. Not one word of that explanation had sounded like Ambrose. Glitch was most definitely shining through. And, strangely, it made quite a bit of sense. After a trauma such as that, who would rightfully want to be themself?
The tin man found the release and attempted to trigger it.
“It's broken,” came the inventor's small reply. “And rusted. The hunter who set it probably forgot about it a long time ago.”
Cain sighed in frustration, unconsciously reaching for his hat and finding it missing. He must have forgotten it back at the camp or lost it in his frenzied haste to get to the injured inventor.
“All right,” he said, taking a deep breath and letting it loose slowly as a plan formed in his mind. He'd seen plenty of men - and, on several horrible occasions, children - get caught in these kinds of traps before. None so bad off as Ambrose, though, Cain thought. “I'm going to pry it open as wide as I can. As soon as you can move your leg, I want you to pull it out and roll away. Got it?”
Ambrose nodded sluggishly.
“Hey,” the tin man said softly, placing his palm against the inventor's unmarred cheek. “You with me?”
Ambrose nodded again, this time more firmly. Cain returned the gesture wiping the sweat from his forehead and positioning his hands on either side of the trap.
“One,” he counted, his eyes locking with Ambrose's tired ones. “Two.” The inventor sucked in a breath, grasping his thigh just above his knee, ready to pull his leg from the trap. “Three.” Cain strained, his face contorting. It took nearly all his strength to get the trap open the half-inch that Ambrose had accomplished before his arrival. His muscles trembled with the exertion, but he kept on, pulling until the trap was wide enough for the other man to remove his leg.
The sickening sound of the trap's gnarled teeth ripping away flesh and muscle was almost too much to bear - for either of them. Ambrose whimpered and closed his eyes but was able to tug what was left of his leg free. He clawed at the bloodied leaves and dew-laced dirt desperately, getting as far away from the trap as he could. Cain leaned back some, releasing the trap when he was sure the other man was far enough away from it. The rusted contraption snapped violently, kicking up several leaves and almost taking a couple of the tin man's fingers with it.
Cain was up and crouched over Ambrose immediately, trembling hands fluttering over gaping wounds. “Oh, Ambrose, I'm so sorry,” the blond said huskily, shaking his head. “I should have been here. I should have . . .”
Ambrose grasped Cain's hand weakly, drawing in a shuddering breath and mustering up a watery smile. “This . . . is not your fault.”
Cain swallowed and nodded, opting to give Ambrose his way for the moment. There were more important things to worry about. He looked around, furrowing his brow. “I think there might be a village near here. We can get help.”
“I don't think I can move,” Ambrose admitted, his frail form beginning to shake. “It's . . . cold.”
“You've lost a lot of blood,” Cain pointed out unnecessarily. “I don't think I can chance leaving you here to go for help by myself.”
Ambrose sighed. “Which means I have to move.”
“Sorry,” the tin man apologized with a grimace. “I can carry you. It won't be comfortable, but at least you won't have to walk.”
Ambrose nodded reluctantly.
0 o 0 o 0
The journey was bumpy and much too slow for either of their likings, but Cain trekked on with determination, Ambrose's questionably light weight pressed against his back. The inventor's arms circled Cain's shoulders, his grip losing strength with every passing moment, and the tin man's arms were looped around and under Ambrose's knees, holding him in place and wary of his injured leg.
“Are you-” Ambrose cut off abruptly as Cain nearly tripped on a patch of jagged rocks. The inventor hissed, burying his face at the base of the tin man's neck to stifle a groan.
“Sorry,” Cain said sincerely, wincing as the other man's bloodied fingers clenched the fabric of his shirt tightly. “You all right?”
Ambrose took a deep breath and nodded. “Are you sure there's a village near here?”
“Yea. Just another mile.”
“You said that two miles ago,” the inventor sighed with exhaustion.
“Well, I mean it this time,” the tin man promised, carefully hitching the man up.
“You said that three miles ago,” Ambrose slurred, closing his eyes and resting his uninjured cheek against the man's broad shoulder. He could feel the muscles beneath strain and stretch with every step he took. It was oddly relaxing, and he could feel himself drifting off.
“Hey!” Cain jolted him back to consciousness. “You can't sleep just yet. Not until we reach the village and they check you out.”
“And what if there is no village?” The inventor snapped without meaning to. “What if they don't have a doctor? What if I die before we-”
“Ambrose, just shut your mouth, would you?” Cain huffed angrily. “You can't die if you're immortal, right?”
“I beg to differ,” Ambrose murmured quietly, soft enough to make it seem like a private thought but loud enough for the other man to hear.
Cain sighed, stopping for a moment and hitching the man up again. “Listen,” he said as calmly as he could muster, “the brush is less dense around here, the trees are thinning out, and I haven't seen a trap for a quarter of a mile. There has to be a village near by. Okay?”
Ambrose was quiet, and Cain feared he had passed out until the inventor's thin voice said, “Okay.”
True to the tin man's word, smoke appeared above them as they traveled further in the direction that Cain was dead-set on. He kept the I told you so to himself as Ambrose's breathing became erratic. Every in- and exhale was filled with a liquid-like squishing sound.
“Just hang in there,” Cain said breathlessly, eying the rather steep hill that stood between him and the village with contempt. He planted his feet, one after the other, making sure he had a good hold on both the loose dirt under his boots and the passenger on his back. Before long, he had reached the top without a single mishap. He stopped and took a deep breath, releasing it in a rushed gust of air. He couldn't help the smile of relief that took his lips. There stood the small village he had known was there - but had prayed for nonetheless.
“We're here,” he said with a deep sigh. Ambrose didn't reply.
AN: Again, thanks so much, you guys!! You really keep me going. :) So... next time on Apples to Apples:
"He invented some very nasty things, Mister Cain," the doctor said cautiously, studying the tin man carefully. "For a long time he was thought to be an evil wizard, making torture devices in the very house his parents had died in. Some claimed that he was being possessed by the angry spirit of his deceased father, tormented by the fact that his son had killed him."
Cain was taken aback. "Ambrose didn't . . . He couldn't have . . ."
"Are you so certain?" The old man questioned skeptically.
Cain furrowed his eyebrows, nodding determinedly. "I'm sure. He could never do something like that." But a seed of doubt had already been sown in the tin man's mind. How much did he really know about Ambrose? he knew what the inventor had told him, but how truthful would one be -- could one be -- if their past was seen as questionable? Shaky? Or, dare it be said, evil?