...You Don't Forget, Ch. 16/18
Title: ...You Don't Forget, Ch. 16/18 (+epilogue)
Author: blindswandive
Characters/Pairing: Ambrose/Cain; feat. DG, Az, the Queen, Jeb, an OC
Rating: PG13 - PG16
Summary: This is a very long story that has been going on for a very long time. There are broken people and awkward relationships. There are unhappy pasts, a complicated present, and an uncertain future. There are intrigues and secrets and implications and uncertainties. There is alien hand syndrome, post traumatic stress disorder, and more petty injuries than are probably fair. There is, above all, love. And it all started with brain surgery, one time or another. I recommend starting from the beginning, or from the other beginning, depending on your tastes in beginnings (or in brain surgery).
This chapter contains police brutality, subtlety, and destruction.
Warnings: Pocket watches; fire.
Disclaimer: Characters and Oz and O.Z. belong to Baum, SciFi, etc. Storyline/writing are mine, and I'm not turning a profit from it.
Word Count: 1667 (short one!)
Cross posted to glitch_wyatt.
Feedback is always, always love. Story is finally finished and will be posted approx. 1 chapter per day (+ epilogue) until it's all up.
Previous chapters/series:
Fifteen • Fourteen • Thirteen • Twelve • Eleven • Ten • Nine • Eight • Seven • Six • Five • Four • Three • Two • One • Evil Like That (1-5)
Chapter 16
Everything fell apart.
It had been enough, circumstantial or not, to take Wyatt Cain into custody for questioning and possible arraignment. He had still officially been listed as a "person of interest," and now that he had tried to beat the search party to their destination... It looked enough like intent to tamper with the investigation, whatever it was he meant to do. And once the Princess Dorothy Gale had insisted her sister was on fire, and once it was perfectly clear where there was fire, and where there was not, it was a simple task to find her. The search of the town was halted, and the party marched on the Cottage on the Green, leaving Wyatt Cain shackled to a horse post, under the guard of two of the men he had less severely injured in resisting arrest, until the inspection of the cottage could be completed and a stabler method of transporting the injured man in their custody could be arranged. (It was immediately deemed far more trouble than it was worth to try to drag him, kicking and buckling and wounded, along to the cottage, and anyway he'd have just been in the way, that much Bernhaben was sure about.)
At first, Cain hollered and shouted after them until he was hoarse. And to their credit, the guards on him only indulged the urge to kick him once, to quiet him down, and the part of Cain that was still Tin at the core appreciated that.
The part of him that was concussed, lost, and horrified, though, kept struggling and shouting until the energy wore out and the pain was too much. When it did, and was, he sank to the ground, temporarily defeated and stunned.
Gods, what were they going to do?
***
At least, Cain thought, while he tried not to listen for sounds in the woods that were too dim to make out at this distance anyway, they hadn't kept after Jeb. Finding Cain in the town--and finding Azkadellia at the cottage--should put the kibosh on following up on the now useless lead. Jeb, he prayed, should be safe.
When he'd get to see him again, well... That was something else entirely. At least he hadn't failed both the men in his life, that day.
Cain hunkered down into a lower slump and laid his forehead on his healthier knee, and prayed that Ambrose would be all right, prayed that he would lie or play dumb or something, that he would go quietly and not get himself hurt. Cain prayed Ambrose would let Cain take the fall and be done with it. Cain prayed Azkadellia would keep her trap shut.
That prayer, even more than the others, seemed in vain. But they all seemed in vain, when he lingered on them long.
If they took Ambrose in... or even if he ran... when would Cain get to see him again?
**************
Ambrose felt like he was underwater. Everything had gone distant and muffled, from Azkadellia's screeching to the crackling of the fire threatening to cave the corner of the roof in their bedroom, the pounding on the door, the sound of it eventually breaking in... There was one mass of horrible din, and he was deaf with it, receiving it all through ears too full to hear.
The world was overfull, too. He was moving too fast, or the rest of the world was, for him to keep the shapes clear, and he felt blind through the watery blurring of everything around him, even to the men, and even to the fire.
He struggled without direction to keep trying to beat at the fire, or move Azkadellia, or keep from being captured, but the aims did not go together, and eventually the world tilted dizzily when he was thrown over the shoulder of someone he hadn't managed to incapacitate in the attempt. Then there was ground--hard--and a flash of heat, but a splash of water just as soon that drowned it back out.
Men were still inside, trying to contain the burning, but it was late on the list of priorities behind getting Azkadellia out--and keeping DG out--where it was safer, and without further injury. Ambrose was a long way behind the Princesses in terms of priority--especially now--but they hadn't been able to work through him and had had to move him first, just the same.
He struggled back up to his knees, wet to the bone, and tried to focus on the cottage. The men that weren't busy trying to stabilize Azkadellia or the man Ambrose had hurt were busy trying to put out the blaze, but Ambrose could see that they were moving too slowly; they weren't bailing water fast enough, they weren't putting in enough effort, they were inefficient, and at this rate, even if the fire was stopped the damage would be too devastating to bear.
In the haze he was in, Ambrose couldn't get past that thought, and he went hurtling back towards the house and fire.
***********
Cain felt sick. There was too much smoke; it had to be bad, it had to be too bad.
There were footsteps near him, but he ignored them, ignored the guards. He hadn't been able to dismantle the cuffs, and his shoulder was wrecked from trying, and he had finally gone still, stony and as calm as he could force himself to be.
He couldn't hold it all. There was too much to keep inside, so he closed his eyes and closed it off.
Cain imagined a pocket watch, imagined its ticking; he folded the watch closed in his hand, slipped it into an inside pocket of a forgotten coat.
When he could still hear it, he folded the coat down and tossed it aside. Thought better of it, and folded it into a trunk, instead, and tucked the trunk into the back of a closet. And stacked some blankets and boxes on top of it, for good measure.
It would be safe there, if he ever got the chance to go back for it.
Eventually, it was enough.
He finally felt still, finally felt quiet. The beat was absorbed under layers until it was silent to him, and he sighed, shutting down.
He was even quiet enough, and long enough, that one of the guards felt safe enough to leave the other alone with him while he went to bum some water from the nearest store. If he'd worried about that decision, he needn't have; Cain was almost blind with pain, and was trying to go deaf by sheer force of will. He wouldn't be going anywhere on his own soon.
"Hey," a young voice said, above him, too loudly to ignore. He gritted his teeth and tried anyway.
"Hey," the guard returned casually, though he straightened up just a little to keep an eye on things. Under better circumstances, Cain would have appreciated the calm; it had been a long time since he'd seen people serving who weren't Longcoats. It was a good change.
He still had no interest in hearing their small talk, though, and focused on the sound of his own breathing, steady and slow.
"So what's going on?" the kid continued above him. "There were some dozen guys coming up the block, you catch him?"
"Him?" the guard asked, cautiously.
"Whoever you must've been chasing."
In spite of himself, Cain's ears pricked up. The voice--
"Looks like it might be that way," the guard replied noncommittally.
"Huh," said Jeb. "This him?"
"This man's helping us with our investigations--you want to leave him alone, okay?"
"Okay, right," Jeb agreed. "Right, sorry about that. Well, you need anything else, you let us know. You guys want some water or something?"
"Thanks, already getting some."
"Okay. Our door's open if you need, though. Doesn't look like he's going anywhere."
The tiny flare of sedate hope in Cain was too small to live long, so he wasn't too disappointed when the guard thanked Jeb but asked him to head on home, just the same. Cain sighed silently as the boots in his peripheral carried his son away from him.
At least he knew his boy was all right. Reassurance of things like that was going to be thin and hard to come by, and he would take it where he could get it.
************
Ambrose could do little in the house. And when three men wrestled him tightly enough, they managed to shackle his wrists behind his back, and that made dragging him back outside to safety a little easier. He hadn't caught any part of himself on fire, this time, at least, but he was dangerous enough to the rest of them on his own.
The guards were starting to figure that out, though not quickly enough. As soon as Ambrose got one foot under him, he kicked the jaw out of place of a man who tried to handle him. But the balance was wrong, and he went over, and this time they were ready to flatten him to hold him still. There was shouting, and more shackles were gathered to bind his ankles, but the two guards stayed on top of him to keep down his thrashing even so.
One eventually gagged him on an improvised wad of fabric, so he might have been one of the ones screaming.
The flames were dying, but still cropping up in odd corners in strange tendrils, as if they were trying to dodge around the men controlling them. Ambrose watched them intently even as he fought to get back to them.
Ambrose knew it would be over soon, but it was never soon enough. And as the smoke caught up to his lungs, he finally fell still except for the coughing, and the din--the terrible din--began to die down.
His eyes grew wet, reflecting the last odd curls of orange. It began to soothe the stinging there, but not enough.
*****
(Onto Seventeen)
Author: blindswandive
Characters/Pairing: Ambrose/Cain; feat. DG, Az, the Queen, Jeb, an OC
Rating: PG13 - PG16
Summary: This is a very long story that has been going on for a very long time. There are broken people and awkward relationships. There are unhappy pasts, a complicated present, and an uncertain future. There are intrigues and secrets and implications and uncertainties. There is alien hand syndrome, post traumatic stress disorder, and more petty injuries than are probably fair. There is, above all, love. And it all started with brain surgery, one time or another. I recommend starting from the beginning, or from the other beginning, depending on your tastes in beginnings (or in brain surgery).
This chapter contains police brutality, subtlety, and destruction.
Warnings: Pocket watches; fire.
Disclaimer: Characters and Oz and O.Z. belong to Baum, SciFi, etc. Storyline/writing are mine, and I'm not turning a profit from it.
Word Count: 1667 (short one!)
Cross posted to glitch_wyatt.
Feedback is always, always love. Story is finally finished and will be posted approx. 1 chapter per day (+ epilogue) until it's all up.
Previous chapters/series:
Fifteen • Fourteen • Thirteen • Twelve • Eleven • Ten • Nine • Eight • Seven • Six • Five • Four • Three • Two • One • Evil Like That (1-5)
Chapter 16
Everything fell apart.
It had been enough, circumstantial or not, to take Wyatt Cain into custody for questioning and possible arraignment. He had still officially been listed as a "person of interest," and now that he had tried to beat the search party to their destination... It looked enough like intent to tamper with the investigation, whatever it was he meant to do. And once the Princess Dorothy Gale had insisted her sister was on fire, and once it was perfectly clear where there was fire, and where there was not, it was a simple task to find her. The search of the town was halted, and the party marched on the Cottage on the Green, leaving Wyatt Cain shackled to a horse post, under the guard of two of the men he had less severely injured in resisting arrest, until the inspection of the cottage could be completed and a stabler method of transporting the injured man in their custody could be arranged. (It was immediately deemed far more trouble than it was worth to try to drag him, kicking and buckling and wounded, along to the cottage, and anyway he'd have just been in the way, that much Bernhaben was sure about.)
At first, Cain hollered and shouted after them until he was hoarse. And to their credit, the guards on him only indulged the urge to kick him once, to quiet him down, and the part of Cain that was still Tin at the core appreciated that.
The part of him that was concussed, lost, and horrified, though, kept struggling and shouting until the energy wore out and the pain was too much. When it did, and was, he sank to the ground, temporarily defeated and stunned.
Gods, what were they going to do?
***
At least, Cain thought, while he tried not to listen for sounds in the woods that were too dim to make out at this distance anyway, they hadn't kept after Jeb. Finding Cain in the town--and finding Azkadellia at the cottage--should put the kibosh on following up on the now useless lead. Jeb, he prayed, should be safe.
When he'd get to see him again, well... That was something else entirely. At least he hadn't failed both the men in his life, that day.
Cain hunkered down into a lower slump and laid his forehead on his healthier knee, and prayed that Ambrose would be all right, prayed that he would lie or play dumb or something, that he would go quietly and not get himself hurt. Cain prayed Ambrose would let Cain take the fall and be done with it. Cain prayed Azkadellia would keep her trap shut.
That prayer, even more than the others, seemed in vain. But they all seemed in vain, when he lingered on them long.
If they took Ambrose in... or even if he ran... when would Cain get to see him again?
**************
Ambrose felt like he was underwater. Everything had gone distant and muffled, from Azkadellia's screeching to the crackling of the fire threatening to cave the corner of the roof in their bedroom, the pounding on the door, the sound of it eventually breaking in... There was one mass of horrible din, and he was deaf with it, receiving it all through ears too full to hear.
The world was overfull, too. He was moving too fast, or the rest of the world was, for him to keep the shapes clear, and he felt blind through the watery blurring of everything around him, even to the men, and even to the fire.
He struggled without direction to keep trying to beat at the fire, or move Azkadellia, or keep from being captured, but the aims did not go together, and eventually the world tilted dizzily when he was thrown over the shoulder of someone he hadn't managed to incapacitate in the attempt. Then there was ground--hard--and a flash of heat, but a splash of water just as soon that drowned it back out.
Men were still inside, trying to contain the burning, but it was late on the list of priorities behind getting Azkadellia out--and keeping DG out--where it was safer, and without further injury. Ambrose was a long way behind the Princesses in terms of priority--especially now--but they hadn't been able to work through him and had had to move him first, just the same.
He struggled back up to his knees, wet to the bone, and tried to focus on the cottage. The men that weren't busy trying to stabilize Azkadellia or the man Ambrose had hurt were busy trying to put out the blaze, but Ambrose could see that they were moving too slowly; they weren't bailing water fast enough, they weren't putting in enough effort, they were inefficient, and at this rate, even if the fire was stopped the damage would be too devastating to bear.
In the haze he was in, Ambrose couldn't get past that thought, and he went hurtling back towards the house and fire.
***********
Cain felt sick. There was too much smoke; it had to be bad, it had to be too bad.
There were footsteps near him, but he ignored them, ignored the guards. He hadn't been able to dismantle the cuffs, and his shoulder was wrecked from trying, and he had finally gone still, stony and as calm as he could force himself to be.
He couldn't hold it all. There was too much to keep inside, so he closed his eyes and closed it off.
Cain imagined a pocket watch, imagined its ticking; he folded the watch closed in his hand, slipped it into an inside pocket of a forgotten coat.
When he could still hear it, he folded the coat down and tossed it aside. Thought better of it, and folded it into a trunk, instead, and tucked the trunk into the back of a closet. And stacked some blankets and boxes on top of it, for good measure.
It would be safe there, if he ever got the chance to go back for it.
Eventually, it was enough.
He finally felt still, finally felt quiet. The beat was absorbed under layers until it was silent to him, and he sighed, shutting down.
He was even quiet enough, and long enough, that one of the guards felt safe enough to leave the other alone with him while he went to bum some water from the nearest store. If he'd worried about that decision, he needn't have; Cain was almost blind with pain, and was trying to go deaf by sheer force of will. He wouldn't be going anywhere on his own soon.
"Hey," a young voice said, above him, too loudly to ignore. He gritted his teeth and tried anyway.
"Hey," the guard returned casually, though he straightened up just a little to keep an eye on things. Under better circumstances, Cain would have appreciated the calm; it had been a long time since he'd seen people serving who weren't Longcoats. It was a good change.
He still had no interest in hearing their small talk, though, and focused on the sound of his own breathing, steady and slow.
"So what's going on?" the kid continued above him. "There were some dozen guys coming up the block, you catch him?"
"Him?" the guard asked, cautiously.
"Whoever you must've been chasing."
In spite of himself, Cain's ears pricked up. The voice--
"Looks like it might be that way," the guard replied noncommittally.
"Huh," said Jeb. "This him?"
"This man's helping us with our investigations--you want to leave him alone, okay?"
"Okay, right," Jeb agreed. "Right, sorry about that. Well, you need anything else, you let us know. You guys want some water or something?"
"Thanks, already getting some."
"Okay. Our door's open if you need, though. Doesn't look like he's going anywhere."
The tiny flare of sedate hope in Cain was too small to live long, so he wasn't too disappointed when the guard thanked Jeb but asked him to head on home, just the same. Cain sighed silently as the boots in his peripheral carried his son away from him.
At least he knew his boy was all right. Reassurance of things like that was going to be thin and hard to come by, and he would take it where he could get it.
************
Ambrose could do little in the house. And when three men wrestled him tightly enough, they managed to shackle his wrists behind his back, and that made dragging him back outside to safety a little easier. He hadn't caught any part of himself on fire, this time, at least, but he was dangerous enough to the rest of them on his own.
The guards were starting to figure that out, though not quickly enough. As soon as Ambrose got one foot under him, he kicked the jaw out of place of a man who tried to handle him. But the balance was wrong, and he went over, and this time they were ready to flatten him to hold him still. There was shouting, and more shackles were gathered to bind his ankles, but the two guards stayed on top of him to keep down his thrashing even so.
One eventually gagged him on an improvised wad of fabric, so he might have been one of the ones screaming.
The flames were dying, but still cropping up in odd corners in strange tendrils, as if they were trying to dodge around the men controlling them. Ambrose watched them intently even as he fought to get back to them.
Ambrose knew it would be over soon, but it was never soon enough. And as the smoke caught up to his lungs, he finally fell still except for the coughing, and the din--the terrible din--began to die down.
His eyes grew wet, reflecting the last odd curls of orange. It began to soothe the stinging there, but not enough.
*****
(Onto Seventeen)