FIC: (con)Fusion (Tin Man, G)
Title: (con)Fusion
Author: oddsbobs
Rating: G
Characters: Glitch (DG, Cain, Raw cameos)
Disclaimer: I do not own Tin Man in any shape or form, and write for fun not profit.
Summary: Every surgery has a recovery period. Glitch’s re-brainment is no different.
Notes: A last minute entry for tm_challenge, and my first for that community. Huzzah! uhm. This is very stream of consciousness. With random nursery rhymes and made-up science. I don't know what I was doing. Neither does Glitch, though, so I suppose it fits.
His hand is shaking - why is his hand shaking? (Neural impulses and misconnections jumping over half-burnt bridges.) Deep breath, one two three four. Concentrate.
‘Concentrate, DG,’ was the man’s favorite refrain, and Ambrose had to suppress an urge to shout each time he heard it. Concentrate on what? No wonder the poor girl was having difficulties.
Difficult to move but oh how he wants to. The bowl of blackberries is awfully tempting (and not on those prickly bushes but ice cream on top of fresh berry pie like his mother used to make) and he wants to pluck them out one by one by one.
‘One for sorrow, two for joy...’ Lots of sorrow, he remembers that now. But lots of joy, too. Balance the good with the bad, the Third Law (he liked that one), yin and yang. Completion.
A little girl with golden hair and a ragged doll dancing with him in a field of bright yellow flowers - his first friend - was it not a bit creepy? No wonder the farmer chased him away… ‘Zipperhead’ ziiiip don’t forget to zip up. But that wasn’t the day he found the blackberry bushes, oh no, that was much much later. File it away in its proper place, one after the other, beginning-middle-end. Is there an end? Or is it a circle?
Little girl with bright blue eyes (not so little any more) sitting across from him listening… listening to what? A constant stream. A babbling brook! Was he talking?
“…Thorium’s tenth theory, 3n divided by the mass of object a…”
In theory - in theory he should be able to pick up the dratted blackberries! His hand surges forward and - wait, wait, he must be gentle or squish they go - right between forefinger and thumb a perfectly deep purple Rubus eubatus.
He moves so slow, like dancing through water, to place it gently on the tray. Then back for another. Finger, thumb, pinch. It takes three times for him to grasp one. Out of the bowl, onto the table. Out in the open, but not alone. Place them side by side.
One on each side of him, one at the end of the bed. He is happy to see all three. Surrounded like a circle. Do they see the connections? An intricate webbing of thought and emotion… the others could never see the world the way he did (so much potential and so much wonder), they laughed at his ideas. But these three understand. There is no proper way, only the right way.
Which way? That way. Or maybe she’s the other way. Somewhere in the palace eating bread and honey. I did it all for you. Paper burns and crumples like dreams that never were. And sometimes it’s just so cold…
Who’s that? Cain, Cain, Tin Man reaching over to gently dab his cheeks with a tissue. Was he crying? That was odd because he didn’t feel sad and he wants to laugh. He feels the muscles twitching around his mouth but his tongue keeps moving on and on about pointless formulas and theories. Uncontrollable verbal discharge and that’s just nasty sounding! He wants to laugh more now.
“… number twenty on the table: capital R, little z.”
Razzzberry not as good as his blackberries - his mother never liked apples but the Queen had a whole orchard full and each morning she’d walk through them. They are lined up in a neat little row, one two three four and not a one squished. Ducks in a row, one for the crow, one to rot, one to grow (one for the mouse, remember?)
All lined up. “Vintery, mintery, cutery, corn, apple seed and apple thorn…”
One flew east and one flew west and one flew over the cuckoo’s nest. He remembers waking up and they were all gone and it was so achingly familiar but not really, not quite. They left him! No, no one left, and they’re here now. All around. One, two, three. Four. Complete.
All lined up just right and he wants to show them, these people he loves because it’s important that they know! He can remember and he is trying and it’s all just a bit much right now. He can’t get his mouth to say what he wants.
His hand has a mind of its own, and keeps reaching stretching for the bowl to pluck another berry out and he is angry angry angry! Four, just four! No less, no more.
It’s like a shiver running through his arm and down to his finger tips. The bowl is swept away and clatters to the ground and berries spill everywhere and he’s gone and squished the four lined up. No more on the tray. Hands oh so sticky and purple with juice and he always hated getting his hands sticky. He’s ruined it. There were four and now there are none. He’s always ruined everything he’s touched. DG grasps his hands in hers and all he can think is now she’ll be sticky, too, but she doesn’t let go.
“If you wanted jam, you only needed to ask,” Cain says and he’s smiling.
And he's smiling.
Author: oddsbobs
Rating: G
Characters: Glitch (DG, Cain, Raw cameos)
Disclaimer: I do not own Tin Man in any shape or form, and write for fun not profit.
Summary: Every surgery has a recovery period. Glitch’s re-brainment is no different.
Notes: A last minute entry for tm_challenge, and my first for that community. Huzzah! uhm. This is very stream of consciousness. With random nursery rhymes and made-up science. I don't know what I was doing. Neither does Glitch, though, so I suppose it fits.
His hand is shaking - why is his hand shaking? (Neural impulses and misconnections jumping over half-burnt bridges.) Deep breath, one two three four. Concentrate.
‘Concentrate, DG,’ was the man’s favorite refrain, and Ambrose had to suppress an urge to shout each time he heard it. Concentrate on what? No wonder the poor girl was having difficulties.
Difficult to move but oh how he wants to. The bowl of blackberries is awfully tempting (and not on those prickly bushes but ice cream on top of fresh berry pie like his mother used to make) and he wants to pluck them out one by one by one.
‘One for sorrow, two for joy...’ Lots of sorrow, he remembers that now. But lots of joy, too. Balance the good with the bad, the Third Law (he liked that one), yin and yang. Completion.
A little girl with golden hair and a ragged doll dancing with him in a field of bright yellow flowers - his first friend - was it not a bit creepy? No wonder the farmer chased him away… ‘Zipperhead’ ziiiip don’t forget to zip up. But that wasn’t the day he found the blackberry bushes, oh no, that was much much later. File it away in its proper place, one after the other, beginning-middle-end. Is there an end? Or is it a circle?
Little girl with bright blue eyes (not so little any more) sitting across from him listening… listening to what? A constant stream. A babbling brook! Was he talking?
“…Thorium’s tenth theory, 3n divided by the mass of object a…”
In theory - in theory he should be able to pick up the dratted blackberries! His hand surges forward and - wait, wait, he must be gentle or squish they go - right between forefinger and thumb a perfectly deep purple Rubus eubatus.
He moves so slow, like dancing through water, to place it gently on the tray. Then back for another. Finger, thumb, pinch. It takes three times for him to grasp one. Out of the bowl, onto the table. Out in the open, but not alone. Place them side by side.
One on each side of him, one at the end of the bed. He is happy to see all three. Surrounded like a circle. Do they see the connections? An intricate webbing of thought and emotion… the others could never see the world the way he did (so much potential and so much wonder), they laughed at his ideas. But these three understand. There is no proper way, only the right way.
Which way? That way. Or maybe she’s the other way. Somewhere in the palace eating bread and honey. I did it all for you. Paper burns and crumples like dreams that never were. And sometimes it’s just so cold…
Who’s that? Cain, Cain, Tin Man reaching over to gently dab his cheeks with a tissue. Was he crying? That was odd because he didn’t feel sad and he wants to laugh. He feels the muscles twitching around his mouth but his tongue keeps moving on and on about pointless formulas and theories. Uncontrollable verbal discharge and that’s just nasty sounding! He wants to laugh more now.
“… number twenty on the table: capital R, little z.”
Razzzberry not as good as his blackberries - his mother never liked apples but the Queen had a whole orchard full and each morning she’d walk through them. They are lined up in a neat little row, one two three four and not a one squished. Ducks in a row, one for the crow, one to rot, one to grow (one for the mouse, remember?)
All lined up. “Vintery, mintery, cutery, corn, apple seed and apple thorn…”
One flew east and one flew west and one flew over the cuckoo’s nest. He remembers waking up and they were all gone and it was so achingly familiar but not really, not quite. They left him! No, no one left, and they’re here now. All around. One, two, three. Four. Complete.
All lined up just right and he wants to show them, these people he loves because it’s important that they know! He can remember and he is trying and it’s all just a bit much right now. He can’t get his mouth to say what he wants.
His hand has a mind of its own, and keeps reaching stretching for the bowl to pluck another berry out and he is angry angry angry! Four, just four! No less, no more.
It’s like a shiver running through his arm and down to his finger tips. The bowl is swept away and clatters to the ground and berries spill everywhere and he’s gone and squished the four lined up. No more on the tray. Hands oh so sticky and purple with juice and he always hated getting his hands sticky. He’s ruined it. There were four and now there are none. He’s always ruined everything he’s touched. DG grasps his hands in hers and all he can think is now she’ll be sticky, too, but she doesn’t let go.
“If you wanted jam, you only needed to ask,” Cain says and he’s smiling.
And he's smiling.