Fic: The Four Hundredth Time (And It Never Gets Old, Even If They Do)
RANDOM PACKING BREAK TO POST FIC THAT'S BEEN ON MY HARDDRIVE FOR A REALLY LONG TIME! This is my birthday present! ...to you! Apparently I think it's way better to give.
Title: The Four Hundredth Time (And It Never Gets Old, Even If They Do)
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Absolutely nothing graphic, but Glitch/Cain, Cain/Adora, Tenpou/Kenren (aka Glitch-ness/Cain-ness).
Warnings: Religious themes, reincarnation, kind of a crossover with Saiyuki: Gaiden (but trust me, you don't need to know anything about it), character death, and Cain-ness is a pottymouth.
Summary: Swords, hypothermia, and trolls really suck. Luckily enough, they're used to it. Really, really, really used to it.
The Four Hundredth Time (And It Never Gets Old, Even If They Do)
He’s on the ground now, feeling that pathetic weakness as his blood weeps out onto a cement-looking ground, his entire being centered on staying awake, staying propped up on the building, staying alive even because there’s just that one other thing he has to do or it’d really, really suck to die even though it’d be so much easier.
Then, through the blurry darkness that eats away at the edges of his eyes, there’s a face. Since he’s lost a lot of blood and that tends to fuck people’s minds up pretty well from what he’s heard he figures it’s okay that the first thought that manages to wriggle out is “PRETTY.” He regrets that it’s blurry, and dark, and cold, because he can’t see more than the face, those eyes, that absolutely breathtaking hair that he wants like he only wants two other things right then (life and that one tiny other little thing he has to do) but he thinks maybe, just maybe, there might be even more to want, and decides to see it just as soon as he can keep his eyes open, if they ever do open again, because fuck, that bastard’s sword was a hell of a lot more painful than he’d thought it would be.
-
They took Ambrose to the Silent Shrines when he was five. They weren’t silent at all - each one had acolytes in front of it, different colored robes and clothing for different gods, different pendants and things so old he didn’t think anyone but the people wearing them remembered their names. It was full of a reverent sort of frivolity, almost like every day was a festival. He was intrigued, but they walked him along towards the Shrine to the Unknown God, just like every other future acolyte.
Apparently the Unknown God was the big hitter in the pantheon, since every kid from the orphanage who’d been chosen in His name was strutting about when they came to pick their things up from the house. The shrine really wasn’t all that impressive - bare marble everywhere and a single statue in the center of a faceless, genderless entity swathed in so much fabric that guessing what was underneath all that carved cloth was impossible.
“This is Ambrose,” the matron said when one of the acolytes walked over, voice caring but slightly distant as she looked over the statue reverently. “He’s been with us since he was three.”
“Ah,” the man said, as if it was a pleasant surprise that Ambrose had shown up for the appointment they’d scheduled as soon as he’d walked (well, more been carried) through the doors of the orphanage. “Ambrose, would you like to take a stroll around the gardens with me?”
He really didn’t, but simply shrugged and followed after the man in robes almost as bulky as the statue wore, ignoring the hand held out in case Ambrose was one of those sweet little children who liked holding hands with complete strangers. Ambrose had been raised polite, though, so he shook the man’s hand and said “It’s very nice to meet you,” as if he’d thought the hand was held out as a greeting.
The acolyte blinked at him, clearly surprised, but then smiled and shook. “Please, call me Polaris.” It took a bit of effort for Ambrose to not stare at a man named after the South Star, but Ambrose wasn’t exactly one to talk. He was young, but he knew what hypocrisy was. “So, tell me a bit about yourself.”
While they strolled, Ambrose’s young legs taking two steps for Polaris’ one, he thought. “I’m young. I like learning things, I try to have good manners, I don’t like an awful lot of things because they’re boring, I like dancing even if people make fun of me for it, and since I’m so little I don’t really know much about myself.” He hesitated, trying to think of any sort of way to explain himself. “Sometimes I feel a lot older, though.”
Polaris let out a slight laugh at that. “You’re very mature for your age, Ambrose, I don’t doubt that.”
“No, I mean…a lot older,” Ambrose said, almost desperately. Acolytes were supposed to be wise, weren’t they? Why didn’t Polaris understand him?
Polaris stopped walking, motioning them towards a simple stone gazebo. Ambrose had always liked gazebos. “Really? How much older?”
“Two million, one hundred fifteen thousand, and two hundred twenty five,” Ambrose said immediately, having no idea where it came from. He just…knew.
The acolyte gave him an amused, indulgent look. “And how’d that number come about?”
“One really long life and then lots of…short ones.”
That, apparently, got Polaris’ attention. “Ambrose, what do you know about the Lower Pantheon?” Apparently Ambrose’s blank stare was enough for Polaris to go on. “They say that sometimes, children are born knowing what a God indulges in when they descend, for whatever reason. It’s their duty to record what they see, to share further knowledge of the Great Beings-”
“Great Beings?” Ambrose gaped at him. Clearly the acolyte had never seen the sort of stuff he dreamed every now and then. “They’re just as stupid as we are!”
Polaris looked at him angrily. “I can understand that, if you aren’t lying, you may have a more intimate view of the Gods, but calling them stupid is certainly unfounded. Their logic is simply too far above us for a mere human to-”
Ambrose stood up and walked out. Polaris didn’t try to stop him, and when he picked up his things from the orphanage the matron was all smiles, thinking he’d found a calling just like all the other ones.
He found a government-run orphanage, stayed until he was fourteen, and slowly forgot how old he felt sometimes.
-
A light laugh. It’s your turn this time around, then? Hell if he knows what the fuck that means. He’s too busy staring, and bleeding and watching the guy pull out a handkerchief, pressing it to the wound, thinking he’s supposed to be wearing glasses or at least a monocle but he’d always liked it better off anyway, with nothing between their eyes. It still hurts like nothing he’s ever felt before but he could swear the pretty guy has some sort of magic in him because just a touch and he feels like he’s finally home. The flash of an unbelievably messy office swarms his already dizzy hand, but he manages to get a hand into that hair and gets an amused and slightly surprised noise - only slightly surprised because it’s always what happens no matter who it is dying on the ground.
A hand in the pretty man’s hair and Home leans down to press a gentle kiss that’s simple and familiar onto his lips. He tastes different just like every time and through the haze of bloodloss he manages to smile.
Your eyes are brown he says. They’ve been brown a few times around but he always loved the green just a bit more because they darkened just that bit more when Tenpou really got going, almost to black, and brown to black wasn’t nearly as hot. You’re blond Home points out and they both share a quiet laugh at that while the brick presses deeper into his back. Oh, won’t the other guy be jealous - not the only sun-head around anymore, are you bastard?
He screams from the pain when Home picks him up off the ground and starts shuffling him towards wherever they’re going this time. Won’t this be interesting when we’re both lucid again Home says and for the first time he notices the guy must be drunk off his ass with how they’re swaying around and he laughs and laughs and laughs because of course he’s going to be stuck with a completely random stranger with an enormous hangover when he gets his mind back.
It’s never easy but that sure as fuck doesn’t matter because eventually there’s moments like this one, where he’s here and so is he because they can’t not be when one of them’s dying the first time in this go-around. It’s never easy, but it’s always worth it.
-
Cain decided to be a Tin Man when he was seven because he sometimes remembered that he’d murdered people, people he’d been in charge of. He’d been older (well, he was old, but not really. He was only ridiculously old sometimes) but he still felt guilty, even if it hadn’t been him. Cain knew not to tell his parents - he knew what insanity sounded like, thanks to his cousin Marvin. He also knew what got people arrested, even if he was seven.
He was fifteen when he signed up, and it all felt so simple, like he’d been born over and over again to shoot, to run, to plan and protect. His instructors called Cain a natural leader, said he has a quiet charisma that made people jump when he said jump. They said he was the best shot they’d ever seen, almost like every gun was built for his hand, said that he had the instincts of a Tin Man due for retirement.
It was nice, knowing that what he did he did very, very well. He accepted that feeling of being held back as something every cadet went through, since it was.
During his final practical exam, the Captain herself came out to congratulate him, looking genuinely impressed.
“You, Wyatt Cain, were born to be a Tin Man,” she said, voice full of pride and a twinge of excitement.
“Thank you, sir,” Cain said, genuinely honored that someone other than him felt that way. The memories had faded, but feelings still stuck with him - the burning urge to protect, and a tiny pang that told him there was something out there he needed to find. Something or someone, he didn’t know, but there was something he was waiting for and it was waiting for him too.
It wasn’t urgent, though. Just a reminder - he’d get to it eventually.
“I’m serious, Cain,” the Captain insisted, handing him the badge. Cain had to stare at it for a moment, at the glint in the sunset that turned it red, because he’d finally done it. A year of training in protocol and laws and practice with skills he’d known before he could walk, and he finally had the badge. She laughed at the expression, probably having seen it a thousand times before. Her hand clapped onto his shoulder. “Wyatt, you must be blessed by the Gods themselves, it’s the only thing I can think of to explain you.”
He stared at her for a moment, and then for the first and only time in his life he smirked and threw his head back, laughing hysterically for no reason he could honestly put a finger on other than the unusual thought of kid, if they liked me I wouldn’t be doing this for the four hundredth time.
After that, he was a great Tin Man. Not a good one, not impressive, but great. At eighteen he was practically a Lieutenant in all but name, considering the age requirement.
At nineteen, Cain walked into a bar to take care of a domestic dispute. There was a disheveled brunet at the bar drinking himself to death, and he didn’t know why he was still occasionally glancing at the guy even when the man pulled the sword and started swinging.
-------
Ambrose stared at the man in his bed. The guy was attractive and only had his pants on, but that wasn’t why he was staring. It was the slow stain of blood starting to seep through the bandages on the man, and the way the man was so pale that Ambrose was beginning to wonder if he was even alive anymore.
He didn’t know how the man had gotten there, particularly when Ambrose was becoming intimately aware of how much he’d had to drink. Ambrose didn’t randomly pick up people in the middle of the night - in fact, he usually ended up with his apartment a mess and had to spend half the morning vomiting and cleaning (which were two things that definitely didn’t mix well).
When the man finally stirred, Ambrose was throwing up in the bathroom. When the man was fully awake, Ambrose was sitting on the nearby coffee table staring down at him, feeling disturbingly comfortable with the situation. He’d gotten a bit more of his color back, which was relieving, but medical training or not, the guy had to get to a hospital.
Pushing his irritatingly long hair out of the way - it was curly and obnoxious and there was one bit that insisted on randomly twisting over his eye - he leaned over to stare at the man. The man stared back.
“Do I know you?” Ambrose blurted out, and the man simply stared at him a while longer.
“I’m in a lot of pain,” he whispered hoarsely, and for some reason that didn’t seem like it was what he was supposed to say, but things always changed, even if he didn’t know what it had changed from.
Ambrose nodded. “I’ll call a cab to take us to the hospital.” …wait. What? He didn’t even know the guy, not to mention he still had to go accept his new position in two hours. Either accept the position or try to go get drunk at ten in the morning, at least. “To take you to the hospital.”
The man just nodded. Ambrose called the cab, and it was there in a few minutes. His hangover was giving him one of the worst headaches of his life, but Ambrose managed to help the guy into his clothing as best he could, although he had to smile at the hat. “You’re a hat person now, Kenren?”
“It’s practical,” the man said protectively, and Ambrose simply nodded, helped the stranger into the cab, and neither thought of nor saw him for another twenty years.
-
He didn’t know what was going on this time around but he was freezing and burning and there were curtains everywhere while the winter wind whipped past the box he’d woken up in, and he groaned. But there he was, curled up by the stove and looking more lost than he’d ever seen him and that was saying something after all the shit they’d been through together.
Is it always going to be you this time around? he asked, and he was almost teasing aside from the fact his smile looked even more fake than it usually did in situations like these. But he wasn’t sure what the situation really was since his mind was in that foggy place where they existed and it was foggy enough that his current self - CAIN, that’s who he was this time, Wyatt Cain - was too out of it to even really help him out with the thinking and he’d never really been all that good with planning things out. That was his job and it always had been and always would be even if he had half a brain and a zipper in his head.
He managed to get a smile onto his lips. Not always me. Just wait, one of these times you’ll be the one fucked up.
How exciting he said dryly and smiled an actual smile before shucking the coat and curling up under the blankets with him, warm and comforting and they fit together like a faded puzzle just like they always had and always would. I’m glad you got married. Had a family.
It was probably pretty sad that he knew exactly what he meant - that he was glad there’d be something of them left when they died and that maybe this way their next time around might connect them with the last one. They’d both had kids and wives and families and even managed to get to grandchildren a few times before dying in some horrible way like always but never managed to meet up with them.
They only ever recognized each other, which was a bitch.
They might be alive he remembered, excited in any lifetime or reincarnation about that since he loved them to an incredible degree and it wasn’t the slow winding river they had but the warm and comforting burn of a fireplace. That got him a smile and they both grinned before everything was so peaceful and warm and cozy that he fell asleep and never felt him slip out to get some more firewood.
-
Of course this happened. Of course it did. Glitch was lying on the floor, completely out of it. Something was whispering in his head that this was absolutely hilarious. Cain ignored it, kneeling down and shaking him as hard as he could, and finally slapping him across the cheek. Well fuck, he’s not going to like that said the voice, but Glitch’s eyes had snapped open, scandalized as he clutched his cheek.
“Do I know you?”
You have no idea how well we know each other. “Good morning, Sweetheart.”
He remembered, even if he didn’t remember everything, and they saved the world again.
----
“Trolls.”
Ambrose was busy shuffling through papers, his office a mess while he looked for something. The zipper was gone, and after for years from when he’d been shaved bald his hair had grown back out, and for some reason Cain was always strangely affectionate whenever the reading glasses came out. They were currently perched haphazardly on Ambrose’s nose. “Yes, Cain, trolls. It’s been nearly twenty years since anyone went out to re-ratify the peace treaty, it’s no surprise they’re attacking.”
Cain was still trying to get over the idea that trolls were not only real but marching for the Northern Island’s palace, ready for an all-out war. “Alright, so trolls are attacking. We can take care of that.”
Ambrose nodded. “Exactly. We can take care of that.”
Something in him knew that tone of voice, and wasn’t at all happy to hear it. “Ambrose, what are you thinking of doing?”
“Nothing that would hurt you or anyone else in any way, promise,” he said smoothly, narrowly avoiding having some books crash into his still slightly fragile skull. Ambrose had been agile as Glitch. As Ambrose, the man practically moved like a very skinny panther.
“Suicide is never the answer, even to an oncoming hoard of trolls.”
“Technically it’d be martyrdom,” Ambrose supplied, sounding almost like he thought it meant nothing to throw his life away for the greater good.
He does think it's nothing.
For once, the voice was completely welcome. Cain walked over and grabbed Ambrose by the collar, twisting him around to stare him straight in the eye. “You don’t get to die alone.”
Ambrose glared at him, slapping his hand away. “You do it all the time! You know how many times I’ve died from leprosy when you go and do that?”
“That’s not the point!” Cain shouted, not even sure where half the conversation was coming from. “Let me watch your back at least. Tell me what the plan is. I won’t even tell Jeb or DG.” Ambrose gave him a look that informed him that he knew exactly why Cain wouldn’t tell them no matter what. Cain finally glared, standing tall and firm in front of him. “Please.”
He watched Ambrose waver, and finally nod.
When they walked out of the palace, nobody noticed. They weren’t carrying anything but explosives and, in Cain’s case, his gun and plenty of bullets. The ridge was mounted and crossed in half a day, even if they were both nearing fifty, and they spoke about everything and nothing on their way, losing themselves to the mission and the strangely comforting fact that when they died, they’d be dying together.
The explosives took a while to set up, and they could see the trolls marching along in slapdash columns that made that voice inside Cain wince. “Trolls, huh?”
Ambrose grinned at him. “Trolls.”
Cain shook his head, smiling for no reason he could think of, and loaded his gun.
-
They were all dead or dying from the amazing display of explosives, and there he was, finally the one hurt more than he was. He was grinning when he managed to slump down next to him and earned a put-upon glare for it. Told you you’d get your turn this time around.
It looked like he was going to snap at him or sigh in a put-upon sort of way or something but he took a deep breath and laughed, grabbing onto his hand and rolling to look up at the sky with a smile. Certainly interesting this time around.
He squeezed his hand and lay down next to him, watching the light fade away with a smile. It always is, Sweetheart. It always is.
Title: The Four Hundredth Time (And It Never Gets Old, Even If They Do)
Rating: PG-13.
Pairing: Absolutely nothing graphic, but Glitch/Cain, Cain/Adora, Tenpou/Kenren (aka Glitch-ness/Cain-ness).
Warnings: Religious themes, reincarnation, kind of a crossover with Saiyuki: Gaiden (but trust me, you don't need to know anything about it), character death, and Cain-ness is a pottymouth.
Summary: Swords, hypothermia, and trolls really suck. Luckily enough, they're used to it. Really, really, really used to it.
The Four Hundredth Time (And It Never Gets Old, Even If They Do)
He’s on the ground now, feeling that pathetic weakness as his blood weeps out onto a cement-looking ground, his entire being centered on staying awake, staying propped up on the building, staying alive even because there’s just that one other thing he has to do or it’d really, really suck to die even though it’d be so much easier.
Then, through the blurry darkness that eats away at the edges of his eyes, there’s a face. Since he’s lost a lot of blood and that tends to fuck people’s minds up pretty well from what he’s heard he figures it’s okay that the first thought that manages to wriggle out is “PRETTY.” He regrets that it’s blurry, and dark, and cold, because he can’t see more than the face, those eyes, that absolutely breathtaking hair that he wants like he only wants two other things right then (life and that one tiny other little thing he has to do) but he thinks maybe, just maybe, there might be even more to want, and decides to see it just as soon as he can keep his eyes open, if they ever do open again, because fuck, that bastard’s sword was a hell of a lot more painful than he’d thought it would be.
-
They took Ambrose to the Silent Shrines when he was five. They weren’t silent at all - each one had acolytes in front of it, different colored robes and clothing for different gods, different pendants and things so old he didn’t think anyone but the people wearing them remembered their names. It was full of a reverent sort of frivolity, almost like every day was a festival. He was intrigued, but they walked him along towards the Shrine to the Unknown God, just like every other future acolyte.
Apparently the Unknown God was the big hitter in the pantheon, since every kid from the orphanage who’d been chosen in His name was strutting about when they came to pick their things up from the house. The shrine really wasn’t all that impressive - bare marble everywhere and a single statue in the center of a faceless, genderless entity swathed in so much fabric that guessing what was underneath all that carved cloth was impossible.
“This is Ambrose,” the matron said when one of the acolytes walked over, voice caring but slightly distant as she looked over the statue reverently. “He’s been with us since he was three.”
“Ah,” the man said, as if it was a pleasant surprise that Ambrose had shown up for the appointment they’d scheduled as soon as he’d walked (well, more been carried) through the doors of the orphanage. “Ambrose, would you like to take a stroll around the gardens with me?”
He really didn’t, but simply shrugged and followed after the man in robes almost as bulky as the statue wore, ignoring the hand held out in case Ambrose was one of those sweet little children who liked holding hands with complete strangers. Ambrose had been raised polite, though, so he shook the man’s hand and said “It’s very nice to meet you,” as if he’d thought the hand was held out as a greeting.
The acolyte blinked at him, clearly surprised, but then smiled and shook. “Please, call me Polaris.” It took a bit of effort for Ambrose to not stare at a man named after the South Star, but Ambrose wasn’t exactly one to talk. He was young, but he knew what hypocrisy was. “So, tell me a bit about yourself.”
While they strolled, Ambrose’s young legs taking two steps for Polaris’ one, he thought. “I’m young. I like learning things, I try to have good manners, I don’t like an awful lot of things because they’re boring, I like dancing even if people make fun of me for it, and since I’m so little I don’t really know much about myself.” He hesitated, trying to think of any sort of way to explain himself. “Sometimes I feel a lot older, though.”
Polaris let out a slight laugh at that. “You’re very mature for your age, Ambrose, I don’t doubt that.”
“No, I mean…a lot older,” Ambrose said, almost desperately. Acolytes were supposed to be wise, weren’t they? Why didn’t Polaris understand him?
Polaris stopped walking, motioning them towards a simple stone gazebo. Ambrose had always liked gazebos. “Really? How much older?”
“Two million, one hundred fifteen thousand, and two hundred twenty five,” Ambrose said immediately, having no idea where it came from. He just…knew.
The acolyte gave him an amused, indulgent look. “And how’d that number come about?”
“One really long life and then lots of…short ones.”
That, apparently, got Polaris’ attention. “Ambrose, what do you know about the Lower Pantheon?” Apparently Ambrose’s blank stare was enough for Polaris to go on. “They say that sometimes, children are born knowing what a God indulges in when they descend, for whatever reason. It’s their duty to record what they see, to share further knowledge of the Great Beings-”
“Great Beings?” Ambrose gaped at him. Clearly the acolyte had never seen the sort of stuff he dreamed every now and then. “They’re just as stupid as we are!”
Polaris looked at him angrily. “I can understand that, if you aren’t lying, you may have a more intimate view of the Gods, but calling them stupid is certainly unfounded. Their logic is simply too far above us for a mere human to-”
Ambrose stood up and walked out. Polaris didn’t try to stop him, and when he picked up his things from the orphanage the matron was all smiles, thinking he’d found a calling just like all the other ones.
He found a government-run orphanage, stayed until he was fourteen, and slowly forgot how old he felt sometimes.
-
A light laugh. It’s your turn this time around, then? Hell if he knows what the fuck that means. He’s too busy staring, and bleeding and watching the guy pull out a handkerchief, pressing it to the wound, thinking he’s supposed to be wearing glasses or at least a monocle but he’d always liked it better off anyway, with nothing between their eyes. It still hurts like nothing he’s ever felt before but he could swear the pretty guy has some sort of magic in him because just a touch and he feels like he’s finally home. The flash of an unbelievably messy office swarms his already dizzy hand, but he manages to get a hand into that hair and gets an amused and slightly surprised noise - only slightly surprised because it’s always what happens no matter who it is dying on the ground.
A hand in the pretty man’s hair and Home leans down to press a gentle kiss that’s simple and familiar onto his lips. He tastes different just like every time and through the haze of bloodloss he manages to smile.
Your eyes are brown he says. They’ve been brown a few times around but he always loved the green just a bit more because they darkened just that bit more when Tenpou really got going, almost to black, and brown to black wasn’t nearly as hot. You’re blond Home points out and they both share a quiet laugh at that while the brick presses deeper into his back. Oh, won’t the other guy be jealous - not the only sun-head around anymore, are you bastard?
He screams from the pain when Home picks him up off the ground and starts shuffling him towards wherever they’re going this time. Won’t this be interesting when we’re both lucid again Home says and for the first time he notices the guy must be drunk off his ass with how they’re swaying around and he laughs and laughs and laughs because of course he’s going to be stuck with a completely random stranger with an enormous hangover when he gets his mind back.
It’s never easy but that sure as fuck doesn’t matter because eventually there’s moments like this one, where he’s here and so is he because they can’t not be when one of them’s dying the first time in this go-around. It’s never easy, but it’s always worth it.
-
Cain decided to be a Tin Man when he was seven because he sometimes remembered that he’d murdered people, people he’d been in charge of. He’d been older (well, he was old, but not really. He was only ridiculously old sometimes) but he still felt guilty, even if it hadn’t been him. Cain knew not to tell his parents - he knew what insanity sounded like, thanks to his cousin Marvin. He also knew what got people arrested, even if he was seven.
He was fifteen when he signed up, and it all felt so simple, like he’d been born over and over again to shoot, to run, to plan and protect. His instructors called Cain a natural leader, said he has a quiet charisma that made people jump when he said jump. They said he was the best shot they’d ever seen, almost like every gun was built for his hand, said that he had the instincts of a Tin Man due for retirement.
It was nice, knowing that what he did he did very, very well. He accepted that feeling of being held back as something every cadet went through, since it was.
During his final practical exam, the Captain herself came out to congratulate him, looking genuinely impressed.
“You, Wyatt Cain, were born to be a Tin Man,” she said, voice full of pride and a twinge of excitement.
“Thank you, sir,” Cain said, genuinely honored that someone other than him felt that way. The memories had faded, but feelings still stuck with him - the burning urge to protect, and a tiny pang that told him there was something out there he needed to find. Something or someone, he didn’t know, but there was something he was waiting for and it was waiting for him too.
It wasn’t urgent, though. Just a reminder - he’d get to it eventually.
“I’m serious, Cain,” the Captain insisted, handing him the badge. Cain had to stare at it for a moment, at the glint in the sunset that turned it red, because he’d finally done it. A year of training in protocol and laws and practice with skills he’d known before he could walk, and he finally had the badge. She laughed at the expression, probably having seen it a thousand times before. Her hand clapped onto his shoulder. “Wyatt, you must be blessed by the Gods themselves, it’s the only thing I can think of to explain you.”
He stared at her for a moment, and then for the first and only time in his life he smirked and threw his head back, laughing hysterically for no reason he could honestly put a finger on other than the unusual thought of kid, if they liked me I wouldn’t be doing this for the four hundredth time.
After that, he was a great Tin Man. Not a good one, not impressive, but great. At eighteen he was practically a Lieutenant in all but name, considering the age requirement.
At nineteen, Cain walked into a bar to take care of a domestic dispute. There was a disheveled brunet at the bar drinking himself to death, and he didn’t know why he was still occasionally glancing at the guy even when the man pulled the sword and started swinging.
-------
Ambrose stared at the man in his bed. The guy was attractive and only had his pants on, but that wasn’t why he was staring. It was the slow stain of blood starting to seep through the bandages on the man, and the way the man was so pale that Ambrose was beginning to wonder if he was even alive anymore.
He didn’t know how the man had gotten there, particularly when Ambrose was becoming intimately aware of how much he’d had to drink. Ambrose didn’t randomly pick up people in the middle of the night - in fact, he usually ended up with his apartment a mess and had to spend half the morning vomiting and cleaning (which were two things that definitely didn’t mix well).
When the man finally stirred, Ambrose was throwing up in the bathroom. When the man was fully awake, Ambrose was sitting on the nearby coffee table staring down at him, feeling disturbingly comfortable with the situation. He’d gotten a bit more of his color back, which was relieving, but medical training or not, the guy had to get to a hospital.
Pushing his irritatingly long hair out of the way - it was curly and obnoxious and there was one bit that insisted on randomly twisting over his eye - he leaned over to stare at the man. The man stared back.
“Do I know you?” Ambrose blurted out, and the man simply stared at him a while longer.
“I’m in a lot of pain,” he whispered hoarsely, and for some reason that didn’t seem like it was what he was supposed to say, but things always changed, even if he didn’t know what it had changed from.
Ambrose nodded. “I’ll call a cab to take us to the hospital.” …wait. What? He didn’t even know the guy, not to mention he still had to go accept his new position in two hours. Either accept the position or try to go get drunk at ten in the morning, at least. “To take you to the hospital.”
The man just nodded. Ambrose called the cab, and it was there in a few minutes. His hangover was giving him one of the worst headaches of his life, but Ambrose managed to help the guy into his clothing as best he could, although he had to smile at the hat. “You’re a hat person now, Kenren?”
“It’s practical,” the man said protectively, and Ambrose simply nodded, helped the stranger into the cab, and neither thought of nor saw him for another twenty years.
-
He didn’t know what was going on this time around but he was freezing and burning and there were curtains everywhere while the winter wind whipped past the box he’d woken up in, and he groaned. But there he was, curled up by the stove and looking more lost than he’d ever seen him and that was saying something after all the shit they’d been through together.
Is it always going to be you this time around? he asked, and he was almost teasing aside from the fact his smile looked even more fake than it usually did in situations like these. But he wasn’t sure what the situation really was since his mind was in that foggy place where they existed and it was foggy enough that his current self - CAIN, that’s who he was this time, Wyatt Cain - was too out of it to even really help him out with the thinking and he’d never really been all that good with planning things out. That was his job and it always had been and always would be even if he had half a brain and a zipper in his head.
He managed to get a smile onto his lips. Not always me. Just wait, one of these times you’ll be the one fucked up.
How exciting he said dryly and smiled an actual smile before shucking the coat and curling up under the blankets with him, warm and comforting and they fit together like a faded puzzle just like they always had and always would. I’m glad you got married. Had a family.
It was probably pretty sad that he knew exactly what he meant - that he was glad there’d be something of them left when they died and that maybe this way their next time around might connect them with the last one. They’d both had kids and wives and families and even managed to get to grandchildren a few times before dying in some horrible way like always but never managed to meet up with them.
They only ever recognized each other, which was a bitch.
They might be alive he remembered, excited in any lifetime or reincarnation about that since he loved them to an incredible degree and it wasn’t the slow winding river they had but the warm and comforting burn of a fireplace. That got him a smile and they both grinned before everything was so peaceful and warm and cozy that he fell asleep and never felt him slip out to get some more firewood.
-
Of course this happened. Of course it did. Glitch was lying on the floor, completely out of it. Something was whispering in his head that this was absolutely hilarious. Cain ignored it, kneeling down and shaking him as hard as he could, and finally slapping him across the cheek. Well fuck, he’s not going to like that said the voice, but Glitch’s eyes had snapped open, scandalized as he clutched his cheek.
“Do I know you?”
You have no idea how well we know each other. “Good morning, Sweetheart.”
He remembered, even if he didn’t remember everything, and they saved the world again.
----
“Trolls.”
Ambrose was busy shuffling through papers, his office a mess while he looked for something. The zipper was gone, and after for years from when he’d been shaved bald his hair had grown back out, and for some reason Cain was always strangely affectionate whenever the reading glasses came out. They were currently perched haphazardly on Ambrose’s nose. “Yes, Cain, trolls. It’s been nearly twenty years since anyone went out to re-ratify the peace treaty, it’s no surprise they’re attacking.”
Cain was still trying to get over the idea that trolls were not only real but marching for the Northern Island’s palace, ready for an all-out war. “Alright, so trolls are attacking. We can take care of that.”
Ambrose nodded. “Exactly. We can take care of that.”
Something in him knew that tone of voice, and wasn’t at all happy to hear it. “Ambrose, what are you thinking of doing?”
“Nothing that would hurt you or anyone else in any way, promise,” he said smoothly, narrowly avoiding having some books crash into his still slightly fragile skull. Ambrose had been agile as Glitch. As Ambrose, the man practically moved like a very skinny panther.
“Suicide is never the answer, even to an oncoming hoard of trolls.”
“Technically it’d be martyrdom,” Ambrose supplied, sounding almost like he thought it meant nothing to throw his life away for the greater good.
He does think it's nothing.
For once, the voice was completely welcome. Cain walked over and grabbed Ambrose by the collar, twisting him around to stare him straight in the eye. “You don’t get to die alone.”
Ambrose glared at him, slapping his hand away. “You do it all the time! You know how many times I’ve died from leprosy when you go and do that?”
“That’s not the point!” Cain shouted, not even sure where half the conversation was coming from. “Let me watch your back at least. Tell me what the plan is. I won’t even tell Jeb or DG.” Ambrose gave him a look that informed him that he knew exactly why Cain wouldn’t tell them no matter what. Cain finally glared, standing tall and firm in front of him. “Please.”
He watched Ambrose waver, and finally nod.
When they walked out of the palace, nobody noticed. They weren’t carrying anything but explosives and, in Cain’s case, his gun and plenty of bullets. The ridge was mounted and crossed in half a day, even if they were both nearing fifty, and they spoke about everything and nothing on their way, losing themselves to the mission and the strangely comforting fact that when they died, they’d be dying together.
The explosives took a while to set up, and they could see the trolls marching along in slapdash columns that made that voice inside Cain wince. “Trolls, huh?”
Ambrose grinned at him. “Trolls.”
Cain shook his head, smiling for no reason he could think of, and loaded his gun.
-
They were all dead or dying from the amazing display of explosives, and there he was, finally the one hurt more than he was. He was grinning when he managed to slump down next to him and earned a put-upon glare for it. Told you you’d get your turn this time around.
It looked like he was going to snap at him or sigh in a put-upon sort of way or something but he took a deep breath and laughed, grabbing onto his hand and rolling to look up at the sky with a smile. Certainly interesting this time around.
He squeezed his hand and lay down next to him, watching the light fade away with a smile. It always is, Sweetheart. It always is.