Chapter Text
You know the thing about happy endings in any media?
They tend to crop out the awkward part after the final battle against the bad guy. Ignoring the part where the dust settles and realization sinks in; glossing straight over the unsettling feeling of a hollow confusion settling into your very bones when you look up and take a breath and suddenly think and what know?
Jumping straight to the fun part where everything is bright and cheery and good is a great thing to see, but in real life, you sadly don’t get to skip the hard parts that easily.
Ambrosius comes to this uncomfortable realization right there in the wreckage of what once was a proud wall and a stable kingdom, cannon shot still ringing in his ears as an echo, body only right now starting to hurt once the adrenaline subsides (and ouch, he feels like a personified giant bruise all over). He still has his uninjured arm slung around a slumped Ballister, each of them supporting the other as much as they lean on them. They haven’t moved a single inch since the dust has cleared enough to provide a good look at the crumbled wall and the serene landscape behind it.
The serene, peaceful, decidedly monster-free landscape behind it.
The sight fills Ambrosius’ veins with ice and turns his stomach.
What if we've always been wrong?
Only now did he realized how right he had been when he had said it, and how wrong at the same time. He had meant Ballister’s guilt, when he had stood up to the Director to say this. He had meant the shapeshif- the girl – Nimona when he had said this. He hadn’t mean that they had been wrong with everything.
A part of him, the part of him formed and gilded into the perfect knight, the golden descendant of a heroine, had still clung to the believe that at least some of it had been the truth.
One thousand years of lies. A millennia, a kingdom, a society built upon fear and deceit. What is even real anymore? When everything he had been taught is wrong, then – what about himself? The role he and his family played in all of this? God, just thinking about it, he could have screamed, cried, he-…
A soft sound, wet and breathy and pressed directly into the skin of his neck, makes Ambrosius rapidly snap out of his own spiraling thoughts. Oh. Ballister. How has he forgotten that his boyfriend – he is his boyfriend still, right? - is still clinging to him? Not the time for a breakdown, when Bal is clearly steering right towards one. No wonder, after the days, weeks, he had had.
And while Ambrosius is still not entirely sure what exactly the relationship between Ballister and the – Nimona had been, he can tell that the other man is in anguish over the loss of her. Every breath taken next to his ear is wetter and shakier than the one before.
“Bal,” Ambrosius utters as softly as he can. He manages to get his own shaking under control enough that he can reach up and run a hair through tousled black hair, deciding not to focus on how much he has missed this but rather on bringing comfort. “Bal, are you… are you hurt? Is there anything I can-…?”
Ballister is already shaking his head while he is still talking, and Ambrosius can basically hear the crack of his jaw unclenching seconds before Ballister croaks, "No... no injury...."
The man's shoulders are shaking, and Ambrosius' heart turns over in his chest. Of course not. This is not a physical pain, this is loss and grief. They had all seen the way Ballister had wrapped the - Nimona up in his arms, and Ambrosius especially had taken note of the fear on his boyfriend's face when the girl had turned into a giant flaming creature and headed straight for the cannon.
He is about to say something, anything to offer comfort, but is rudely interrupted by a shout
"Boldheart!”
The loud voice is startling in the graveyard silence, loud like an explosion. Ambrosius feels Ballister flinch against his shoulder at the same time he does, and instinct kicks in. Before he knows it, he has turned them both so he is between Bal and the direction the voice has rung out from, and glares into the half dark and through the remaining dust. Most of it has settled by now, and now that he is paying attention to anything but himself and the man in his arms, Ambrosius can see that a veritable crowd has gathered around them quietly. Only that they are no longer quiet now; they are slowly moving towards the both of them, steady like an ocean's wave cresting.
They are surrounded, and the realization makes Ambrosius tense up, holding Ballister tighter to his side even though the other man utters a weak protest and makes to straighten up. No, Ambrosius tells him, and the crowd, silently. There is no way he is going to let go or to step aside now. He will remain right here, between anyone who might think about harming the "Queen Killer", and if they dare to turn on Ballister again now – after everything – when he had just gotten him back - then - then -
He is not entirely sure what he is about to do then, but Ambrosius is also not about to find out, it seems. While his mind is still racing, body stiffening in preparation of a fight, there’s another loud voice, from a different direction, like an echo, “Boldheart!”
And then there is one more, two more, three more, picking up the word, until all around them the same name rings out, again and again in harmony, only interrupted once or twice by a whoop, until it is called out by dozens of voices. “Boldheart, Boldheart, Boldheart!”
Chanting, Ambrosius realizes, relaxing in slow increments (but never letting go of Bal). Cheering. They are not about to attack Ballister, they are cheering for him. Of course, he allows slowly, relief and pride both flooding him and chasing away the lingering chill. The entire kingdom had seen Ballister on the big screens, had followed the live feed and seen how he had stood up to a – a creature they had been terrified to death over, and how he had convinced it to turn into an ally, a savior.
Something like a disbelieving laugh wrenches its way out of his throat, tapering off when he clamps down his teeth on it. No sense in seeming hysterical in front of everyone.
When Ambrosius looks over at Ballister, the other looks - startled. No, shocked, is more like it. There is something dangerously close to fear in those dark eyes while they dart around, taking in the chanting, approaching crowd.
It is heart-wrenchingly obvious that Ballister does not trust this. No wonder, right, Ambrosius allows, considering that the last time someone had chanted for him, everything had gone to hell only seconds later, and former admirers had quickly turned to enemies.
You deserve this, Ambrosius wants to tell him, you always did, this is the least we all can do for you-
But it seems like too much, after everything, and might not be received well after all his failures. “They think you’re a hero,” he says out loud instead, wincing slightly over how his voice cracks on unsaid things. He can feel how wobbly his smile is, how insecure, when he reaches over and rests a hand on Ballister’s shoulder to anchor him. “See? I always knew they would love you.”
Just like I do burns on his tongue, pushes against his teeth, but he can't, he can't. Too soon, too fast.
At the words and the touch, Ballister's eyes snap around to him, finally. They are still huge and dark and pained, and his usually tan face is rapidly losing color. "Ambrosius..." even his voice sounds as if it is weakening, wobbling audibly on the last syllable.
Oh. Oh, no. Ambrosius recognizes the signs immediately, pieces it all together when he feels the tremor in Bal's shoulders. The events of the days are catching up to him, and there is a breakdown building up behind the barely held together facade.
Casting another glance around them, at the crowd and the noise, just, everything, Ambrosius can understand how this must be too much right now. Ballister has never handled being pushed into the limelight well, and this, after everything, might just be the straw to break the camel's back.
Ballister must have seen the dawning realization on his face, since he shakes his head and whispers, finally, "... I can't."
The decision is easy then. "Let's get out of here." Not stopping to think if he might be overstepping boundaries, Ambrosius reaches out his arm to wrap it around Ballister's shoulders, pushing the other behind him gently while he begins moving them backwards. At the same time, he turns towards the still approaching crowd, which has not seemed to catch onto their unwillingness yet.
“Not now, people!” Ambrosius calls, bellows, really, to be heard over the noise of a good hundred people. He knows how gatherings like this can be, how mindlessly pushy and too much they can become, and it is not what Ballister needs right now. If the Institute’s Golden Knight has to bare his teeth and swing his fists to get them out of here, so be it. For the time being, he settles for inching backwards, careful to keep himself bodily between Ballister and any overzealous new fan he has garnered, and calls out, “He needs rest, come on, we all had a day, can we just – leave this be for today-…”
He is not sure how convincing he is right now, tired and beaten down as he is, and still holding onto a slumping former knight. But thankfully, some people seem to pick up on what he is saying even in the general chaos and decide to have mercy. The shout for quiet and give them some room is picked up by a few around them, people holding others back. The crowd thins behind them, and Ambrosius breathes a sigh of relief when he manages to steer them both out of the circle of people entirely into a quieter corner of the plaza.
A glance over his shoulder tells him that some knights – former knights? - have gathered around the crowd, creating a makeshift barrier between any possible admirers and the two knights. Ambrosius mouths a quiet thank you in their direction even though he is fairly sure no one will see it in the commotion.
When he turns back around, Ballister is leaning with his back against the nearest wall. The sight of him, shoulders drawn up and curled into himself, sends a painful lurch through Ambrosius’ chest. He looks so hurt, so small. Instinctively he reaches for Ballister – and then stops himself, grinding his teeth in annoyance over his own thoughtlessness. Is he… even allowed to do that, now? Ballister had stumbled into his arms back there, yes, but that had been when he had been tired and shaken up and…
If you believe that – then you have never really known me.
"... Alright?"
Immediately, he wants to kick himself. Alright? Of course nothing is alright, which idiot would ask something like that in this situation? Well, apparently, this idiot, Ambrosius admits with a wince, managing a sheepish little smile when Ballister glances up at him.
At least his own embarrassment is enough to make Ballister’s lips twitch, a weak shadow of a maybe-almost smile, before he droops again, and shakes his head weakly.
Feeling as if his heart is being squeezed by a giant fist, Ambrosius takes one, two deep breaths, reigning in every instinct which is screaming at him to step up, to take Ballister in his arms and not let go again until the other has screamed, raged and cried all that sadness and hurt out. It is possibly the hardest fight of his life to do so, and it takes him longer than he would like to admit. Once he trusts himself again, Ambrosius opens his mouth again and says around a throat too tight: “Let’s get you out of here.”
There is a pause where Ballister seems to consider his words, glancing up, then around. At the plaza full of ashes, at the crumbled wall, at the crowd still loud and ever-wanting.
At the distinct lack of pink everywhere.
When he turns back to Ambrosius, the former Golden Knight sees the question on his face, clear as day, Where?
Where should I go?
“We will figure out something on the way,” Ambrosius answers the question before he hears it out loud. “For the time being – I don’t know about you, but I just. Don’t want to be here right now.”
There is that twitch again, that attempt at a smile which falls flat, but this time, Ballister’s eyes join in, glinting slightly in the half-dark around them. It gives Ambrosius foolish hope.
Maybe he has not messed up everything, if he can still get the other to smile against his will.
It is that hope which sparks a sudden idea in him, and he blurts it out before he can overthink it, driven by a heart beating too fast in his chest, “Do you – want to stop at your room? To grab some things?”
Ballister stops midmotion from where he has been pushing off the wall and turns huge, surprised eyes at him. And honestly, same. Ambrosius cannot believe he has just offered that, but – he is still talking, he realizes, in for a penny in for a pound apparently, stumbling over himself to explain, “It is not yet released again yet, but I’m sure nobody will be paying attention right now, so if there is – anything you need – we could – you know….”
Please interrupt me, Ambrosius thinks hopelessly, not knowing if to laugh or scream at his foolish attempt at – something.
Today does not seem to be Ballister’s most merciful day, however, since he only stares back silently while Ambrosius digs himself deeper and deeper. It is difficult to tell what he is thinking in the half-dark of flickering fires and broken neonlights, so Ambrosius has no chance of figuring out what is going on in the other’s head when the quiet question comes: “… You’re coming, too?”
It is not what he expected – it is so much more than he expected – that Ambrosius laughs, disbelieving and relieved, before he notices that might be taken the wrong way and sobers himself quickly. His hand twitches, wanting to reach out, to grab hold, but he stops himself. “Of course,” he croaks instead, helplessly, balling his hands to fist to stop himself from being foolish again. Anywhere you want, just say the word. “Of course I’m coming, too, Bal, I would never – if. If you want me to come? Or, I can… leave.”
The last sentence pains him more to say than swallowing a couple of glass shards, but after everything, he needs to give Bal an out in this.
Strangely enough, that is what finally jolts Ballister into some sort of animated movement again. He makes a broken noise that could have started out as a scream as much as a sob, hands twitching up as he wants to grab Ambrosius (and he would have let him) before he seems to have himself under control again. But the movement has sent him stumbling a step forward, further into the light, so there is no hiding the anguish on his face when he speaks. “No, don’t-… don’t leave.”
Oh. Hope and pain mix tightly in Ambrosius chest, overflowing, and this time, there is no stopping him; he grabs for Ballister’s hands and holds on, squeezing tightly but not daring more. “I’m not. I’m not, I promise, Bal.”
Never again, he tries to communicate through touch and gaze along. You will have to send me away if you want me to go.
To his immense relief, Ballister does not pull away. The opposite: He squeezes back so hard Ambrosius feels a twinge in his fingers, though he refuses to flinch over it or look down. He keeps his gaze steadily on Ballister’s face, tracking the weariness turning to relief, then back to weariness, before Ballister nods with a sigh so deep he seems to slump with it, and pulls back.
His hands feel cold when they are let go, but Ambrosius stops himself from chasing after the touch. Already, he has been given much more than he feels like he deserves. Instead, he follows Ballister’s example and draws his cape around his head like a hood, making sure that it falls as deeply into his face as possible to hide as much as he can, and sets off, matching Ballister’s slow, careful steps.
If Ballister notices him holding out a hand towards him, always ready to catch him should he stumble, he does not comment on it.
And if their fingers brush as they sneak through the least busy streets and away from fire and newfound freedom, then Ambrosius lets himself cling to the hope that it is not completely on accident.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ N ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They don’t even have to sneak into the Institute and into the Knight’s barracks, they simply walk in. The place is entirely deserted, all its inhabitants out and about to deal with monsters that not exist, fire which certainly do, and the general uproar of a kingdom beginning to shatter and having to be rebuilt.
All in all, it is laughably easy to get to Ballister’s old room; it is not even locked, and nobody is there to stop them when Ambrosius pushes the door open and enters first.
He should have known all this ease only means that the universe has something worse in store for them; after the last few weeks, he should have learned that the easiest route never ends well.
The moment he steps foot into Ballister’s former room, he instinctively takes a step back and freezes. It takes him half a second too long to register what he sees and by the time he turns and makes to stop Ballister from entering, he is too late. Ballister pushes carefully past him, eyes on the room – and the sheer emptiness of it.
The Institute had stormed the Ballister’s room on the very night the Queen had died. A necessary move, the Director had explained calmly (coldly, Ambrosius allows himself to admit now), should the traitor come back to grab personal belongings, they could have intercepted him there.
Ambrosius had not been part of that raid himself. He had still been too shell-shocked, reeling from everything that had happened – the Queen's death before his eyes, the feel of his sword in his hand as it cut through air and flesh and bone and Ballister’s face of shocked pain and heartbreak still a haunting specter in the forefront of his mind. The Director had taken command in his stead, and Todd had gleefully led the charge, boasting for all to hear how he had been the one to kick down the heavy wooden door. Just hearing about it had made Ambrosius flinch, bile rising in his throat. Ballister had always been a private person, even back when they were kids still learning how to hold a wooden sword properly. His room had been his sanctuary, the nest he would hole up in at the end of the day, the cave where he would hoard his personal little treasures. Losing that and having virtual strangers stomping all over his privacy must have hurt, Ambrosius is sure of it.
So when he had mentioned getting some of Ballister's things, he had thought he was doing the right thing. Giving something back to Ballister, after he had taken - well- so much.
Now, standing in the middle of his former room, he realizes this had been a terrible mistake.
The room is a mess. The curtains have been pushed open so forcefully the right side had been ripped down; the sheets lay strewn across the floor. Decorating had never been something Ballister really did, but he did have his little favorites which he kept around in sight, and even those had vanished now. The few photographs he had plastered over the headrest of his bed; the dagger full of notches and scratches which Ambrosius had gifted him after his first won tournament that had rested on the shelf above the desk; it is all gone now. The room had been stripped bare right down to its very bones, and any trace of Ballister had been taken away.
They wanted to make you disappear.
Ambrosius can barely bring himself to look in Ballister‘s direction; does not want to imagine the expression on the other‘s face. „Let‘s grab - whatever you need, and go,“ he blurts, desperate to get this over and leave this dreary place „We can go to my place.“
Next to him, Ballister takes a sharp, startled breath; at the same time, Ambrosius feels like he has forgotten how to do the same. Oh Gloreth. And here he had told himself over and over to go slow, to let Ballister set the pace and decide if they still had a chance together. Inviting him to spend the night at his place is the opposite of slow, what even is he thinking-….
When he turns slowly, sheepishly, he is instantly meet by Ballister‘s intense gaze… and. Is it simply his own wishful thinking, or is it hesitant hope flickering to life on the other’s face, right there?
“… Okay?” Ballister answers haltingly – oh, no, that’s a question, isn’t it? Jumping onto that small hitch at the end of the word, Ambrosius hastens to assure, “Yea, my place it is. You can’t stay here. Just tell me what to take, then we’re out of here.”
There it is again, that flicker. Hope? He hopes it is hope, because that might mean – that Ballister, too -
Then Ballister turns away, stepping toward the only shelf which is still standing in the same place as before, and the moment is gone. “There is not much left. Let’s make it quick.”
Nodding mechanically, Ambrosius makes to step to Ballister’s side, but he cannot even take two steps before Ballister finishes – whatever he was rummaging around in the shelves for, and turns back around. “There. We can go.”
“Already?” That was quick.
“There is not really anything else, Ambrosius,” Ballister’s stare is flat and empty as he gestures around the room.
“Right. Right, of course.” He does his very best, but Ambrosius can’t keep himself entirely from at least attempting to get a glimpse at whatever Ballister had taken out of that shelf. No luck; he only sees something rectangular and small – paper? - being folded into the other’s palm when he makes a fist, and then it’s gone from his sight.
Shaking his head to cure himself from his curiosity, Ambrosius steps back up to the door, taking a quick glance outside to see if they are still alone. Since the coast seems clear, he turns back to tell Ballister it is good to go...
... and comes face to face with the other man, who is much closer to him than he had expected.
They both kind of freeze, or startle, or something in between. Deer in the headlight, the both of them, caught in the other's gaze. Hours seem to go by, but in reality, it is probably only a minute or so before Ballister clears his throat and breaks their standoff by looking aside. "You, ah. Don't have to..."
He doesn’t continue, leaving Ambrosius hanging with nothing until the former captain gently urges, "I don’t have to what?"
"Put up with me," before Ambrosius can protest, as vehemently as he wants to, Ballister continues quietly, "You could use some rest."
A glance to Ambrosius' burned left side follows, quick enough to nearly be missed. Ah. He has almost forgotten about the shoulder by now, pain overridden by adrenaline for the time being. Now that that has started to wear off, the pulsing pain is nearly impossible to ignore. Bit for all Ambrosius cares, both of his arms could be torn clean off, and he still wouldn't leave Ballister's side right now. "So could you," he answers, sharper than he means to. When Ballister looks away again, he softens, and reaches over to knock his fist against the man's shoulder in the facsimile of a punch. "Hey. For once, worry about yourself. I'm offering you a place to sleep, and I bet you really want to catch some shuteye right now."
A flicker goes through Ballister's expression, moustache twitching when he can’t hold back a little breath of laughter. Ambrosius can understand the urge to laugh, perhaps a little hysterically; despite everything, despite the issues between them bigger than Gloreth's statue, this feels very much like all their other half-hearted arguments over silly things they had. They could jokingly argue for ages until one or both of them couldn't keep it together anymore and broke down laughing, and apparently, this had not changed.
"Alright," Ballister grumbles, drawing Ambrosius from his bittersweet reminiscing. "Sleep does sound good right now."
"Wow," Ambrosius cannot help but tease when they step back out into the hallway, cloaking themselves once more, "that was easier than I expected."
"Yeah, I'm tired."
"Still a win for me, this time."
Ballister's is more obvious this time, more sound than breath, and it makes Ambrosius' heart swell with happiness before it gives a painful thump, squeezing once more. Ah. No, no, this is not the time for this. He cannot simply go back to pretending they are fine - are still the couple they were - when they have not even talked things out. He has not even apologized yet, for Gloreth's sake!
His own smile falls as quickly as it has come and he looks away, clearing his throat sharply for a semblance of control of himself.
His abrupt shift in mood must have been obvious, since Ballister’s own smiles wobbles and falls, gaze dropping back to the ground.
The rest of the walk to the captain’s rooms is silent; not the kind of comfortable silence they had perfected somewhere around their teenage years, but an oppressive and heavy one, the kind that teemed with things left unsaid and threatened to come crashing down on their heads. The walk from the barracks to his own rooms, albeit short, feels like an eternity now, and Ambrosius is frankly relieved when he finally puts the keys into the lock and pushes the door open.
The knight captain‘s room is really more apartment than a room, what with it having two rooms, bathrooms and a kitchen all to itself - privileges no other knight of the institute could even hope to have as long as they decided to keep living on the institute grounds. That and the fact that it is separate from the barracks and thus offers some privacy had always made it one of the things Ambrosius enjoyed unabashedly about being a captain. How many hours and days had he and Ballister spent in this very same rooms, simply being, finally being able to enjoy each other‘s presence the way the wanted to but couldn’t always do in the line of duty?
Those bright days seem long gone now that they are standing next to each other in front of the king‘s bed taking up most of the space in Ambrosius‘ bedroom, both so tired they are swaying in place with exhaustion, but too awkward around each other to simply fall onto the mattress and sleep.
Not too long ago, this would have been the easiest thing in the world. Now, Ambrosius cannot stand the silence between them anymore and takes a step back, gesturing towards the living roo. He means to say that they should wash up, and take a look at their injuries, like a sane and responsible person would probably do. Instead, his subconscious seems to decide that there are more important matters to be discussed, and what tumbles out of his mouth unbidden is, „I can - I will take the couch.“
He could very well have fired shots instead of words, judging by the way Ballister’s head flies around with an audible crack of his neck “Ow,” the man protests briefly, hand flying up to the abused spot, before he seems to find his words again, scowling at Ambrosius like he has committed some grievous offense “No way, this - this is your bed.“
“Uh,” Ambrosius stumbles briefly over his words, taken aback by the vehement refusal, before he feels his hackles rise. This is just stupid. „Bal, you’re injured.“
„So are you!“
„Oh this is just - Well, this is my place, and I’m saying you are not sleeping anywhere but in this bed.“
When Ballister flounders, hands raising in protest and then falling when he apparently does not have one to offer, Ambrosius feels a tinge of smugness, thinking he has won this round. The smugness last all of two seconds before Ballister comes at him with an absolutely unfair blow straight to the heart; he glances up, then to the bed, then away, before he droops, unconsciously curling into himself when he mutters out quietly, “I wouldn’t - I don’t mind sharing.“
Any kind of victory he has felt flies straight out of the window together with his entire sanity. Ambrosius takes a breath, finds his chest is too tight for it, and wheezes helplessly. No way he just heard that right – this is a dream. The burns on his arm must have started to fester and he is having a fever dream where Ballister has forgiven him, and everything is alright again. „Bal,“ he wheezes out, half-expecting the sound of the old nickname to wake them both up again to a cruel reality.
It does not happen. Instead, Ballister’s jaws firm and he meets Ambrosius’ gaze head-on, that stupidly endearing set of stubborn-worry to his features which the former captain absolutely does not want to fall in love with again right now, terrible, terrible timing. „It is your bed,” Ballister says with a finality which leaves little room to argue with.
„So you have said,“ Ambrosius says, helpless. He had all these good arguments lined up, but now his mind seems terribly empty of them. All he grasp for is the weakest final straw he can think of, „Will you be comfortable?“
Perhaps some of his disbelief finally rings through, since Ballister’s features softens, and he huffs out a breath which sounds almost impatient. „I just said I wouldn’t mind, Ambrosius.”
“Yes. Right. I… also wouldn’t mind.” Quite the opposite, thanks for asking.
Despite coming to a sort of agreement over this, none of them moves for a long while. It is only when Ambrosius shifts uneasily, mind racing to figure out what to do next, and he hears the creak of leather and metal rubbing over each other, that it does sink in that they are both standing there in full armor still. And, really, after a day like this, after injuries like this – the weight is starting to become more than uncomfortable. Eyes still on Ballister, he moves a shaky hand, and snaps the leather strap holding his vambrace together open.
The move and sounds jolts Ballister back into action as well and he clears his throat sharply and turns away, begins to fiddle with his own fastenings.
For a while, they both work in silence, only disturbed by the sounds of clanking armor and the occasional pained hiss when they stretch to far and aggravate still raw bruises and cuts.
As the one less injured, Ambrosius makes quick work of his part of the equation. All he needs to be careful about is his left shoulder, and once that is carefully out of once golden and now dirtied pauldron, the rest is easy to manage.
Next to him, Ballister reaches up to his shoulder, tugging at the clasps of his cape until a gentle click suggests success and the cloth flutters to the ground. He continues with his pauldrons, but stops when he tries to twist in order to get to them, his entire face contorting in pain.
Stopping halfway through shaking off his own armor, Ambrosius lets go of his greaves and straightens up, taking a step towards Ballister. "Let me..."
Ballister freezes at the same time he does and they stare at each other over the pieces of laid down armor between them for a beat too long to be comfortable...until Ballister softens, and nods, and turns his back on him.
Ambrosius hopes the breath he takes is not as audible as he feels it is. His trembling is, at least, he is sure of it, suddenly clumsy fingers slipping on metal and leather which should be familiar to him by now. How many times has he helped Ballister in and out of that very same armor, after all? This should be easy, except in all the ways it is not. His fingers feel stiff and unwieldy and his stupid eyes keep pricking, and by the time he slips the right pauldron off and metal clanks against metal, armor against prothesis, he feels like he might throw up any second.
By the time he steps back, work done and last armor piece clanking heavily to the ground, he feels on the verge of crying. “All done,” he announces uselessly, hoping the catch in his voice is not too audible.
He is probably saved by the fact that Ballister seems ready to keel over from exhaustion, now. The man sways, and blinks, and lifts his head so slowly as if he had already been asleep standing up. He looks down his armor-free body for way longer than should be necessary before he catches on to what he sees. “Oh. Thanks.”
Helpless to stop the fond little huff of breath, Ambrosius reaches for him, nudges him into the – healthy, whole – shoulder with one finger. “Go to sleep, you zombie.”
“… I actually feel bad for zombies, you know,” Ballister mutters, seemingly nonsensical, but obediently stumbles the few steps over to the bed.
And, damn. Watching his boyfriend-maybe-former-boyfriend crawl into his bed, a bed they had shared so many times before, proves too much again, already. Ambrosius hastens to turn and finish shaking his greaves off, then get the lights, and then edges around the bed rather awkwardly so he always keeps his back on Ballister until the rustling of a body getting comfortable falls quiet. Only then does he allow himself to breath out and sink onto the mattress himself, and from there, allows himself to sink back into the pillows stiffly.
Even moving that much hurts like hell, and he actually considers getting back up and getting them both something for the pain at least; but his body feels too heavy to move even a single limb right now, and even if it did, the sensation of a warm, breathing body right next to his floors him and makes it impossible to move, much less breathe properly.
He had not thought they would ever find themselves here again. And if so, then not like this. This feels… all kinds of awkward, none of the familiarity and ease which had been there before between them now.
If Ballister feels the same thing? The same swirl of confusion, and longing, and guilt, and hurt? Wondering, Ambrosius rolls onto his side as carefully as possible, half-ready to pose that question right then and there
He halts in his track when he comes face to face with the man in question, and finds him deep asleep.
Already?! Flashes through Ambrosius’ mind briefly, before he softens once more. Oh. Well. Ballister had had a day, after all. It is a miracle he had even kept himself going for this long. Moving especially careful, Ambrosius props his head up on one bent arm and tracks the other man’s features with his gaze. There is the feeling of familiarity again – no wonder, after years and years – but right on the heels of it, the feeling of newness, strangeness. There, those shadows under Ballister’s eyes; those had not been there the last time they had seen each other. Or that bruise forming on the very edge of his cheekbone, where had he gotten that? More than anything, Ambrosius has questions, so many of them. What had happened, what would happen now. How they would go on now.
If there is even a they anymore, or if each of them is going to go separate ways after this.
There is absolutely no way I will ever find sleep like this, he thinks hysterically.
Absolutely
No.
Fucking
Way.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ N ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ambrosius comes to again slowly, sluggishly. The first thing he notices while blinking into the dark above his head is how much everything hurts – now he regrets not taking a look at his injuries before falling into bed. There is only a small hope that nothing has infected or at least bled all over his bedsheets by now.
Swallowing a quiet groan, he carefully rolls around, reaching for the lamp on his bedside table. It springs to life with a light tap, casting the room in a warm orange glow. Chancing a look down his body does not tell him how bad things are, exactly, so he grits his teeth and makes to sit up.
In the motion, the blanket snags on something, a weight on the other side of the bed, and Ambrosius frowns, glancing over-
And nearly yelps when he sees the Ballister, sitting at the edge of the mattress there,
The what the fu-….?! quickly tappers out even before he can utter it since the sight alone causes the events of the day to come flooding back to the forefront of his mind. The attack, the cannon, the explosion. And all throughout, Ballister – Ballister limping away from him towards the creature, Ballister up on the statute, Ballister hurt, Ballister, Ballister, Ballister.
Ballister sitting there, on the edge of his bed, hunched over and curled into himself. Now that Ambrosius feels much more awake, he can see how the other man’s shoulders are quivering, can hear the chocked-off sounds of his breaths.
Alarm kicks in, adrenaline chasing away the last lingering tendons of sleep. “Bal?!” Scrambling over the mattress, uncaring of how inelegant it might look, Ambrosius hurries to the Ballister’s side, makes to reach for his shoulder, then stops himself. “Bal, is – are you hurting?
A shudder goes through Ballister's contorted frame and he is already shaking his head before he grinds out the word. "No."
It is very obviously a lie, but it makes it difficult to help all the same, Ambrosius thinks, frustrated and helpless. Not knowing what else to do, he finally lays a hand on Ballister's drawn up shoulder, squeezes it gently. "Will you take some painkillers if I ask very nicely?" He is careful to keep his tone light, almost joking.
It pays off, since the next sound out of Ballister's mouth is closed to a sobbed laugh, and his eyes crease slightly. He shakes his head anyway.
Even though the other is still shaking and pale, Ambrosius is somewhat heartened by the fact that he managed to get through; that he is not being pushed away. More confident now, he scoots closer until their sides are touching, shoulders bumping, and asks much more seriously, "Can I help?"
The pause that follows is much longer, but finally, Ballister shakes his head a third time.
Breathing out deeply through his nose, Ambrosius considers his options. Sleep is out of the question right now. It is obvious that Ballister in no space of mind to think about his own wellbeing; and he knows how stubborn he can get, so arguing will get him no further here. He is also fairly sure that not all of what is paining the other are his injuries right now.
He can't take the pain away, but he can at least share the burden, he hopes.
Reaching carefully around so he can rub a hand along Ballister's back, Ambrosius makes up his mind. “Bal,” he hedges slowly, picking every word as carefully as if he is handling something fragile. “Will you… will you tell me about… her? About… Nimona?”
The question surprises Ballister; it is visible in the way he slowly blinks and raises his gaze to find Ambrosius’ even slower. But it also seems to be the right question, since it eases the hard lines of the frown around the former knight’s brow, and there even seems to be a spark lighting up in his eyes. “… What do you want to know?”
"Everything," he answers without missing a beat and entirely honest. "How did you meet? What have you been through together? Whatever you are ready to tell me, I will listen."
There is a long beat where the silence is only broken by their unsteady breaths. Then, slowly, so careful as if the motion hurts him, Ballister lowers his shoulders somewhat, lifting his head a little so Ambrosius no longer has to lean forward to find his gaze. "... Everything might take a while."
"Well. I'm not going anywhere." Are you? he does not quite dare to ask.
The look Ballister gives him is searing in its intensity; it feels like he is seeing right through Ambrosius, scanning for the truth of his statement. Ambrosius forces himself to sit still and meet the other's gaze head on, willing him to see that he means it.
Thankfully, miraculously, it works. Ballister’s searching gaze wavers, then drops away, and he breaths out a sound which comes close to disbelieving. Running a shaking hand down his face, he mutters into his palm, “This is all going to sound… crazy.”
Heartened by what sounds like an agreement, Ambrosius gentle nudges his elbow against the other’s side. “Crazier than rhinos, and whales, and gorillas…?”
“Way more,” there is that fondness again, that light, and Ballister’s entire posture softens, eases from the pained curl he seems to be stuck in. “Where should I start?”
“The beginning is, usually, a good place.”
“Hm. The beginning it is.”
And then, Ballister starts talking, launching into his tale headfirst. He starts at the beginning, like he promised, and then he keeps talking until the end. At first the words come haltingly, more than once interrupted with disbelieving little laughs or snorts as if he still cannot believe that all of that had happened to him, and it had not just been a fever dream. But the longer he talks, the firmer his voice becomes, and the more animated his gestures. He talks about Nimona visiting him in his “evil lair” (“Which it wasn’t!”) and offering to become his sidekick. How disbelieving he had been, how dismissive of her - still firmly believing that he could make things right again simply by talking it out with the Director. How horribly that had backfired and landed him in jail. How Nimona had appeared at his side once more to break him out (“Yeah, I remember nearly getting run over by a – rhino?” - “That was the smallest thing, still”). He talks and talks until his voice grows hoarse; how they had regrouped and snuck back into the city to question the squire, clearing some things for Ambrosius what those rumors about a demon baby had been about. How the video evidence had been destroyed (at this part, Ambrosius finds himself wincing in guilt). Then, how they had forged a plan on how to get the Director confess, leading up to the video coursing through the network, and Ballister’s and Ambrosius’ subsequent meeting over nachos following it.
Late night shifts into early morning by the time Ballister reaches the point in his tale where he and Ambrosius had parted ways after their fight. The first rays of the sun are peeking over the horizon, filtering through the east-facing windows, by the time the man’s voice nearly breaks over the retelling of his (stupid, stupid) fight with Nimona, and how she had run out on him, deeply hurt.
Ballister stops talking, then, falls into an uneasy silence of choked, tight little breaths. There are still no tears, but Ambrosius can tell that there probably would be if the other kept going now. He does not push him to do so; the rest of the story he can piece together by the events of the day.
I’m sorry.
I see you, Nimona.
It was…. A lot, Ambrosius had to admit, breathing out a slow, careful breath. By now, they had shifted to get more comfortable, both sitting up against the headrest of the bed, close but still carefully apart so they do not accidentally touch. It is a good thing that they don’t, since he is shaking by now, and he does not want to upset Ballister even more with it.
He just can’t stop thinking What if?
What if these two had never met?
Had Ballister not met Nimona, he could have very well died. Rotted away in jail at least, that is for sure – though that probably counts as the same thing, right? Left behind and forgotten, a shameful stain in the Institute’s history and no more than that.
The thought alone is goosebumps-worthy. Good Glor-… ugh, I need a different expletive. The being they had all thought of as a danger, a monster, had begun saving lives long before that faithful day of the exploding cannon and the fall of the wall.
She had sacrificed herself before he had ever the chance to thank her for protecting Ballister when he himself had failed to do so.
Feeling rocked to the core over that realization, Ambrosius instinctively reaches out to take hold of Ballister in a way, needing the confirmation that he is safe and sound and alive. His hand first meets empty air, and he cringes – there is no arm where it is supposed to be, with the prothesis still resting on the table in front of them. With gritted teeth, Ambrosius pushes through that awkward little pause and instead lets his hand fall on Ballister’s shoulders, fingers digging in deep. “I am,” he says with firm conviction, “deeply grateful that she thought you’re a villain looking for sidekicks.”
A breath of laughter bursts out of Ballister and he tips his head, rubbing his stubbled cheek against Ambrosius’ knuckles. “Yeah,” he agrees breathily, and only a little wetly. “Yeah, me too.”
The simple leaning-into has Ambrosius’ heart nearly climb straight up his throat and he swallows heavily, keeping very, very still so as not to dislodge Ballister. The other looks tired, so bone-deep weary that he seems aged by a decade. Even in the half-dark, with the lamp long-since turned off since it had hurt their tired eyes, Ambrosius can tell that Ballister’s eyes are flickering close more often than not now, exhaustion finally overriding pain and grief.
He feels terrible for speaking up once more, he really does, but he also knows that if he does not ask now, he might probably never find the courage to do it again. Might never even get the chance to, if Ballister leaves in the morning and decides not to come back.
Swallowing around the lump in his throat which that thought elicits, Ambrosius whispers quietly, “Bal?”
“Hm,” a sleepy exhale, and a nudge of a chin digging deeper into his shoulder.
“Allow me one last question?” It might be the wrong one, no matter how carefully he will word it, but he can’t help but wonder…
Ballister shifts and lifts his head, tired and suspiciously wet eyes slightly more focused when he blinks them in Ambrosius’ direction. “Well, shoot.”
"What.... who was she?"
He regrets his slipup the moment it leaves his lips, and he is both glad and ashamed that Ballister does not call him out on it. Instead, the other frowns, brows drawing down in that general thinking-frowny-face of his.
And then a smile blooms slowly on Baliister's face, so gentle and fond that it makes Ambrosius' heart miss a beat. "Nimona," the former knight answers, voice warm and firm. "She is Nimona."
That expression makes something fall into place for Ambrosius, a shift taking place in him to allow sight on a truth which seems both groundbreaking and yet as if he has known all along. Oh. Oh! You loved her. Love her.
Before he can once more doubt himself, Ambrosius is already reaching for Ballister, unable to leave him sitting there with that look on his face without comforting him. He has always known Ballister to have a big soft heart, but also as guarded, careful who he lets see this vulnerable side of him. For this child - for Nimona to break through all those walls in such a short time and build a nest in the bold knight's heart –
Gods.
Now Ballister’s loss is a thousand times more tragic.
This isn’t fair.
Why did she had to go?
If Ballister is surprised or unhappy about the touch, he does not give any indication. He melts into the embrace as if all the fight still keeping him upright vanishes into thin air at the first touch, and he sinks heavily against Ambrosius side, face coming to rest against the crook of the blond man's neck.
Unable to help himself, Ambrosius presses a kiss to the crown of Ballister's head - like he used to, like he missed doing. He does not know what compels him to say it, but it feels right when the words burst out of him, "I wish I could have met her."
You love her. You love her and there must be a reason for it. Did she love you too? That would have been enough for me.
I would have loved her as well, if she did
A violent shiver goes through Ballister, so strong he almost seizes up - a breath which turns into a sob when it breaks - and then, the dam finally, finally breaks; all the emotions, all the exhaustion the man had kept bottled up until now comes bursting forth at quiet admission of his lover. It is the reminder that they will not have that chance, now, that Nimona is gone, and it proves too much to handle. For the first time that night, Ballister allows himself to let go and starts crying. He curls further into Ambrosius' arms and cries, sobbing unashamedly while Ambrosius holds him tighter and rocks them gently from side to side.
Tears prick in Ambrosius’ own eyes, slip down his cheeks quietly, while he lets Ballister cry out all his loss. He is careful to angle his head so the drops will not hit Ballister and startle him out of his grief. This is not for him, right now; Ambrosius' will mourn his own former life and all his mistakes, and even a shapehsifter he never got the chance to meet, later.
Right now, he is more than happy to hold Ballister while he falls to pieces; and afterwards, he will be even more gladly help his love to put it all back together.