And since apparently you like it, THE FOURTH SNIPPET FROM THE SAME FIC!
Cain went very quiet at that. “Glitch, that’s your family you’re talking about. Do you understand that? That’s your family.”
“That’s my blood, not my family,” Glitch corrected, twirling in his chair. “I don’t remember much, Cain, but I remember that at least.” He sighed, turning to look at Cain again. “You’ll be there when I wake up after the surgery.”
“Of course,” Cain nodded. He would have put a hand on Glitch’s shoulder, but that wasn’t how it worked. Nobody touched Glitch unless he was okay with being touched by them, and while Cain was usually in that elite category, there were a lot of lines they’d drawn between them that Cain wasn’t going to even look at.
I want my whole brain first, Glitch had said two months ago, and the first line had been drawn. You’re still mourning your wife and I’m not going to be a rebound for you had been two and a half months ago, and most recently there was nothing but the word no. He said no, and that was the end.
“I’m going to be Ambrose tomorrow,” Glitch said again, but this time it didn’t break him. One more time, Glitch had rebuilt Cain, made him just a little more his.
“About us. About us being together. We are, we just skipped all the way to the way old married couples behave. As characterized by routines, bickering spats, little to no physical affection, but comfortable. We’re like old slippers.”
“Smart as you are,” Cain swore, shaking his head, “you’re not exactly a poet with your words.”
“It does mean we skipped all the fun stuff,” Ambrose added ruefully, “but most couples never reach this stage of comfort. It’s all a trade-off, really.” He leaned back, satisfied to have aired his theorem in words and to find it made the most perfect of sense out loud as it had in his mind.
Cain gave something of a considerate ‘hm’, joining Ambrose to stare skywards, supporting him from falling (the action nearly an afterthought to prevent a once-clumsy man from tumbling to his death). “Suppose that’s why Miss Waters won’t dare flirt back,” Cain commented.
“And why Lady Simmons accuses me of being a man of terrible morals whenever I try and cozy up to her,” Ambrose said
NO MORE POSESSION-FIC FOR YOU. And eeeeeeeeee, my personal fanon. I honestly had NO IDEA you were writing a fic of it. It's just...well, in my head that's just How Things Go!
GUESS WHO THIS IS:
He’s the one 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 glassed-over eyes, that absolutely breathtaking hair that he wants like he only wants two other things right then (life and that one 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.
Keri and I kept talking about it til she asked me for it. Except in my fic THEY KIND OF DO GET TOGETHER. IS IT CAIN I HOPE IT'S CAIN IT'S PRETTY.
One more Domestic-ness and then I go to bed:
There was a narrow and quaint little Central townhouse that came completely furnished and didn’t break the bank. One sunny autumn day sometime after the Witch fell, Wyatt Cain moved in with all his possessions and the day after that, so did Sir Ambrose. They quickly became the gossip of the town and the palace, though folk were often forced to admit: “Well, no, I’ve never actually seen any of this with my own eyes, but it comes from a friend of my cousin’s friend. Very reputable source!” Logic, though, insisted that something was afoot. Why else would two bachelors lock themselves in a family abode? It quickly became ritual for citizens of Central City to perch beneath the lamp outside the townhouse, just watching the windows for activity, for proof.
It most likely would have frustrated the whole city, really, if they knew that neither Cain nor Ambrose thought it possible for people to believe such a thing.
They had established their own comfortable routines. They spent nine to ten in the morning at the market (but never touched hands, gossiped the women, and certainly never kiss, harrumph those in the gentlemen’s clubs). Once fresh food for the day had been bought, Ambrose regularly passed a note to Cain and they parted ways to different directions of town.
“I bet it’s a love note,” the ladies sighed at the launderettes.
“Some reminder of appointments to be punctual for,” said the men at their poker games.
(It would disappoint to know that it was merely a shopping list of meat, priced to the nearest pound and ounce)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-09 05:26 am (UTC)And since apparently you like it, THE FOURTH SNIPPET FROM THE SAME FIC!
Cain went very quiet at that. “Glitch, that’s your family you’re talking about. Do you understand that? That’s your family.”
“That’s my blood, not my family,” Glitch corrected, twirling in his chair. “I don’t remember much, Cain, but I remember that at least.” He sighed, turning to look at Cain again. “You’ll be there when I wake up after the surgery.”
“Of course,” Cain nodded. He would have put a hand on Glitch’s shoulder, but that wasn’t how it worked. Nobody touched Glitch unless he was okay with being touched by them, and while Cain was usually in that elite category, there were a lot of lines they’d drawn between them that Cain wasn’t going to even look at.
I want my whole brain first, Glitch had said two months ago, and the first line had been drawn. You’re still mourning your wife and I’m not going to be a rebound for you had been two and a half months ago, and most recently there was nothing but the word no. He said no, and that was the end.
“I’m going to be Ambrose tomorrow,” Glitch said again, but this time it didn’t break him. One more time, Glitch had rebuilt Cain, made him just a little more his.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-09 05:29 am (UTC)More from They're Just Bachelors, REALLY!:
“About us. About us being together. We are, we just skipped all the way to the way old married couples behave. As characterized by routines, bickering spats, little to no physical affection, but comfortable. We’re like old slippers.”
“Smart as you are,” Cain swore, shaking his head, “you’re not exactly a poet with your words.”
“It does mean we skipped all the fun stuff,” Ambrose added ruefully, “but most couples never reach this stage of comfort. It’s all a trade-off, really.” He leaned back, satisfied to have aired his theorem in words and to find it made the most perfect of sense out loud as it had in his mind.
Cain gave something of a considerate ‘hm’, joining Ambrose to stare skywards, supporting him from falling (the action nearly an afterthought to prevent a once-clumsy man from tumbling to his death). “Suppose that’s why Miss Waters won’t dare flirt back,” Cain commented.
“And why Lady Simmons accuses me of being a man of terrible morals whenever I try and cozy up to her,” Ambrose said
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-09 05:36 am (UTC)GUESS WHO THIS IS:
He’s the one 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 glassed-over eyes, that absolutely breathtaking hair that he wants like he only wants two other things right then (life and that one 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.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-08-09 05:42 am (UTC)One more Domestic-ness and then I go to bed:There was a narrow and quaint little Central townhouse that came completely furnished and didn’t break the bank. One sunny autumn day sometime after the Witch fell, Wyatt Cain moved in with all his possessions and the day after that, so did Sir Ambrose. They quickly became the gossip of the town and the palace, though folk were often forced to admit: “Well, no, I’ve never actually seen any of this with my own eyes, but it comes from a friend of my cousin’s friend. Very reputable source!” Logic, though, insisted that something was afoot. Why else would two bachelors lock themselves in a family abode? It quickly became ritual for citizens of Central City to perch beneath the lamp outside the townhouse, just watching the windows for activity, for proof.
It most likely would have frustrated the whole city, really, if they knew that neither Cain nor Ambrose thought it possible for people to believe such a thing.
They had established their own comfortable routines. They spent nine to ten in the morning at the market (but never touched hands, gossiped the women, and certainly never kiss, harrumph those in the gentlemen’s clubs). Once fresh food for the day had been bought, Ambrose regularly passed a note to Cain and they parted ways to different directions of town.
“I bet it’s a love note,” the ladies sighed at the launderettes.
“Some reminder of appointments to be punctual for,” said the men at their poker games.
(It would disappoint to know that it was merely a shopping list of meat, priced to the nearest pound and ounce)