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Yesterday, the gossip says, the Head of the Queen’s Royal Guard returned from his secret mission. Ambrose listens to the parlor maids’ gossip in the halls as he works in his laboratory, slow and methodical where once he had been quick and clever, and when would his brain knit together into a whole again? When would he be past the need for care and caution lest he be distracted, or falter, or glitch during once-familiar routine? He can remember everything from his past; it simply takes time – too much, when his projects are so vital to rebuilding the O.Z. – to put that knowledge to action, after he can sort it all out into proper sequence.
He went to the Other Side, the gossip says. He brought back the princess’ old things.
Rags and trousers and art and books, another says, agreeing. I saw them when I was cleaning, before she told me to stop and to get out.
Ambrose wonders, in the half of his brain that still becomes easily distracted, if he brought any tech from the Other Side, if it will run here. If he’ll be allowed to examine it, if he’ll be able to adapt or duplicate anything that will be of use here.
It’s not difficult to imagine Wyatt Cain astride a motorcycle, a full duffel bag of clothes and mementos slung over one shoulder. The thought leaves a faint smile on Ambrose’s face for half the afternoon.
***
This morning, the princess kissed him.
They met up in one of the corridors, started talking, and she’d called him Glitch.
“Oh,” she said, “I forgot, I should call you Ambrose now, shouldn’t I?” To anyone else, he would have said yes, but the only memories to shine out of the fog of his wandering, aimless, and brainless years are from after he met her – remet her – in the cage.
So, he smiled gently to ease the crestfallen look in her face, and took her hand in one of his. “I-I don’t really mind,” he said, only half-truthful. “Not if it’s you.”
“But you’re not Glitch anymore, are you.” It wasn’t a question. She lifted a hand to touch his hairline, where a seam still shows. “You got it back. You got you back.”
It’s true; he’s not what he’d had to become, when he’d forgotten who he’d been. But he’s not quite Ambrose again, either. Both sets of memories bump against one another and he’s learning their sum slowly. Sometimes, he wishes he could only be one or the other again, so he doesn’t have to feel so torn all the time.
The conflict must have shown on his face, because her eyes were wide and sympathetic, and her fingers skimmed down to rest on his cheek. If anyone else knows about how to inhabit two roles, two worlds, two sets of memories with one only recently regained, it’s her. The connection between them was a bright thread; it pulled her close and up to her toes.
Her hands were on his face and her mouth was pressed against his. He remembers the smell of her, the brush of her hair on his neck, above the collar of his jacket. He remembers the brief, bright taste of her before she jolted back, flushed and stammering apologies.
“I-I shouldn’t have done that,” she said, panicked. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t – I should go.” The woman who restored his mind had no words; the woman who gave courage to a Viewer ran away, before Ambrose could remember speech for her.
He would have spoken, told her that there had been nothing, nothing to apologize for, if she hadn’t fled. If his words had sorted themselves out in time on his tongue.
Now, he’s left to his own devices, to mechanical devices, trying to piece together something that will speak for him. A gift and a message, so that he can hold his heart in his hands and she will see it as hers, already, whether or not she accepts it.
***
Tonight, Ambrose goes to D.G’s quarters, hastily-drawn blueprints under one arm: plans to rebuild Milltown. He even has copies of her mechanical parents’ original memories, salvaged from the witch’s things where they’d been tossed unceremoniously in the furthest storage rooms.
It’s just after dinner and Ambrose knows D.G. stays up late, having run into her in the kitchens, trying to teach the cooks how to make what she calls ‘a decent cup of coffee.’ So the impulsive part of him – this is meant to be a surprise, after all – simply opens the door, and he peeks around it to announce his presence.
She’s sitting at her desk, writing or drawing, and Ambrose spots a figure next to her. Wyatt Cain, standing vigil as he always seems to be, looking out the window, one hand on D.G.’s shoulder. As he watches, she lifts her free hand to cover his, a vague smile ghosting over her features.
Ambrose backs away. His nerveless fingers drop the papers he’s carrying, and the sound makes the other two look up.
He backs one, two steps away, feeling like he’s moving through quicksand, before Wyatt opens the door wide to see who’s at the door, one hand on his gun, D.G. a step behind him. “Oh, it’s you,” Wyatt says, relaxing, while D.G. tenses.
“Oh,” she says, stepping on one of the pages and looking down. She lifts another discarded sheet, eyes sparking recognition after a moment. Ambrose is rooted to the spot; he can feel his cheeks heat as she returns her gaze to him. “Oh, Ambrose…”
He wishes she’d call him Glitch, if only because he’s erred, and realized too late.
He remembers the gossip from earlier, how Wyatt Cain came back from the Other Side with her belongings from another lifetime, his own offering of mementos to win her heart, before Ambrose even thought of it. He remembers how panicked and apologetic D.G. had been over such a simple thing as a kiss between friends who’d gone through the waters of forgetfulness and the fires of hell together.
He leaves before D.G. draws breath to call him back.
***
Tomorrow, he is going to be in his laboratory, busying himself blindly with his projects but not accomplishing much of anything, when Wyatt Cain interrupts him. It will take a while before he’ll notice the lawman leaning against a work table by the door. He’ll almost drop the palm-sized engine he’s affixing to the harvester in his surprise, but will only fumble for a moment.
“Good morning, Mr. Cain,” Ambrose is going to say, pleased that his voice is steady where his hands are not. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“D.G. told me what happened yesterday,” the lawman will reply, direct as ever.
“A-a simple misunderstanding, I assure you,” Ambrose will respond.
“Not really, no,” Wyatt will say flatly. He’ll straighten from the table, start pacing the room, picking up random objects, parts and pieces and half-finished work. He’ll glance at each a moment before replacing them. “She also said she didn’t feel right having to choose one of us over the other.”
“Ah,” Ambrose is going to reply, having nothing else to say. He’ll watch Wyatt’s actions like a hawk, but not a single dial or gear will get knocked out of place on the items he’s handling, his broad, gun-calloused hands surprisingly gentle.
“Which means you and I have a decision. One or the both of us withdraw our suit…” Wyatt will step into Ambrose’s space, not crowding but Ambrose will prickle from his presence anyway. “Or we tell her she don’t have to choose.”
“Uh, I’m sorry, what?” Ambrose will think he’s glitched again. There’ll be conclusion apparent in Wyatt’s demeanor, but Ambrose won’t quite follow the logic to find it. That close, he’ll realize from the other man’s rumpled shirt and reddened eyes that Wyatt probably hasn’t slept well, if at all.
“Always had to be the brains for the both of us, didn’t I?” Wyatt is going to say, a hint of a smile in his ice-blue eyes. “I’m asking: how big’s your heart?”
“I don’t-“ Ambrose’s words will get cut off by Wyatt curling a hand around the back of his neck and hauling him in for a kiss. Not as chaste as the one D.G. gave him, it’ll be equally quick and captivating, leaving Ambrose stunned.
“’Cos I did the math and found out mine’s bigger than I thought it was.” Wyatt’s breath will ghost across Ambrose’s cheek.
“Um,” Ambrose will venture, hesitantly letting his hovering hand drop to Wyatt’s shoulder. “Someone should check that math for you.” Those ice-blue eyes will be smiling at him, and Ambrose will wonder at their brilliance. How could he have missed this, in all the time they’ve spent together?
“Got someone in mind?” Wyatt will ask, his hand carding the shorter hair at the nape of Ambrose’s neck. Ambrose will simply answer him with another kiss.
***
Tomorrow, Ambrose is going to get thoroughly, if pleasantly, mauled atop his one of his lab tables in the morning, and he’ll tumble into bed with both a princess and the Head of the Queen’s Guard in the evening.
Tonight, he does not know this, and sleeps on one of the couches in his sitting room to avoid his empty bed.