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There’s lily flowers on the countertop and a well-loved scarf hanging over from a peg and whilst the room is more full than it’s been in weeks, Ballister feels strangely empty.
He keeps telling himself that it’s a dozen other things that what it really is. Keeps telling himself that it’s just him adjusting to having an actual home again (well, an apartment way too close to the city’s wreckage for his liking) rather than a sheltered lair. Keeps telling himself it’s just the shadowing echoes of the Director’s influence. Keeps telling himself it’s grief. Grief for the Queen. Grief for Nimona. (Gloreth, Nimona. He misses her.)
It isn’t, though. He knows that. He knows exactly what the odd cloying loneliness is, and it’s not his home or his mourning or the Director.
It’s Ambrosius.
They’re suddenly something again. Something made of quiet touches and walks to The Wall and conversations where nothing is really said. They’re something but it’s not the same as what once was there and to Ballister, it feels like a dying garden of once-beautiful flowers. He doesn’t know if it can be fixed. They’d pledged to try , that day at The Wall, and Gloreth, he’s trying, but every time he comes close to saying something sincere or serious his throat just closes up. Somewhere, Nimona is probably calling him a coward, and he thinks he deserves that. He deserves that, because this - something, this barely-there golden thread between him and Ambrosius is going to die before it truly has a chance to flourish again.
They were once so deeply interlinked that they’d finish each other’s sentences without a second thought and they’d stay up until the early hours of the morning just talking, talking about nothing and everything. About how the food in the mess hall was shit and how they’d both like to shove Todd off the castle walls and how Ballister didn’t like how everyone else looked at him a bit funny, even when he was top of his class. But above all, they were easy. Holding hands with Ambroius, or kissing him before a training spar was like taking a breath of warm summer air. It was easy and as simple as breathing, as simplistic as the sun rising slowly in the morning.
Now they’re -
He can’t put a word to it. They just don’t slot together quite right in the way they used to, in the effortless way they’d had back when they were kids and then teenagers and then adults. Ballister is trying, he really is, but everything feels stagnant and strange. There’s too much between them, he thinks. His missing arm. Ambrosius’ conviction that he was a murderer. What Ballister did when he was hiding from the law, all the people he hurt when he was on the run with Nimona. It lays between them, a thin fraying invisible string keeping them from falling back into their comfy familiar ways.
He wants that back. So, so badly. He misses it. He misses the eager familiarity that they’d once had, the way they’d just known each other. He hates the fact that they’re having to relearn that familiarity, that they spend every hour covering over cracks.
He looks at the flowers, and sighs. He shouldn’t hold it against Ambrosius, he knows he’s trying, trying in the same way that Ballister is to get things back to normal except they never really had a proper normal because Ballister was - well, Ballister, a scrappy street kid, and Ambrosius was Gloreth’s descendant so maybe the odds were stacked against them from the start. Ambrosius is trying, but it still stings when he looks at the flowers.
He’s allergic to lilies, always has been.
He keeps the flowers there, anyway. He’s unwilling to throw them out so instead he’ll keep them on the countertop until they wilt and the petals shed, putting up with a stuffy nose and running eyes. They’re in a vase, framed and pretty and ever-so-slightly dangerous.
He looks at the door. Ambrosius is supposed to be coming over for dinner. It’ll be - fine. They’ve done this once or twice, and every time, it’s been just fine. Quiet conversation over undercooked pasta and takeaway pizza and rewatching a movie and giving each other chaste little kisses on the cheek at the end of the evening. It’s - Ballister can’t put his finger on why he dislikes it. He supposes it’s because it feels like they’re both just going through the motions of a date. It feels oddly fake, for them. They were built on fiery spontaneity, in their youth. Sneaking out of the academy to the market. Sleepovers in each other’s dorms. Not this odd structure. He wonders if part of the strangeness is because they’re adults, now, but he doesn’t think that’s it.
He really, really should have started making dinner by now. He’s been putting it off. Mostly because he doesn’t really like cooking - he can do the basics, like ramen and scrambled eggs, but anything more ambitious than that ends up either overcooked or undercooked or raw or just plain burnt. He doesn’t really have his heart in it, he thinks that’s the issue - food at the Institute was bland and boring and he’s never really seen the need to branch out from that.
He frowns down at the ingredients he’s set out. Potatoes. Salt. Some spices; paprika, cumin, chilli flakes. Flour. He’s aiming to make fries. It’s slightly out of his comfort zone - but that’s what he needs, surely? Everything is so awkwardly stiff, stagnant. They’re trying so, so hard to return to what they once were, and Ballister thinks that just maybe what they really need is a new path to tread.
He has a recipe book. It’s a heavy, leather-bound book that he purchased from the market with the first compensation payment from the Institute. (They’re slowly, slowly giving him trickles of money like it’ll make up for him being considered a murderer, and having his arm sliced clean off.) On page five, there’s a recipe for fries. He squints at it, and reaches for his glasses.
As he soaks the sliced potatoes in boiled water for a few minutes, he lets his mind drift. He wonders what Nimona would think of - all of this. Of him trying to attempt this with Ambrosius, of him just - forgiving him, for his willingness to allow that slate to be wiped clean. He thinks she’d probably tell him that he’s being stupid, and there’s plenty of fish in the sea, including ones that aren’t partial to arm chopping, boss. He almost hears her voice, then, and it makes him grimace. Gloreth, he misses her. Especially on days like this, where his apartment is quiet and empty and every shadow makes him shiver.
He drains the water from the potatoes, and douses them in an icebath for a few moments, following along with the steps from the book, careful, methodical. He takes them out, and coats the fries in the seasonings and the flour and starts to heat the oil up.
He’s beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, this recipe might just be going to plan when the oil starts to bubble ominously and in a moment of blind panic he pours the rest of the icebath into the oil . It splutters, and promptly bubbles up and everywhere. His mechanical arm goes flying up to protect his face, he stumbles backwards and shuts the door firmly behind him.
He looks down. Compartmentalises.
His arm needs to come off. He knows that - it’s damaged, he can hear the fizzing of the oil and the water right where the wires are. He’ll probably have to rewire it, later, after - after Ambrosius has been. If he keeps it on - he can feel the faux nerves in the arm twitch, now, and his fingers move without him making them do so.
His gaze darts to the clock. Ambrosius is - coming in less than twenty minutes, and he hasn’t seen Ballister without his arm yet, because - they just haven’t gotten to that point, yet, and Ballister doesn’t want him to feel bad, he’s still upset about it, sure, but at the same time he knows full well that Ambrosius didn’t do it with the intention of hurting him, it was just what they were trained to do, but - still-
He takes a long, soothing gulp of air into his lungs, and clicks the prosthetic free of his arm socket. He cradles it with his hand, and sets it down on the table. Maybe, maybe, if he works quickly, it’ll be fixed before Ambrosius arrives.
–
It isn’t fixed.
He hears three solid raps on the door and he has to set his arm reluctantly aside. It - shouldn’t matter, he thinks. He can hold his resting animosity about the arm and everything that came after, and he can greet Ambrosius at the door and act like this is normal. Like it’s just a small scrape after a training session rather than a great massive divot in his skin and sinews and muscle and bone.
Slowly, apprehensively, he walks to the door. He goes without the arm usually, day-to-day. It’s useful to have both limbs but at the same time the prosthetic feels rough against the bare wound and it leaves him with a sore kind of pain by the end of the day. Still, it’s weird knowing he’s going to be seen without it. Seen without it by Ambrosius.
He opens the door.
Ambrosius is standing there, hair slightly tousled by the rain. He’s been growing it out; Ballister has been working up the courage for the past few days to say that it looks good but the words die on the tip of his tongue every time. He blinks and wipes the water droplets from his face, and his gaze drags right to Ballister’s missing arm. His mouth falls open, forms a soft ‘ o’, and closes again. His gaze straightens.
“Hi,” he greets, and Ballister feels oddly grateful when his next words don’t mention any kind of missing limb in the slightest at all. “It’s raining out there.”
Ballister looks him up and down, takes note of the dampness of his shirt and the way his hair clumps from the rain, and raises an eyebrow. “Is it? I didn’t notice.”
“Ha-ha,” Ambrosius deadpans, “Could you let me in?”
Ballister steps aside. Ambrosius walks into the house and his gaze sweeps over the hallway. “Oh,” he says, “I didn’t realise I left that here. Thanks for keeping it - safe.” He gestures towards the abandoned scarf.
Ballister shrugs. “Well, I wasn’t going to throw it away. You could just - keep it here, if you wanted. It might double as a blanket.”
“A blanket for a child, maybe,” Ambrosius says, and Ballister can’t help but wince at that, because he was thinking as if Nimona was still around. Then Ambrosius stiffens. His eyes dart distinctly to Ballister’s arm, and back up again. At first, Ballister thinks that he’s spotted the waiting prosthetic arm on the coffee table, but it’s not that. “What’s that smell?”
“Oh,” Ballister forces out a chuckle. “I tried to cook.”
“Horrible idea, Bal.”
“I’m not that awful,” Ballister replies, “I just can’t - deep-fry stuff. Apparently.”
Ambrosius raises a brow. “If I open the kitchen door,” he says, crossing to said door in a few strides and resting on hand on the handle, “Will I be greeted by a cloud of smoke?”
“Erm,” Ballister looks pointedly towards the door, “It might have gone away by now.”
“How badly did you burn whatever you were trying to cook?”
“I didn’t burn what I was trying to cook. I burnt - the oil, I think?” This is already a disaster, Ballister thinks. That disaster fizzles and overflows when Ambrosius opens the door, just a crack, and a wall of smoke pours out. The other man coughs, splutters, and slams the door tightly shut.
“Do you want me to order pizza?” Ambrosius asks. His gaze is full of pooling pity.
Ballister blinks, and nods, sheepishly. “Yeah. Sure. Sorry. I was trying to - do something nice, and it just-”
“S’fine,” says Ambrosius, “I’m just glad that you didn’t… hurt yourself. Oil can be really nasty if it - does whatever that was.”
Ballister frowns. He hadn’t actually checked if he’d been hurt, now that he thinks about it - his mind had immediately jumped to his metal arm, and ensuring that was fine. He touches his hand curiously to the crux of his shoulder, right at the stump, and winces. There’s a sharp, stinging pain there. He wants to check , really, but he’s not doing that now. Not in front of Ambrosius.
“You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?” Ambrosius asks, meeting Ballister’s gaze.
Ballister, at first, intends to lie. His plans for the evening were quiet medocracy; a hastily-made dinner, mundane conversation, a quick kiss on the doorstep. Nothing changed, everything the same as it has been since that awkward conversation on The Wall. He’s not happy with it, it makes him feel sick right in the pit of his stomach, but it’s something. They’ve survived, even if they’ve been left with the bitter scraps of a relationship.
He intends to lie, but then he doesn’t.
“My arm broke,” he says softly, “And I think some of the oil splashed - I don’t know where, though. Just hurts a bit. I’ll be fine, though. Do you know when the pizza gets here? You made sure to order it without olives, right? Because I do not want to have to take you to the hospital because-”
“Bal, slow down,” Ambrosius whispers, soft and gentle, “Your - arm broke?” there’s a certain kind of guilt etched into his voice and this is why Ballister didn’t want to admit that he’d wound up hurting himself. He knows how unhealthy it is; and he knows how half of their issues are because they’ve doggedly avoided that faucet of their history, but he doesn’t know how to bring it up.
How do you bring that up? He’d tried before. There was no real way to word the complicated mix of feelings that had happened with his arm and the whirl of light during the Knighting Ceremony, no real way to describe the feeling of knowing that his lover had taken his sword through muscles and bone for the Kingdom. No way to describe how he knew, Gloreth, he knew why Ambrosius had done it but it didn’t make it any less painful to think about.
He swallows. He’s avoiding Ambrosius’ gaze, pointedly, and he can tell that he’s noticed. “Yeah,” he says, “It’s easily fixable. Just - some oil got into the wires, and it makes the finger joints - twitchy. That’s all.”
“Right,” Ambrosius raises a hand, and touches it to the pale grey fabric of the shirt that he’s wearing, fingertips falling just shy of his stump, “And - you said that you’re hurt?”
“Not hurt,” Ballister hastens to say, “Just - some oil splashed. That’s all.”
“That can cause third-degree burns, y’know,” Ambrosius says, “Did you listen during our first aid courses?”
“Of course I did,” Ballister tilts his head, “I seem to remember that I did better than you in that course, actually-”
“Teacher’s pet,” Ambrosius teases, and for a split-second, Ballister can pretend that he’s not missing an arm and Ambrosius didn’t think he was a murderer and things are fine and normal. He can pretend that there’s still the phantom ache of an engagement ring in his pocket and that after training they’ll go out for nachos and things will somehow be fine again. “Anyways,” he clears his throat and that moment is gone, “Have you - checked? To see if you’re hurt?”
“No,” Ballister replies, “But I’m sure it’s fine. I’ve - dealt with worse, so.”
He means the aftermath of Nimona. He means the city falling around him and the fire and the heat of her wings as she soared over him. He means the bruises all over from searching in the rubble, from digging through bricks. He means the day The Wall fell but when Ambrosius looks at him he can see nothing but hurt and guilt in his gaze.
“I’m sorry-”
“No, I don’t mean-” Ballister juts in, “I don’t mean that.”
“Right,” Ambrosius says, and glances away. When he looks back again, his gaze is sharp. Focused. “Do you mind if I have a look?”
“A look at what?”
“Where that oil splashed up,” Ambrosius says, “I’ve got a first-aid kit in my bag. I don’t…” he swallows, “I don’t want you to be in pain.”
“I’m not, really,” Ballister says, and before he can stop himself, he says, “If you’re - insistent on looking at it-”
“I am, I don’t want you to have burnt yourself, Bal, not over - what were you even making?”
“Fries.”
“Not over the third-best potato side dish.”
Ballister gives him a long, pointed look. “If it’s third-best, what’s better?”
“Hash-browns and potato skins, obviously,” Ambroisus crosses his arms as Ballister gives him an even longer, more pointy look, “They’re good.”
“They’re not better than fries.”
“Anyways,” Ambroisus touches his fingers to his shoulder again, more deliberately, fingers splayed over the span of his shoulder. “Can I have a look? I just want to make sure it’s not - blistered, that’s all.”
“Fine, but-” Ballister shrugs his hand off, gently, “It’s - you’ll have to see the - you know. Stump. And I don’t - want you to be uncomfortable about that. It’s - kinda gross to look at.” Somewhere in his head, he can hear Nimona yelling at him about not putting himself down about something that is literally part of your body, boss, and besides, he did that to you! Arm chopping isn’t a love language-
“It’s fine,” Ambrosious says firmly. “I’m sure it’s fine. You know I find you beautiful no matter what, right?”
“You- but-”
“Whatever it looks like, it’s fine. I’m right here. Not going anywhere,” Ambrosius murmurs, “Am I alright to have a look?”
“Yes. That’s fine,” Ballister awkwardly tugs the sleeve of his shirt up so the stump is exposed. It’s healed, but not neatly. The stitches are jagged. He’d had to hold a bare flame to the bleeding stump when he’d first run away in order to stop the outpour of blood and whilst it had worked at the time it makes everything look far harsher than it feels. He glances down, and - huh. He was right. He did burn himself. There’s a few speckled spots of oil. The skin underneath is red and angry and almost blistered in some places.
“That needs some ice,” Ambrosius says quickly. His gaze keeps darting away. Fragmented. “It - and cold water, too.”
“It doesn’t need ice,” Ballister murmurs, “Burns don’t. Just the cold water.”
“Right,” Ambrosius says, and he ducks into the kitchen, coughing and spluttering on his way out, “You didn’t say that you made the oil explode.” He says as he closes the door behind him, holding a wet rag soaked in cold water.
“I didn’t think it was useful information.”
“It might have burned your kitchen down, Bal,” Ambrosius shakes his head, and tuts, “Honestly.”
Ballister gives him a half-smile. “Well,” he says, “It didn’t.”
“You’re lucky it didn’t give you proper burns,” Ambrosius says, and that look passes over his expression again, something rueful, “Am I alright to-” he holds out the rag.
“Yeah, sorry,” Ballister tugs up his shirt sleeve again, and Ambrosius hovers over his shoulder, gently tapping at the white and redden speckles where the oil splashed with the water-soaked rag. He hadn’t noticed quite how badly his skin had been scorched. “Thank you.” He murmurs when Ambrosius drags the rag away, skin somewhat soothed by the cool water.
“No problem. Really.” Ambrosius murmurs and does something Ballister doesn’t quite expect. He rests his fingers gently over the stump and Ballister shivers at the contact. “I did this to you. Gloreth, this was - all me. Wasn’t it.”
Oh, Ballister thinks. They’re actually going to talk about this. They haven’t, not in weeks. It’s not that they hadn’t had the time to - they have. But whenever Ambrosius has looked like he might mention it, his mouth closes shut, fast, and he changes the subject. Ballister hasn’t brought it up because - well, he’s been waiting for Ambrosius to, really. He’s apologised plenty enough for the arm, Ballister doesn’t care about that, but he’s been waiting for Ambrosius to bring up the fact that he’d wholeheartedly believed that Ballister was capable of murdering the Queen.
“It was your sword,” Ballister says, on autopilot, because it was. An Ambrosius of sound mind, untainted by the Institute would rather die than hurt him, he knows this, but he lost an arm all the same, “But it wasn’t you.”
“But - it was. It was me. All because I couldn’t think with my own head for one moment, I just had to follow the will of the Institute and - where did that leave us?”
“It’s what you were trained to do,” Ballister says again and he’s beginning to feel like a CD stuck in the player playing the same track over and over again. “What we were both trained to do. It’s - fine. I don’t care how many times I have to say it, but it’s okay. I forgive you.”
“I don’t know how you can just say that,” Ambrosius says, and he sounds tired, frustrated, “I - look at you, Bal. You’re … I did that to you. And I just have to live with that, y’know? Live with the fact that I saw that - weapon, and I assumed the very worst of you. That I thought you would do that.”
“Why?” Ballister asks, and his voice breaks. “Why did you think that.”
Ambrosius stares down at his hands, long and hard. “I don’t know,” he says at last, “I honestly don’t. I just saw you with that sword, and I knew it was your sword, and no matter what your expression was - screaming, I just saw the weapon, and the sword, and the Queen - lying there.”
“I get it,” Ballister murmurs, “I must have looked guilty, I just - I don’t… like the idea that you would think that of me. I’ve - the arm thing is fine. It’s how we were taught how to do things. Disarm anything that could harm the Institute, kill any monster that dares stray over The Wall, but - why did you think that of me?”
“I don’t know,” Ambrosius murmurs again, weak and quiet, “I’ve regretted it every day since. I thought - I thought I’d killed you, you know? I thought that you’d run off to bleed out. And then I saw you after weeks with - Nimona, and you were alive but without an arm and - Gloreth, I’ve never felt more horrible, Bal. Because you could have been dead and I didn’t even try to help you. I just - played along.”
“I almost died,” Ballister admits, because they’re doing this, now. After weeks of not talking, after weeks of awkward stilted stiff conversation, they’re both finally lifting the band-aid and properly trying to fix things. Ballister has known this for weeks - they’ll never be able to go back to what they once were, not really, that relationship splintered when his arm got sliced clean off, but they can remake it. They can melt down that cracked glass and reforge it; just as beautiful as before. “I thought I was going to. There was one day when the pain was just - too much. I almost let it swallow me.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I couldn’t die and leave behind a world where you thought I was capable of murder,” Ballister admits, “It wasn’t about proving my innocence to the Kingdom. None of it was. It’s funny, really - everything I do comes back to you. I just needed you to know I wasn’t a killer.”
“I’m so sorry, Bal,” Ambrosius whispers, his fingers still on Ballister’s shoulder, slowly skating up to his neck, slowly, anxiously. Neither of them have touched each other properly, not like this - soft, caring and intimate - not since The Wall fell and they staggered into each other’s arms. “If I have to spend the rest of my life making up for what I did, then, I’ll do it.”
“Hey,” Ballister reaches out for him. It’s instinctual, he thinks. That he has to touch and soothe Ambrosius when he can hear a sound of pain. “You don’t have to spend your life. Just - today is enough. We’ll take the next one as it goes.”
“I don’t deserve you,” Ambrosius murmurs softly, “Truly.”
Ballister swallows. “I’m not giving us up, Ambrosius. Not easily. We’ve made it this far, yeah?”
Ambrosius blinks at him and his eyelashes flutter and he steps slightly closer and Ballister can hardly breathe because - well, he knows Ambrosius, right down to his bones, and he knows his tells, and that look in his eyes is familiar from sneaking behind walls and quick kisses in corridors. Ambrosius leans just a fraction closer, and at that moment, the doorbell rings.
“The pizza is here,” Ambrosius says, and he sounds disappointed, “Do you want me to get it?”
He takes a step away, then, and Ballister can’t stand this a moment longer. He knows full well that they have so, so much to talk about, still, so much to unpack, but at the same time he’s sick and tired of Ambrosius holding him gently at arm’s length. He can’t stand the fact that they’re just tip-toeing delicately around each other like they haven’t been in love for years and he can’t stand the fact that he can’t just touch Ambrosius normally, and he can’t stand the fact that he can’t just kiss the man that he loves.
“Oh, fuck the pizza,” Ballister mutters and grabs the front of Ambrosius’ rain-sodden shirt and pulls him into a kiss. It’s quick and to Ballister, it feels like it lasts barely a fraction of a second. When he separates, it feels like he’s breathing freely for the first time in weeks, months. It’s the feeling of coming home. He pulls away, and Ambrosius closes the space between them again just as rashly.
The doorbell rings again. The door is rapped on, once, twice, and Ambrosius reluctantly tugs away.
“I’ll - go get that.”
Ballister nods, and stares after him as he walks to the door.
Later, after olive-less pizza and quick shy kisses exchanged on the couch, Ambroisus stands, ready to leave.
“Where are you going?” Ballister asks, standing up after him.
“Home,” Ambrosius replies, “It’s getting late, that’s all.”
“You don’t have to leave,” Ballister tells him, and a note of cloying desperation sneaks into his voice. “You can stay. If you want.”
“Are you - sure?”
“Stay. Please.”
Ambrosius sits back down into the slope of the couch and settles against Ballister’s side. He stays.