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Nimona likes Ambrosius perfectly fine - that is to say, she can’t for the life of her find a reason to dislike him. He’s compassionate and intelligent; despite leaving a bit to be desired, his sense of humor is passable; and he’s very handsome (unfortunately), not that Nimona is going to inflate his ego any further by telling him that.
In fact, the only thing she doesn’t like about him is the way he melts Boss down into a nothing more than a blushing school girl whenever he walks in a room. This platinum bleached dipshit takes him from a villain-slaying badass to piece of brainless arm candy in thrity seconds flat. It’s annoying. Which means Ambrosius is annoying.
Hence why Nimona is determined not to let them get married.
But slow down a minute in judging her - this isn’t for all the many, purely selfish reasons listed above. In fact, that may have been a bad way to kick off a very reasonable justification. Nimona actually has a laundry list of reasons why both the Boss and his blond boy toy would be worse off with little gold bands around their fingers.
Love makes people complacent. You don’t see Nimona going out and getting a partner for that exact reason. No one should be so emotionally reliant on another person - and before you say anything, her relationship with the Boss is nothing like that. That kind of codependency makes you succeptibke to all sorts of risks. What would happen if Boss actually lost Ambrosius? Not just “everyone thinks I commuted treason and now I only get to see you when we’re homoerotically crossing swords wink wink” kind of loss…but a real, actual loss?
Nimona doesn’t even have to ask the rhetorical question to know the answer: Ballister Boldheart would be completely destroyed, a husk of his former self. And Nimona can’t have that. Especially with Ambrosius agreeing to be the The Head Knight (or whatever his actual title is, Nimona wasn’t really listening), the chance that he’s going to get mauled to bits in a freak attack on the realm is an exponentially increasing possibility. Getting married could be the worst thing that ever happens to them!
Getting married could get them killed.
And if they die then the kingdom goes drastically down hill - panic in the streets, chaos reigning supreme (an idea that Nimona still isn’t entirely opposed to). Really, she’s saving the whole realm.
And today is a perfect day for realm-saving.
“So Boss forced you to babysit me, huh?”
Ambrosius opens his mouth then closes it wordlessly. Then opens it again and says, “I wouldn’t say he used the word babysit… he just- uh…” He rubs at his undercut with his palm as he fumbles momentarily for words. Nimona folds her arms.
“He thinks that my overly active personality and rambunctious passion for obtaining me experience is going to get me in trouble somehow?”
“…He didn’t want you to be lonely.”
Of course, that’s exactly like something Boss would say. Not that Nimona doesn’t appreciate his thought, and not that he’s not correct in some respect - Boss is the only kind of family she’s had in many many years - but eight hours alone isn’t going break her. Despite how she looks (okay and acts and sometimes purposefully gives off the impression of), she’s not a child.
Oh sweet, naive Boss.
“And he thinks you’re a step up from solitude?”
Ambrosius’s features scrunch for moment before he says honestly, “That stung a little, I won’t lie.”
Nimona is already getting bored of this conversational strand. She’s all for a chance to showcase her sarcasm and dry wit, but Ambrosius is no fun to play with. So she pivots.
“Why do you want to marry Boss?”
Ambrosius looks surprised, as if he wasn’t expecting her to say anything about it. How could he not? It’s basically all Boss talks about (when he’s not actually in the presence of Ambrosius - barf).
“Because…I love him?”
“Why did you hesitate?”
“It was very clearly a pause to insinuate the obvious.”
Nimona frowns, “Oh…well other than that. The obvious isn’t exactly thrilling.”
Much to Nimona’s display, Ambrosius has the absolute nerve to laugh as though she’s said something funny, “He’s funny, smart, kind, handsome. Seriously. What’s with the third degree, Nimona?”
This engagement may be trickier to hack than Nimona had initially surmised - Ambrosius is yet unphased by interrogation, or is too dumb to notice that this is an interrogation. A different approach is in order.
From now on, Nimona will just have to do what she does best: be so brutally annoying that he can’t physically or mentally stand to be in her presence. If you marry Ballister Boldheart, you marry Nimona. That’s just how it is, they’re a package deal.
“I think you should break off your engagement with Boss.”
Across from her in the dining room of their apartment, Ambrosius’s light candor turns something stormy, “What?”
“I think you should break off your engagement with Boss, save yourselves a lot of anguish when one of you inevitably bites it-“
“Woah woah,” Ambrosius holds up his hands and punches at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger - it’s already working. Just a little more needling and Nimona will have him right where she wants him. “Nimona…that’s not cool, okay? You don’t have any say in our relationship and even if you did, it wouldn’t be your place to tell me what to do. What’s going on here?”
What’s going on is that with every passing day, Boss only thinks more and more about his blond bimbo husband and less and less about the things that matter.
…Like the realm.
And Nimona doesn’t want to see him become another victim of a tragic love that brings the world down around them. Even when Ambrosius had done nothing but wrong him, even when he was on the run from the fucking government of all things, he was still obsessed with getting back to the institute’s Golden Boy. Ambrosius makes him reckless and for what? A man who chose the institute over his boyfriend?
Nimona won’t let him do this to himself.
But life is cutthroat - like a game of Uno. And everyone knows that the worst thing you can do in Uno is show your hand.
“I’m hungry. Let’s get ice cream.”
-
“Don’t know why you took us to the third best ice cream place in the realm but we all make bad choices sometimes,” Nimona licks at her bronze metal butter pecan and kicks her feet above a checkered floor.
Ambrosius scoffs and his hair does a stupid little flippy thing with the movement, backlit by afternoon sun streaming through stylized windows, “Excuse you. This is the best ice cream place in the realm.”
“Yeah, coming from a guy who thinks bubblegum ice cream is worth spending money on,” Nimona snipes back. “I don’t think your taste can exactly be trusted.”
She’s not a fan of how easily he’s playing along - laughing at things that were clearly insults, returning each sarcastic jab with ferocity, making conversation even when Nimona sends out her chilliest vibes. And the whole old-timey ice cream parlor atmosphere isn’t really aiding her edge right now. He meets her at every turn, somehow receptive where others get scared off and run. It’s never taken more than a few minutes for Nimona to freighten someone into leaving before.
That’s okay - there’s still a whole evening left. Nimona has time yet.
“Nimona.”
Her ears wiggle as her head pops up behind her ice cream; she fixes him with her most pinpoint glare and hopes that the hostility she’s pouring into it chills him. the bone - although he doesn’t even wince. He must be good at hiding it.
“I’m not replacing you- not…not that I really get how that would considering I’ve known Bal my entire life and you’ve known him like- six months,” his voice is so gentle that Nimona almost forgets to be mad. But she doesn’t.
The flames of uncontrolled rage begin to lick in her belly, melting the chill of the ice cream and turning it to a boil with every successive word out of Ambrosius’s mouth.
“But the point is that you’re special to Bal. And I’m not trying to undermine your relationship with him-“
“Hey slow the hell down, man.” Nimona does not get jealous - and that is very clearly what Ambrosius is implying. Nimona is perfectly aware of just how special she is to the Boss. She’s perfectly aware that there is no one else like her, and that both Boss and the whole realm are lucky to be graced with her presence. She doesn’t need Ambrosius Goldenloin to mansplain it to her.
If only she were holding something she could slam down dramatically - like a sturdy glass of whiskey rather than a sugar cone that would vaporize if she squeezes it too hard. She needs something to channel her enraged energy into before it explodes and she says something she can stuff back down her gullet-
“You think I want you gone because Boss likes you too much?”
A pause stills in the air as the words sink in.
Uh oh. Nimona didn’t mean to say that part out loud.
In all truthfulness, she was saving that play for a little situation called desprate times - meaning…meaning if Ambrosius was proving to be an especially tough but to crack and she had to bring out the trump card in her deck called total honesty. She shuts her mouth with a click before any more of that honesty has a chance to escape.
Nimona can admit that she feels a little bad when Ambrosius swallows, adam’s apple bobbing, one eyebrow quirking up as his lips fall slightly apart, “You…want me gone?”
“No.”
“That’s literally what you just said.”
Nimona relents with her award winning eye roll, “I don’t like wanna kill you or anything. I don’t even want you gone-gone.” She hates how a knot of gilt begins to tangle in her throat as she sinks further into her meager defense. “It’s just…”
Ambrosius’s expectant silence isn’t exactly doing wonders for her will to solider through this incriminating confession. Normally, she throws words out there without thinking because fuck what people think, and fuck the consequences of her actions but…now she kind of wants to swallow them before they can cause any more damage than they already have.
Though, she supposes the milk has already been spilt. So why not spill some more and make that milk puddle into a milk pond (or however the saying goes)?
“You two are like two peas in a codependent pod,” she hears how weak her voice is and hates it, but makes no attempt to change it. “If one of you were to get hurt or-…or worse…You know how far Boss would go to protect you? Or how far he would go if someone took you from him?”
The way Ambrosius flicks his gaze to the glaringly pink ice cream in his cup (what kind of sociopath orders ice cream in a cup?) tell Nimona she needn’t even ask.
“Hell, I’ll just say it: if one of you guys died, the other would lose it. I’m talking apeshit, massacre the towns people, creating chaos losing it.” Nimona takes to sopping up the melted butter pecan running down her cone with a single index finger - anytjing to distract from Ambrosius Kicked Puppy Dog Goldenloin. It’s like talking to Boss all over again. Just a pair of big sad eyes begging you to stop talking. With a final, trying breath, she manages to say, “You’d be destroyed. And I can’t…I can’t watch Boss be destroyed again.”
When she dares to look up at him again, she finds the sad look he once wore gone and replaced with something patronizingly genuine. Nimona hates that - that raw kind of honesty burns a little to swallow down.
Slowly, Ambrosius says, “When you say apeshit, do you mean like how you destroyed half the kingdom and almost impaled yourself on Gloreth’s sword because Bal called you the m-word? Or how you literally went beast mode when you saw someone beating up your boss?”
Nimona chokes, “That’s not-“
“The same?” She doesn’t like this new dynamic. “Because it’s not romantic love? Because you guys don’t kiss? Face it, you love him, whether you want to call it that or not.”
The shop is empty now. And Nimona’s ice cream is running in a sticky, syrupy mess down her fingers that even the cheap napkins provided complimentarily can’t clean up. Late afternoon sun is already starting to send and suddenly, Nimona is beginning to forget what her mission here was in the first place.
“That’s what loving someone is - wanting to protect them, hurting they’re hurt.” There’s no small amount of gentleness in his voice, soft against the horrific sound of freestyle jazz playing through the shop’s speakers. Nimona sets her ice cream down in the table with a wet plop, hand beginning to cramp. “So?”
“So what?”
There’s a heavy pause. Then a breath from each of them, out of sync and disjunct. Then-
“So are you planning on finishing that or should I get someone to mop it up?”
In her worst planned act of defiance yet, Nimona scoops the ice cream up into her palms - a lapse in judgement she only processes the full extent of seconds later as the treat begins to melt through her fingers.
Oh well. It’s too late to turn back now.
“No it’s mine you can’t have it.”
-
Nimona has never understood the concept of dressing up. Since when, and in what situation, would someone ever prioritize what other people like looking at more than what they like looking at?
“When the other people are your parents, you do. And you should stop saying every thought you have out loud,” Ambrosius is fiddling with his hair in the full length mirror in their room - well, his and the Boss’s; Nimona is just here because the living room was getting boring.
She honestly hasn’t even realized she was talking - though there’s not much else to do with the world’s dullest man as your glorified babysitter and nothing but an apartment full of objects that are “not to be broken, Nimona”, so she’s not surprised her internal monologue has turned external. Her words have a habit of leaking out of her mouth when she’s bored.
“Why are you going to see your parents?” She asks, looking at the round-shaped lamp on the bedside table and absently wishing she could chew on it. It’s made of glass and would burst to shards in her mouth, but for a few delirious milliseconds, she’d be in heaven. “And follow up question: I thought you were explicitly told by your darling fiancé to keep an eye on me?”
“I was, which is why we’re not going to tell him about this,” Ambrosius makes eye contact with her through the mirror, eyes not so much demanding as they are pleading - good, Nimona likes a healthy amount of respect directed her way. He goes back to rolling up his sleeves, “Plus…Bal doesn’t really like my parents anyway. This can stay our little secret.”
Keep a secret from the Boss? Nimona isn’t sure that skill is particularly in her wheel house and she doesn’t like the idea of taking it out for a spin tonight.
“Do you hear yourself McGolden Boy? Me, keep a secret from Ballister Boldheart?” She quiries, leaning forward on her palms to glare at Ambrosius’s reflection.
His eyes wander for a moment, searching her face. She cycles through about fifteen of her best “now make this picture a silly one” faces just to mess with him. A little bit a guilt churns her stomach when he gives up easy and returns to sadly adjusting his clothing like a preening bird.
“Just-…please, Nimona. I need you to work with me here.”
That little bit of guilt is turning into a lot bit of guilt rapidly and by the second. Is this how Boss feels all the time? Like giving up every argument just to make Ambrosius act less like a kicked puppy?
She swallows around the knot in her throat, “What’s so important about dinner with your parents happening tonight?” You must understand, Nimona is not Ballister Boldheart, nor is she in love with Ambrosius Goldenloin, and thus is under no obligation to keep the latter happy (even if her gut is telling her to do exactly that). “And why can’t the Boss know about it? What are you hiding?”
Ambrosius squeezes his eyes shut before a theatrically large sigh drops his shoulders, “Bal doesn’t like my parents…and they don’t like him so-…” he seems to chew on his words for a moment. “So I just don’t want him to have to think about it. What he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.”
As someone who’s been on the receiving end of a lot of news that people thought “wouldn’t hurt” because she “didn’t know” it, Nimona can confirm that no information that has been proceeded by “what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him” has never failed to hurt the person in question. She picks at a single loose thread in their bedsheets with bitten-short nails as a mental tug-of-war monetarily stills her mouth.
On the one hand, she still hasn’t recovered from their weirdly personal conversation at the ice cream parlor, and the sentimental in her is inclined to do him this favor, especially considering she’ll finally have free reign of the kingdom without her babysitter tying her down. But on the other, Nimona could never betray Boss’s trust. If Ambrosius is so intent on keeping this from him, it must mean there’s something more significant to an innocent family dinner, right?
After sometime just staring awkwardly at each other like those videos of cats and dogs meeting for the first time, Nimona decides to do something she very well may regret.
“Fine.” She springs up off of the bed and curls herself into the shape of a racoon - she quite likes the way the world looks from the eyes of a trash panda, there’s something about it that opens opportunities. She crawls up Ambrosius’s strong shoulders and grabs his face with both paws, “But if this bites either of us in the ass, I’m throwing you under the bus.”
And then Ambrosious does the unexpected; he grabs Nimona, vibrant pink raccoon fluff and all, and crushes her tiny frame in his decidedly not tiny arms (god, Nimona wishes her arms could get that big. But no matter how many bad guys she slings around like play dough, they never seem to get any larger).
Eventually the hugging does get old though, and when that happens she’s forced to scrabble at his face with tiny paws until he drops her in a panic.
“Thank you, Nimona,” he holds his hands out to her like an offering. “I’ll make it up to you…somehow. I don’t know what centuries old shape-shifters like to be gifted but I’ll figure it out.”
She notes with interest that this may be the first time she’s ever seen him smile in this particular way - not in jest, but a genuine smile of relief that makes her feel a bit like a child who just won their first trophy. It softens her heart just enough that she manages to offer a small one of her own back.
“Okay,” he says then, eyes glancing toward the electric clock on the nightstand. Whatever time it is has him lurching into a hurry, the struggles with his hair a thing of the distant pass as he flurries around the room grabbing odd items. “Just- stay in the apartment, and don’t break anything too noticeable. Or if you do, glue it back togehter so Bal can’t tell.”
Then he’s skittering into the living room in a whirlwind of motion that Nimona follows on four paws.
“There’s…nothing you’d like in the fridge it’s all vegetables. But,” he whips around with hands outstretched as if to placate, a suit jacket sling over his arm - who wears a suit to have dinner with their parents? “I ordered a pizza for seven thirty, prepaid.”
She’s finally starting to see what Boss sees in him - he’s pathetic. But in the way that makes you want to give him a pay on the head and tell him everything will be okay.
Maybe…maybe she doesn’t want him gone as much as she’d initially thought.
She chews on the idea for a moment - the Boss, at the altar, smiling, wearing a wedding suit that’s sure to be horribly designed (he never did have a sense of fashion comparable to Nimona’s own), Nimona as his maid of honor wearing a fucking awesome, fashion-forward piece with pockets galore…maybe she doesn’t mind it so much-
“-and my number is in the fridge in case of an emergency- really just call me if anything happens. And don’t try to cook anything, I don’t you to hurt yourself-“
“Ambrosius.” Wow, she had totally turned her brain off after the pizza thing. He looks at her, clearly anxious about something, with more than one hair noticeably out of place in his otherwise perfect do. “I’m literally older than you. You know I lived on my own before I met Boss, right?”
He opens his mouth but nothing comes out.
“I’ll be fine.”
-
His parents always sit like this, like they’re the adversaries in a chess match - the two of them against the world. Against their own children, even; anyone who isn’t in their bubble of delusion is subject to the wrath of the king and queen.
It would be funny to think about if that weren’t actually how it is.
“It’s been so long since you’ve visited, Darling,” his mother’s artificial warmth never fails to send a chill down his spine. Everything from her smile to the crinkle by her eyes is painted on. “Your brother and sister never even pick up calls these days. And I’ll tell you, they have much less important jobs to do than you do-“
“What your mother means to say is that it’s a welcome change to have you home again.” His father interjects.
Ambrosius isn’t so sure.
In fact, his father is never one to mince words. He identifies himself as one of those brutally honest types, those who say what they think whether it helps or hurts - and in his father’s case, it mostly hurts. All they ever did toward the end of Ambrosius’s teen years was fights about anything and everything under the sun. This forced pleasantry is nothing short of disturbing.
“Mom, Dad,” the screech of him pulling out his chair to take his place at the comically large dining table rackets around the equally comically large dining room. His parents are nothing if not people of excess. “I actually asked to have dinner with you so I could…tell you something-”
“Oh couldn’t it wait until after we eat, sweetheart?”
Oh. So they already know.
His heart sinks into his stomach.
“It’s always nice to save big announcements for the end of dinner.”
No. He can’t “save it until the end.” In fact, if he waits much longer, he’ll lose his nerve entirely and end up hiding from them the rest of his life, just like he did all throughout his childhood. He’s tired of letting their iron fists lord over his life and pull ever string along the way.
“No,” he says, swallowing his fear. It’s a bitter pill and takes a while to dissolve on his tongue, but when it’s finally gone, a bout of courage takes up residence in its place. “No, this can’t wait. It’s important.”
And there it is. Their faces settle in sync into something like preemptive disappointment, perfectly in lock step in everything they do as always, whether it’s forcing their children’s hands or berating them when they don’t follow the script. Ambrosius is well acquainted with the Jekyll and Hyde dynamic they’ve curated.
But he’s long past the point of his life where he’d be willing to do anything to re-earn their smiles, to tumble his way back into their good graces no matter the cost. He left that in the review mirror the first time he looked at Ballister and thought “my parents would hate him” only seconds after an embarrassing “hello future husband”.
Fifteen-year-old Ambrosius would be losing his shit right now.
“Ballister proposed to me.”
-
Okay, so Nimona said she’d stay at the apartment and now she’s sitting on the ledge of Ambrosius’s parent’s mansion, which is pretty much the worst place to be when the person who asked you to stay home in the first place is none of than Ambrosius himself - big whoop. It’s not like she promised to wait on the couch, lazing about with a piece of pizza hanging forlornly from her jowls. She’s like that cat curiosity killed- just…immortal.
Besides, Ambrosius had to expect that Nimona wasn’t going to follow his arbitrary rules. He didn’t even make her pinky swear!
She finds it exhilarating - the sneaking around, the covert, undercover-ness of it all. Sure, she loves being the realm’s hero. It’s great to be viewed as something other than the enemy for once. And yes, she doesn’t have to spend all day every day slinking into shadows that aren’t big enough to hold her eccentric personality, which is a vast improvement from the good old days. But there’s something about the nostalgia of-
A bird flies into her face. And not a passing glance off the side of her cheek, but a full send it, beak going straight for the eye, head-on collision that momentarily knocks the thoughts from Nimona’s brain.
“Go away.” She hisses, swatting in its general direction, but it ignores her. Instead, it comes back with a vengeance, creating an ugly squawking mess and nearly dislodging Nimona from her perch on the ledge outside the window. “Dude, I said I’m in the middle of something-“
“Ballister proposed to me.”
Nimona shuts her mouth abruptly but the damage is already done if the dead quiet that proceeds is anything to go by.
Or…or at least that’s what she thinks.
-
The silence that pours into the room makes Ambrosius’s hair stand up pinpoint - always with the wordless judgement that, if he’s unlucky, quickly loses its wordlessness.
And tonight, he is painfully unlucky.
His father inhales a sharp breath that makes Ambrosius’s throat constrict, “Please don’t tell me you said yes.”
“Of course I said yes.”
He’s hardly surprised at the dismay that crosses both his parents face, though it still cuts like the blade that it is, intended to gouge at his confidence. His stomach sinks low, something like bile rising in his throat even though he hasn’t so much as touched the food on his sitting on his plate.
“And why in Gloreth’s name would you sully the legacy of the Savior’s bloodline by letting a-…” say it. He doesn’t. He just presses his lips into a thin, angry line. “commoner marry into the family.”
“One, Gloreth isn’t exactly the shining example of integrity and honor we once thought, so don’t preach to me about her legacy,” he says, tempering his voice and swallowing the urge to yell. It’s not working very well. Even as he begins to bounce his heel and grips his silverware so tight in his fist that his knuckles blanch and cold metal digs painfully into his skin, he can’t stop his voice from rising in the air. “And second, Ballister sullies nothing. If anything, he makes this bloodline better than it was before.”
Ballister could teach his family a lot of things about how to love soemone properly.
“Your father isn’t trying to be disrespectful, Ambrosius, it’s just-“
“Yes! He was trying to be disrespectful!” Ambrosius’s words burst from him in a gasp, unplanned as he loses control of his temper. “And I know whatever you’re about to say is going to be said with the same intention-“
“Because he’s no better than a fucking sewer rat, Ambrosius!”
“Don’t fucking talk about him like that!” And suddenly, the fork in his hand is bent into a shape that looks less like silverware and more like a wonky triangle, and there’s a little cut on his palm from where it sought to leave a mark. In a fit of frustration, he throws the mangled utensil aside his plate - it looks so out of shape in a sea of perfectly aligned salad forks and dessert spoons.
His father gives him that flaming glare full of seething self-reitousness that sets Ambrosius’s soul alight with a familiar resentment he wishes he could quench. It never works. All these years of supposed self healing and he’s right back where he was as a fifteen-year-old kid; angry at the world and letting it suffocate him.
“Do not raise your voice at me, son-“
“Then treat my fiancé with some resepct.”
“He doesn’t deserve our respect.” The words are whispered and sharp, stinging like a brand against skin. And hell, Ambrosius is fucking tired of hearing that.
He’s tired of people treating Ballister as lesser-than. He’s tired of Ballister having to demand the bare minimum. And he’s tired of people looking down on the man he loves. If he had a nickel for every time someone told him Ballister doesn’t deserve something, he’d be richer than his old-money, trust-fund parents, and he knows Bal would tell him it’s not worth the fight but fuck that.
“Then you don’t deserve mine.”
Ambrosius is done trying to make them happy.
His father seems to deflate, running a the bridge of his nose; his mother shaking her head with a disappointment that would’ve killed thirty minutes ago, but now feels like the desprate last bid of a sinking ship to stay afloat.
“Why did you even come here, Ambrosius? Was it just to be defiant?” His father asks him the melancholy question. It makes him sad to think about the imagined fantasy scenario he’d convinced himself would come to fruition if he just kept his cool. It was never destined to happen anyway.
“I was going to tell you that your blessing would mean a lot to me,” he admits weakly. “But I don’t think I feel that way anymore.”
His father sets down his napkin with a weary sigh, “I think it’s time for you to leave.”
But Ambrosius is already standing.
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”
He gathers his jacket on his arm and feels stupid now, thinking back to Nimona’s ridicule of his formality, the only reason for which is the misguided belief that some ridiculously expensive cuff links would win his parents over.
“Ambrosius,” his father calls after him when he’s half way to freedom, half way to scrubbing this mess of a dinner from his memory- until he says what he says next, and Ambrosius feels as though his feet have suddenly been nailed to the floor. “Don’t bother coming back anytime soon. This family doesn’t need you to be a part of it anymore.”
He should’ve seen that one coming. And yet it still feels as though someone’s washed him in a bucket of ice water. He was expecting it but it still stings like a knife to the gut or any other half-witted simile that stands in for this shit fucking hurts. His parents have never been his best friends. In fact, they’re more like adversaries he’s oddly close to than they are parents - adversaries he’s three steps away from being free of.
So why is he about to cry. His eyes burn, and his throat itches, and despite clenching and unclenching his fists at his side until the cut on his palm starts to irritate, he can’t stop tears from spilling over. And he can’t stop the sniffle that fills the otehrwise solent room because his lungs don’t seem to be working properly and no matter how many deep breaths he takes, they never get full.
Man, it would be fucking great if Bal were here right now.
He would know what to say. He would know how to turn sad tears into happy ones. He would know…he would know how how to make it so Ambrosius can fucking breathe again.
But he’s on his own right now. And what he can do on his own is barely manage to navigate the maze of his parents house without dry heaving into one of their anqutue vases or passing out from holding his breath.
This night may be a touch harder to forget than he was initially anticipating.
-
The apartment unlocked when he gets home. Which should be a warning sign except that a quick scan of the room reveals nothing is damaged or broken. In fact, it’s as stately and still as when he left, not so much as a throw pillow out of place. Odd, he would’ve expected a bit of broken glass and at least one or two shredded blankets-
It also reveals no Nimona.
But he’s not terribly shocked about that-
“You’re part of my family.” He startles momentarily at the suddenness of Nimona’s voice rounding the corner of the darkened hallway. Her big, dark eyes remind him so much of Bal in the moment.
“So you heard that part?” He asks her quietly, already knowing the answer.
She takes another, meager step toward him, head tilting from side to side as if to sift through all the possible combinations of words before saying them aloud - odd, considering he’s never known her to think before she speaks.
“I know…you told me to stay in the apartment. But I was bored- and- and your cologne is really easy to track…” she chews on her bottom lip for a moment before whispering. “I’m sorry.”
Ambrosius sighs. He’s not mad about it. He doesn’t really have the emotional capacity for anger right now; his eyes still sting, swollen and tear-bitten. All he really wants to do is sync into sleep and pretend he doesn’t have to get up for work in the morning.
“Did you at least eat the pizza?” He asks, eyeing the closed box sitting on the stove.
“No…” He guessed that was the answer. “But I left the door unlocked with a note that said “take anything that looks like it’s with the price of a pizza”.” Normally he might laugh, but humor is escaping him at the moment as he toes off his shoes in the entryway and tosses his jacket haphazardly on the side table. He can hear the shuffling of bare feet behind him before Nimona’s voice sounds significantly closer, “I-…I didn’t actually…”
He appreciates that she’s trying - god, all he’s wanted since Nimona’s visits to their apartment became regualr (and frequent) is for Nimona to fucking like him, or at least not dislike him. And now…when they’re finally…bonding, for lack of a better word, he’s too dilapidated from throwing himself a pity party to properly appreciate it.
No. No he’s not going to do this.
He’s not going to drag Nimona down with him, and he’s not going to turn their whole night into some sad remark on the lasting effects of poor parenting.
No. He’s going to put on something adjacent to a smile, throw the untouched pizza in the oven, and make some light conversation that doesn’t involve either of his parents.
“I’m gonna re-heat the pizza.”
There’s a whooshing sound, some skittering, and then Nimona appears beside him sitting on the counter with two, large, coral-colored wings flapping about in the air, “Can I go break some stuff in their house?”
“No, Nimona.”
She rolls enormous eyes nudges his shoulder with her foot.
“C’mon, a little “pretentious fancy vase from like three hundred years ago” here, a little “painting that looks like it was made by a ten year old but is probably worth that ten year olds weight in gold” there. Who’s really gonna notice?” As much as he’d like so keep his serious facade, a huff of laughter leaves him before he can reign it in. Nimona, sharp as ever, sinks her fangs into it, “Ey, I made you smile. I’m cheering you up.”
He shakes his head, and sets about scraping the now-cold pizza onto a baking sheet, “How do you like your pizza?”
“And if I say charred as dark as Boss’s eyes and crispy as the Library of Alexandria, would you do it?” She hops off the counter to come shoulder to shoulder with him, wings keeping her aloft in the the air. “Would you burn that pizza to ashes?” Then shes smushing her cheek against his, “How far would you go for your new best friend?”
“Woah, my new best friend?” He pushes her face away and sets the oven to three-fifty.
She looks momentarily offended, the freckled bridge of her nose scrunching, lips pressing into a pout, “I mean, who else is in the running? Todd? Oh my god, is it Todd?”
“You’re missing the obvious: Bal?”
“Okay that’s no fair. He shouldn’t get to be your fiancé and best friend! That’s double dipping.”
A half-smile tugs on his lips and he dares to peer at her out of the corner of his eyes, “I thought you were trying to get rid of me?”
Silence falls, like someoen pressing a mute button on a TV. And Nimona goes back to refusing any sort of eye contact, instead choosing to trapse around the room and fiddle with random objects as if to distract from the question entirely. But after a moment, she jumps without warning, wings twisting gracefully in the air, and lands on the couch with her feet planted sturdily.
And she puts her hands on her hips firmly and declares with no small amount of theatricailty,
“You’re part of my family, Ambrosius. The one that has me and Boss and this rock I glued fangs onto.” She fishes a rock from her pocket to show him - it has two actual animal fangs of unknown origin stuck to it (they don’t even seem to be from the same type of animal) and at least ten eyes drawn on in sharpie. “His name is Walter. And you can’t get rid of family, even if you sometimes wish you could. Plus,” she lowers her voice but still holds her head high. “I don’t even really wish I could get rid you that much anymore.”
And not for the first time that night, Ambrosius’s heart feels warm; heavy in his chest, but content.
They sink into comfortable conversation after that, Ambrosius going about setting the table and preparing dinner, Nimona setting herself up with the far less helpful task of rating every picutre of them in the house based on the obviously very important categories of lighting, pose, and sex appeal (Ambrosius doesn’t quite get the last one, but once Nimona gets on a roll, there isn’t really any stopping her). Unsurprisingly, Ambrosius is almost universally rated lower than his fiancé in that third category, but he can’t say he disegrees with Nimona’s assessment.
It’s around nine when Ballister finally returns. Ambrosius is leaning against the counter, engaging Nimona in a game of twenty questions that becomes more disturbing with each question answered - the object she’s going for is sounding a lot like a disemboweled internal organ, but he’s going to pretend he doesn’t know that. The very sight of his fiancé eases his heart.
“Bal,” if the audible relief in his voice is obvious, he doesn’t even really mind that much.
Ballister drops his bag in the middle of the kitchen haphazardly, going straight for a chaste kiss to Ambrosius’s lips before taking a moment to bury his face in Ambrosius’s hair. Ambrosius can’t help but grin.
When he pulls away, his gaze is weary but fond, “I see you managed to survive a whole day with Nimona?” But the contentedness is short lived, quickly replaced with a look Ambrosius knows all too well. “Love, why were you crying?” Damn, he can’t sneak anything past this man.
“What?” The laugh in his voice is actually genuine, a matching pair with the smile that pulls at his lips. He swears there’s nothing in particular that’s funny, just that Ballister can somehow heal all the heartache of a night gone horribly off the rails simply by entering the room. “How could you possibly know that?”
“It’s your eyes. They go extra shiny,” he points at his own eyes with two fingers - an outrageous thing to hear from the king of shiny puppy-dog eyes himself. “And your cheeks get all red.”
Ambrosius should just tell him. Ballister misses nothing to begin with, and when it comes to Ambrosius, he seems to have a sixth sense for when he’s so much as telling half the truth, much less actually lying to him. In retrospect, it feels stupid of him to try and keep a secret from his fiancé in the first place.
So he sighs and bites the bullet, “I went to see my parents.”
Bal’s eyes go wide - and dark and beautiful and glimmering with light, but all that is underscored by concern.
“It went about as well as I’m guessing you think it did, just based on your expression.”
“Love…” Ambrosius let’s his fiancé crowd him against the counter, one, gentle hand coming up to cup his cheek. Ambrosius sinks into the feeling of being held in a way that only Ballister seems capable of achieving, turning his face into hus fiance’s palm and breathing him in.
“I thought asking for their blessing would make me feel less shit about how our relationship has been lately,” he answers Bal’s unspoken question - why? The simple truth is that he wishes things were different, and the thought maybe he could brute force the issue into resolution. He was foolish, and childish. “Didn’t exactly take. And now…our relationship is kind of nonexistent.”
He thought saying it out loud would be hard. And it is, but Bal makes it easier. The acrid sting in his throat that he’d fought brutally against in the halls of his parent’s house is little more than a dull afterthought when Bal is tracing his features with a featherlight touch and stroking stray hairs away from his face.
“Ambrosius I’m so-“
“Don’t apologize,” he presses his full weight into Ballister’s arms and buries his face against Ballister’s skin and breathes. And when Bal’s arms finally come up to tangle around him, holding him tight, his heart finally settles enough to admit, “They were being…such assholes. You deserve a better family to marry into.”
Bal presses a kiss to the crown of his head so tender Ambrosius nearly melts to nothing in his arms, then whispers, “You deserve a better family to be born into.”
God, Ambrosius loves this man.
The moment is quiet, and gentle, and soft- at least until a weight that must be Nimona hurtles into them both, surprisingly strong arms looping around both of their shoulders to draw them into a crushing hug.
“Well guess what dummies,” she’s yelling far too close to their faces. “Family is what you make it, so cheer the fuck up guys.” A sweet sentiment they have milliseconds to digest before she’s adding as an afterthought, “Also, the pizza is definitely burning, I don’t know how you guys don’t smell that.”
-
It only occurs to Nimona as she’s swiping some seemingly very expensive vases off what look to be equally expensive antique tables in the household of Mr. and Ms. Ambrosius Goldendong or whatever his name is, that the Ambrosius might be right about one thing:
You do go a little apeshit for the people you love.