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DG wouldn't let them go, even if they'd wanted to— though none of them did— and it felt good to be in a familiar position again, star on his chest and gun in his hand and a mandate for justice tucked in his pocket with Jeb's toy horse. Cain was busy those first couple of weeks, patrolling the city and seeing out the bulk of Azkadelia's unsavory followers; it was a relief to come back to the castle and a warm welcome. Raw looked different with his tangled mane combed out and his furs brushed clean, and DG was a vision in dresses befitting her place as a princess of the realm. The greatest change was in Glitch— rather, Ambrose, brain fully restored thanks to DG's magic and Raw's healing powers.
The former halfwit was anything but, now. All the clumsy eagerness and sparkling optimism, the never-quite-right clothes and the twisted-up, tossed-around hair had vanished under a slick veneer of elegant uniform and distant gaze, hair sheared down since it couldn't be straightened out, economical in motion and overbearing in speech. Ambrose was as closed-off as Glitch had been open, and every time Cain shot a glance his way the queen's advisor would look away, never meeting blue eyes.
Now that Cain's found his heart, all it seems to do is ache. Central City's more than a little messed up in the wake of fifteen annuals of tyranny, and for every family he sees there's an orphan on the streets, for all the hope that the Queen's reinstatement has brought there are still so many hollow eyes in the crowds. Without a heart to worry about, it was easier to ignore suffering and slights; now every time Ambrose leaves a room when Cain walks in, his chest hurts harder than it did when a bullet just barely didn't kill him.
DG notices, of course, but she's not the first to cotton on to the fact that not all is well in the kingdom of light. Raw moves quietly, stalks Cain through the halls after the cop returns from a shift, and his low rumble shocks Cain into drawing his gun, lowering it with a shake of his head when he sees the viewer. "Warn a man," he says dryly.
Raw doesn't smile, just reaches a hand to Cain's shoulder and half-closes his eyes. "He's same, underneath," Raw says, words weighted and careful. "You can find him, Cain." For a moment they stare at each other, Raw soaking up Cain's pain with tightness around his eyes, Cain feeling hope radiating out under the heat of the viewer's palm.
"I'll try," he says shortly, sweeping his hat off and scrubbing the heel of his hand over his cropped hair. "You're sure...?"
"Very sure," Raw agrees, and he finally grins, knowing as certainly as Cain does that the tin man will do his best to find their friend, the half of him that they came to know so well on their travels across the O.Z.
It's easier said than done to find Ambrose; Cain wanders the halls and finally comes across the genius in the last place he should want to be, the room where half of his brain was kept captive for so long. He looks up sharply when Cain comes in, dark eyes going wide and then narrowing. He looks even more pale than usual, tired, strange with his hair buzzed away. A pink line runs down the center of his scalp, the healed-over skin where the zipper had been, and Cain's fingers twitch with the urge to touch, to see if there's still a Glitch in there, gentle and hopeful and brilliant not with smarts but with love.
Ambrose's lips quirk down, pretty mouth pinched with discomfort. "Hello, Cain." Even his voice is different, stiff as the starched collar under his waistcoat, formal. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Cain says, rubbing the back of his thumb over his wide mouth thoughtfully. In the center of the room the brain tank still stands, empty, casting greenish light around, and he pretends he doesn't notice Ambrose edging toward the door. "What does that half of your brain remember, anyhow?"
"Excuse me?" That's enough to stop him in his tracks, Ambrose's mouth falling open for a moment in surprise. "That's not— I can't— That's private," he stutters, for the first time inelegant, and his hands twist together. "It's none of your business."
"No," Cain says simply, and he takes off his hat, looks Ambrose right in the eyes and holds out one hand to him. "It's not. But you're my friend, and it looks like you need someone to talk to." Taken aback, Ambrose pauses, and Cain pushes his last thought, the only thing he can think to tap into that part of Ambrose that might still be Glitch. "I still owe you one, right?"
There was a time when those hands were warm, Cain remembers, the warmest most wonderful hands in the world; now he wonders if the pale skin has always been this cool in truth, holds onto Ambrose's fingers and doesn't let go. Head hanging, Ambrose chews his lower lip from pink to red before he speaks.
"Fifteen annuals," he says, and Cain just nods. He felt the weight of every day, locked away in that metal suit, and it nearly broke him. "No eyes, no ears, just— data. Numbers and schematics and the knowledge, not just how it worked, but how it was all my fault, what she was doing." He holds up a hand when Cain tries to cut in. "No. The witch, I know, but even the witch couldn't have stopped the suns without my plans. And I couldn't resist..." Voice tight, he pauses, shakes his head quick, annoyed. "Brains don't have nerves, not the feeling kind. But for fifteen annuals, it hurt, and there was nothing to do but think."
There's not much to do, not when faced with news like that, so Cain does the one thing that comes to mind: he pulls Ambrose close, doesn't say a word when dignity gives way to sorrow, when all those annuals of unexpressed grief come pouring out. His shoulder gets damp, then wet, and he turns enough to press his cheek against short dark hair, soft and fuzzy, waiting it out while Ambrose's sobs turn to hiccuping breaths, and then to deep, shaky inhalations and slow, steady exhalations. Cain rubs one broad hand over his back. "There you go. It's not your fault, Gl— Ambrose." He almost slips up, and dark eyes are red-rimmed when Ambrose pulls back to look at him.
"No, it's okay." His voice is worn, but lighter somehow, unburdened. "That's more— I don't think I want to be who I used to be. I can't be. It's too much, that sort of burden of brilliance." He bites his lips, small pink mouth going pinker when he finds words again. "Go on, Wyatt. Call me Glitch."
"Glitch," Cain says, blue eyes bright with delight, both hands framing his friend's pale face; he leans in and kisses Glitch hard on the mouth, thrilled and throwing caution to the wind. There's a giggle against his lips, and the tip of a tongue, and slim clever hands knotting in the back of his coat and not letting him pull away. When they do part, Cain is the dazed one, Glitch the one grinning mischievously. He tilts his head to one side, so familiar even if his concentration is fully there, fully focused, and Cain licks his lips, shakes his head fondly. "Welcome back, sweetheart."