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"What are you doing here?"
"Did you think you could get away with this?" Ambrosius demanded, as if his face wasn't flushed and he wasn't swaying on the spot. "Think again, villain."
"You look awful," Ballister said flatly. "Are you sick?"
"How dare you!"
Ballister reached out and pressed his hand against Ambrosius's forehead for a moment before they both realized what was happening and jumped away from each other. It was long enough to feel how hot he was, though, and as if to make it even more clear that he was in no state to fight anyone, Ambrosius stumbled when he pulled away and almost fell over.
"You should be in bed."
"Well, it seems that evil never sleeps, so I can't either," Ambrosius said, his voice turning petulant. He was always whiny when he was sick, Ballister remembered; he was surprised it had taken him this long to start it up.
"I'm not even doing anything that evil. I'm just going to steal some money from the bank, and it's not like they're not insured against this sort of thing. And I picked the most corrupt bank in the area, so they deserve to be robbed anyway."
"Stop trying to justify your actions!" Ambrosius cried. "You- You- You villain!"
"If you're too sick to even come up with good insults, you definitely shouldn't be here."
"I'm not sick!" Ambrosius whined, sounding for an instant like the child Ballister remembered from their earliest days at the Institute. "I'm here to fight you! I'm- Ohhhh…"
Ambrosius swayed even more, looking like he was going to collapse any second, and Ballister moved on some half-forgotten instinct when he caught him just before he fell. Ambrosius must have been struggling to wrangle old instincts too, because he leaned into Ballister with a whine.
"I hate being sick."
"I know you do," Ballister said, his voice coming out far more tender than he'd intended. "Look, I… If I agree to just go straight home and not do anything else villainous for the next few days, will you go home and rest?"
He didn't let himself think too hard about why he made the offer.
"I… suppose," Ambrosius agreed after a moment, sounding equal parts grumpy and wary. "But you have to promise."
"I promise. Now go home."
Ambrosius nodded slowly, then he pulled away from Ballister and started back in the direction of his apartment. Ballister couldn't quite bring himself to look away, which is how he saw when Ambrosius paused, put a hand to his forehead, and then started to crumple.
"Ambrosius!"
Ballister caught him just before his head hit the ground, cradling it with his prosthetic as he pressed his flesh-and-blood hand to Ambrosius's forehead again. It was burning hot and clammy, and Ballister cursed under his breath. Ambrosius should be at home in bed, not out on the street. But he'd decided to come after Ballister alone, like an idiot, and now he was Ballister's problem.
He was not actually Ballister's problem. He was a knight of the realm, the Champion, and Ballister was a villain. It would surprise no one if Ballister dumped him on the ground and left. It would surprise no one if Ballister took him captive and held him for ransom, although that would likely be more trouble than it was worth.
It would surprise a lot of people, Ballister himself included, if he brought Ambrosius back to his own apartment and left him safely there, but somehow, the thought of doing anything else seemed impossible.
"You're a pain in my ass," Ballister told Ambrosius, and he hefted him into his arms.
Luckily, Ballister knew where Ambrosius's apartment was. Even luckier, it wasn't far. Ballister carried Ambrosius back, picking the lock to let them in. He dumped Ambrosius on his bed, turned to go, and…
He had done everything he had to do. He had done more than he had to do. He'd brought Ambrosius back to his apartment, and he was going to keep his promise and lay low for a few days so Ambrosius had time to rest. He didn't need to do anything else.
But Ambrosius was sick, and he was alone, and Ballister knew just how miserable it was to be sick and alone.
"Just a few things," Ballister grumbled as he pulled Ambrosius's boots off. "Just a few things, and then I'm leaving."
Ambrosius mumbled something incomprehensible. Ballister took it as agreement and started removing his armor.
There were probably pajamas somewhere. But that, Ballister thought, would cross a line, so he just piled Ambrosius's armor in the corner and settled him in the bed in his under-layers, tucking him under the blankets and smoothing his hair away from his forehead. It was still far too warm, but that wasn't Ballister's problem. He'd gotten Ambrosius comfortable, and so now, he could leave.
He could leave.
He could leave.
Honestly, it wasn't even a matter of "could," it was a matter of "should." Ballister should leave. He'd already done more than he should have. He and Ambrosius were enemies now, nemeses even. If Ambrosius wanted to be an idiot and go out when he was sick, that wasn't Ballister's problem. It was probably good for him, actually, because it could get Ambrosius off his back for a while. Ballister had made sure he was safe, which was already more than he had to do; now, he should leave.
Ballister stood by the bed for a long moment, staring at Ambrosius, and then he went to the bathroom and threw open the medicine cabinet.
He was just going to check if Ambrosius had medicine to treat his fever. That was it. After all, the sooner Ambrosius got better, the sooner things could get back to normal, so it was in Ballister's best interests for him to get well soon. That was it.
Ambrosius, as it turned out, had nothing that could be used to treat a fever. He had hardly anything in his medicine cabinet at all, which was surprising (and would have been concerning if Ballister cared, which he didn't), because Ballister knew full well how often Ambrosius got hurt. He had some bandages and a suture kit and a bottle of disinfectant, but that appeared to be it.
Ballister closed the door, leaned his forehead against the medicine cabinet with a groan, and went out to find an apothecary.
It was easier to find one than he'd thought, and even better, no one seemed to recognize him. Ballister tucked his purchase away and headed back towards Ambrosius's apartment, telling himself firmly that this was it, this was it, and then he paused in front of the market and studied the vegetables on display in the front. Ambrosius was a picky eater when he was sick, generally refusing anything but soup, and it most absolutely wasn't Ballister's problem, but Ballister still bought a bag full of vegetables and a jar of chicken broth.
He didn't even try to justify himself anymore.
He put the medicine for Ambrosius's fever next to his bed, then he put the painkillers that he'd been unable to keep himself from buying in the medicine cabinet. Ambrosius's kitchen was about as pathetically empty as the dismal rest of his apartment had led Ballister to expect, but he found a pot and a cutting board and a knife, so he got to work on the vegetables. Onion, carrot, celery, zucchini, no green beans because Ambrosius didn't like them, extra sweet corn because he loved it… He worked automatically, preparing everything without letting himself think too much about the fact that he was preparing a homemade soup for his nemesis.
He wondered briefly if Ambrosius would do the same thing for him, then snorted with laughter. Of course he wouldn't. Ambrosius hadn't even visited him in the hospital after he blew Ballister's arm off.
That thought should have been enough to make Ballister leave. He should have left the apartment, half-chopped soup ingredients scattered across the counter, and left Ambrosius to be sick on his own. He should have gathered up everything he'd bought and brought it home with him instead, leaving Ambrosius with nothing.
Ballister finished chopping the vegetables, then he poured some oil into the bottom of the pot and began to sauté them.
It didn't make sense. He couldn't even make it make sense to himself. He was being foolish- No, he was being stupid. There was no reason for him to do any of this and every reason for him to do none of it. Ambrosius certainly didn't deserve it. Ambrosius wouldn't do it for him. There was nothing between them anymore, and Ballister should have left.
He poured the jar of chicken broth and some water into the pot, then he lowered the heat and let it cook.
He couldn't leave the apartment with the stove on, so Ballister decided to snoop. If he could find something out from his reconnaissance, then perhaps the day wouldn't be entirely lost. He didn't know quite what he would find out or how he could use it, but he expected he'd probably be able to find something. If he at least looked, then he could feel like he was doing something worthwhile, not just taking care of a nemesis who didn't deserve it.
Ambrosius's apartment was sterile, to his surprise. He found the usual bevy of haircare supplies in the bathroom, and there were some finely made clothes in the closet, but there was very little that felt like Ambrosius. Ballister had been expecting glittery little trinkets or bouquets of bright flowers. Ambrosius had always liked pretty things. Instead, there was no decoration and the bare minimum of furniture. It seemed Ambrosius didn't entertain often. Ballister told himself that being glad about that would be petty, then he remembered that he was a villain and allowed to be just as petty as he wanted to be.
It was in a side table drawer that he found the picture.
It was shoved and crumpled in the back of the drawer like a dirty secret. Ballister smoothed it out, hoping it was the sort of dirty secret he could use, and then he immediately felt the urge to crumple it right back up. It was a picture of him and Ambrosius from a few months before the joust, Ballister's arm slung around Ambrosius's shoulders and wide smiles on both their faces. Ballister remembered it being taken, but he didn't have a copy of it. He hadn't realized Ambrosius did.
It was crumpled, but Ambrosius had still kept it. Ballister didn't let himself think too long about what that meant.
He considered stealing it. Just to mess with Ambrosius, he told himself; just to make Ambrosius panic a little when he realized it was gone. Then he considered putting it back, crumpled and everything, to pretend he hadn't seen it at all.
In the end, he set it down on the side table and went back to the kitchen to think about what to do next.
The soup was cooked enough, so Ballister turned off the heat and put the whole pot into the refrigerator. Then it occurred to him that Ambrosius wouldn't know it was there, so he ripped a page out of a notebook on the coffee table and wrote, There's soup in the fridge, make sure you eat something. It was ridiculous, he reminded himself again, to mother-hen his nemesis, but he still stuck the note to the outside of the fridge with a magnet. After a moment of internal debate, he stuck the picture up next to it.
He heard rustling coming from the bedroom. Ambrosius was waking up, and Ballister suddenly realized he didn't want to be there when Ambrosius came out of the bedroom. It would be obvious that he'd been there, of course - between his familiar handwriting and the picture, his note was as good as signed - but that didn't mean Ballister wanted to actually talk to Ambrosius, or have to look him in the eye and explain why he'd done what he'd done. It was hard enough to explain it to himself. He had no explanation, not really.
He left the apartment quietly, and by the time Ambrosius stumbled out of his bedroom, still feverish and half asleep, Ballister was already long gone.