AN: I've had this story lying around for quite some time and decided that it needed posting. I'm not sure if anyone out there is still into the Tin Man craze (I know it's passed me by a little bit), but it's nice to reminisce, yes? Enjoy!

Chapter One: Rain

Ambrose sighs and rubs at his temple, staring down at the equations coating several pieces of parchment and much of the desk. The grim weather is doing absolutely nothing for his headache. The O.Z. has been in a particularly foul mood as a whole since the re-induction of the royal family—not because of the induction itself but because of the rain; the massive amounts of rain that have been flooding their lands and making it near impossible to go anywhere or do anything. And the blame lies solely on Ambrose's shoulders.

The witch's recalibration of the Sunseeder has sent all weather patterns into disarray, thus resulting in the rain. And the fact that Ambrose's brain has not yet properly settled isn't helping any. He's been writing non-stop for weeks, everything that his memories will push forward. He knows the answer is somewhere. Really, he does. It's just . . . difficult to find.

The inventor sighs again and brushes the papers off of his desk in frustration, burying his face in his hands and whimpering. He wants to scream, to throw something, break something, shoot something. He wants to run away and let someone else handle this mess. He wants someone—anyone—for once to look him square in the eye and say—

"It's not your fault, headcase."

Ambrose draws in a sharp breath as the deep, husky voice reverberates off the looming walls. Shadows dance around the room as fire flickers in the fireplace. A pair of warm arms snake around the inventor's middle, and he instinctively leans back into the firm chest as a mouth nuzzles the side of his neck.

"You know that, don't you?" the voice murmurs into his ear, and a shiver runs up the inventor's spine.

"It's nice to be lied to every once in a while," Ambrose breathes exhaustedly. He groans in protest as the warm arms slither away and he is turned on the spinning stool to meet a pair of concerned blue eyes.

Cain's hands come up, his palms pressed gently to the other man's flushed cheeks and his fingers stringing into the mass of disheveled dark curls. "It's not your fault," the tin man assures him sternly. "No one blames you."

Ambrose huffs, a hysterical chuckle breaking free of his throat as he grasps Cain's wrists and pulls the man's hands from his face. Looking down, he shakes his head. "Everyone blames me, Wyatt. It's my device. It's my mess to clean."

"You didn't build it," Cain protests, his anger projecting onto the one man that least deserves it.

"Oh, but I showed them how," the inventor counters, meeting the tin man's intense gaze and giving him a defeated look. "I showed them exactly how to hurt the O.Z., all its weak points. I delivered our downfall into their hands."

Cain shakes his head. "You saved us. You're the reason we're still breathing, why we can rebuild and heal and start new."

"Then why is it still raining?" Ambrose demands angrily, standing and pushing past the tin man. He stops in front of the fireplace, bracing himself against the mantel above with both hands and leaning in toward the warm flames.

Cain suppresses a sigh, lifting his hat and rubbing at his short blond hair. Replacing the hat, he cautiously makes his way over to the distraught man, leaning one shoulder against the mantel to watch his lover. The tears on Ambrose's cheeks glitter against the firelight. Like the raindrops on the windows across the room, they slip freely down the length of his face, dripping from his chin and splattering against the hardwood floor.

"You should sleep," Cain suggests quietly. "You can't wear yourself down like this."

"I have to fix what I broke, Wyatt," Ambrose mumbles, yawning despite his persistence. The tin man smiles, gently leading the inventor to the couch-turned-makeshift-bed on the other side of the room. He sits him down, removing his shoes and coat, doing the same himself, and tucking them both beneath a large, red comforter, Ambrose's head safely nestled beneath his chin.

"So sad, Wyatt," the inventor murmurs sleepily, his breath puffing warmly against Cain's skin. "Why am I so sad when it rains?"

Sighing sadly and pressing a kiss to the other's temple, the tin man whispers, "You're not sad because it rains, love." He closes his eyes, taking in a shuddering breath and revealing what he had realized many, many weeks ago. "It rains because you're sad."

Ambrose shifts, pressing himself further into Cain's side and releasing a satisfied huff as he slips into blissful sleep.

AN: Why, yes, that last line said by Cain is in fact jacked from Men in Black II. Thank you for noticing. :)