Disclaimer: I still don't own it. When and if that changes, you will certainly be the first to know.
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
It was something he had heard quite frequently on the Other Side, but he had never gotten the chance to ask what it meant. As he sat on the stairs that led to DG's childhood bedroom, panting madly and staring ahead in shock, Ambrose suddenly understood completely.
His intentions had been quite good, almost noble. Both he and Cain had been personally picked by the Queen to accompany her daughter to the Other Side for a visit, so DG could pick up a few personal items from her house, say goodbye to a few friends, turn the sheriff into a toad, etc. (The Queen had vehemently objected to the whole "turning into a toad" business, but DG had asked her father and he had given her permission, which lead to quite a few lonely nights in the parlor for the consort.) He had decided to check on DG when something horrible happened.
Apparently, DG had just taken a bath, and after the bath had decided to take a nap. Unfortunately, at no point during that period did she decide to dress, and despite the fact that there were two (incredibly, incredibly lonely) adult men in the house, she had found it perfectly reasonable to sleep in nothing but (apparently) the world's smallest towel. Ambrose would have normally been heartened by her trust, but it certainly wasn't a normal occasion.
He felt ashamed, guilty, and incredibly, incredibly aroused, and the latter of the emotions was winning in the fight for dominance. 'I can't face Cain like this!' he thought miserably. From his place on the stairs, he could hear Cain watching one of the horrible reality programs he had become enamored with during their stay. 'He'll never let me live in down...'
He tried to think of anything besides girls in towels. 'Uh... Apples! Yes... And cars... grass... trees... the Queen murdering you in your sleep...'
The Queen was going to murder him, if she got the chance. She wouldn't get that chance, of course, because her consort would have already spread Ambrose's entrails across the countryside long before she even heard about it. Perhaps, the populace would learn of his misdeeds through the grapevine and canonize him. Yes, St. Ambrose: Patron Saint of Perverts.
'Think of the neat things you're going to "invent" when you get back to the OZ... Microwaves... Instant pudding... Computers... Calculators...' He sighed. 'One little peek wouldn't hurt...'
"Glitch?"
And there she was, standing above him, still dressed in nothing but a towel, her inky black hair sticking flat to her shoulders, water dripping onto her chest... Ambrose would have blushed, but all of his blood had seemingly disappeared... Oh, wait, there it was.
"What're you doing?"
The only thing he had to do was stare forward. All he needed to do was not look up.
"Glitch?"
He looked up, and his brain promptly exploded.
'OHMYGODSICANSEEHERVA–'
"... Glitch?" she asked warily. "Are you feeling alright?"
Glitch jumped (read: fell) down the stairs, wailing apologies as he ran out into the night. At his outburst, Cain's attention finally strayed from the television. "What happened?" he asked.
"Dunno... It was pretty funny, though." DG said, smirking.
"Eh... DG?"
"Yeah?"
"Go put some clothes on. You'll catch your death."
"Pfft. Fine, Mom." DG laughed, rolling her eyes as she went back to her room.
A few hours later, Cain found Ambrose lying naked in the middle of a wheat field, his memory of the night apparently (self-repressed) lost. Cain let him borrow his jacket, and they never spoke of it again.