When Azkadelia came in, Ambrose was sleeping. So she waited. Standing in corner of the room farthest from the bed, she waited until he shifted under the blankets, and eventually opened his eyes.
It had been three days since the surgery to reattatch the rest of his brain, and two days since DG had come to report that it had gone fine. "He's sleeping a lot," she had said, "and dreaming." Azkadelia had nodded and expressed her happiness, but did not dare approach Ambrose's room until that third day, when no one would see her.
Upon waking, Ambrose didn't see her right away, taking time to adjust to the dimly lit room. Azkadelia could tell when he had spotted her from the sharp intake of breath.
"I made sure they removed the zipper," she said quickly. The look on Ambrose's face was fear, naturally. It was like that with everyone. She doubted that her presence would ever inspire anything but fear. She noticed Ambrose clutching the blanket in his hands.
"Oh," he said. "Thank you."
In truth, Azkadelia had done much more than ensuring the removal of the zipper from Ambrose's head. She had scheduled his surgery and sent for the best surgeons on the O.Z. Before that, she had guards situated at the entrance to the brain room at all hours to make sure that no complications arose. She used the fact that everyone was still terrified of her to her advantage, to make it perfectly clear that Ambrose's brain will be returned to him, and that he will be perfectly fine when it was all over. Back to normal.
"I'm not here for your gratitude," she said, "and I'm not going to hurt you." With great difficulty, she kept her frustration with his fear fear in check, keeping her voice soft and calm. But she, too, clenched her hands into fists, hidden behind her back.
Ambrose kept his wide eyes on her, as if she were a predator who would only be kept at bay with eye contact.
"I came to see if you were comfortable."
"Alright," said Ambrose, stealing a quick glance at the door.
"Are you?" Azkadelia prompted.
He forced a weak smile. "Yes, thank you."
Azkadelia flinched. "Please don't thank me."
"Alright."
She knew that this whole situation was entirely her fault. Many situations were entirely her fault; most of the bad ones, anyway. She only assumed that if Ambrose's memories returned to him, he would know, too. From his fear and apprehension, she could tell that he definitely knew.
"Is your mind taking well to the old memories?" She asked.
Ambrose sighed and looked away. "Well enough," he said, in time. "It's difficult. I don't think I can explain." When Azkadelia said nothing, he took leave to continue, his voice quiet, and quite possibly accusatory as well. "There's a lot, and it's all at once, so nothing really makes any sense."
It all made perfect sense to Azkadelia, though. She was experiencing the same thing. Finally being free to delve into her own thoughts as she pleased, the sheer scale of it all was more intimidating than the comfort she originally expected it to be. "Be patient," she offered as her best attempt at empathy.
"That's what the doctors have been telling me," Ambrose said. "But what the don't understand are the headaches."
"I think they have an idea," she said, "after being wrist-deep in your skull."
Ambrose's chest hitched, as if he might have been inclined to laugh if it had been anyone else telling him this. "Yes, that would make sense," he muttered to himself, reaching up with his right hand to touch the bandages, just a gentle brush of his fingers.
"Is there anything you need?" Azkadelia said. "Anything you want?"
The hand that was brushing over his bandages waved her off, the other hand still holding onto the blanket. "No, thank you."
"Please," she said, her voice growing louder, as she stressed each word. "Stop saying thank you."
"It does feel strange," he admitted at length. "I've spent the last week or so narrowly escaping death at the hands of your…"
As he spoke, something changed in Azkadelia's face, something to make her look even sadder than already did. Ambrose had to have seen the hurt his words were inflicting, even as he said them, but the damage had been done.
Azkadelia clenched her jaw, allowing herself a deep breath before doing anything. "I shall tell my sister that you're up." She said as she walked to the door.
"Wait," Ambrose called, and so she stopped, turning back around in time to see his other hand release the blanket.
"There's nothing you have to say to me," she replied. "I came to see that you're alright, and you are. So I'll be off."
"I'm sorry," he said.
Nothing hurt Azkadelia as much as those words. "My god, don't say that either!"
"Perhaps I should just keep my mouth shut," he suggested. "I never knew how to do that before. No conscience."
Azkadelia missed having no voice in her head but her own. But now that the witch was gone, her voice was replaced with Azkadelia's own, all self conscious and terrified of how everyone would think of her now. "That sounds nice."
At this, Ambrose did laugh. It was soft, practically a whisper that died out all too soon, but when it had faded, it left a bit of a smile. Azkadelia took this as a sign that she could finally approach.
Refusing to address that it might worry Ambrose, she crossed the room and took his hand in hers. She was surprised to find that he didn't pull away, even though she expected him to. So she gave his hand a quick squeeze. Then their eyes met, and Azkadelia let go.
"I shall tell my sister that you're up," she said again, and, feeling like an apology would ruin it, she simply left Ambrose alone again, alone with his own thoughts, as she reveled in the unadulterated bliss that came to her from doing the same.