Disclaimer: Many things do I not own: Tin Man, that line from Mystery Men I am trying to wear out, the little nods to Firefly, or that line from Jerry Maguire…

Author's Note: WARNING: this is probably not the kind of chapter you were expecting from this particular guard, but when it came down to it, this chapter couldn't be anyone's but his. Quality Control liked it enough that she was titling it before she'd even gave it a postable (original title just didn't work anymore, it happens). In time, nightdrive23, I am sure you will come to forgive me.

PS If you are ever doing a group project and suddenly find yourself with a sudden, last minute anal need to get it absolutely completed the day before, LISTEN TO THE LITTLE VOICE. Because sometimes it turns out the project is due at 10am and not 5pm like you thought, and if you hadn't listened to the little gremlin in the back of your brain you never would have got the project printed in time. Thank you gremlin, are you finding that book QC sent us in the mail nummy? 'Cause you deserve it.

PPS Again, Gulch apologizes to the ladies present…

...

Emerson Dawkins, mostly known as Dawkins, occasionally – and unbeknownst to himself – referred to as Doc, and called Emerson only by those who wished to suffer an immediate and painful death, absolutely loved his job. Time was when he'd sworn off anything having to do with things prefixed by the word Royal – Royal Palace, Royal Guard…Royal Army – but that had been over fifteen annuals ago, back when someone had been darkness bent on proving the Royal Army didn't have a sense of humour, before there'd been the resistance, before there'd been a need for a resistance. Certainly before the resistance army had morphed into the very thing his humourless ex-commander had insisted he'd never truly belong to. At which point it had been absolutely imperative for him to stick with it, if only to piss the old bastard off.

Of course, that'd been before they had loaned him out to the Royal Guard – and emerald skies, if there was anything better than making stuffed up straw heads spin in their graves it was watching the stubborn old Tin Man try to deal with the Otherside raised princess. Hadn't taken Dawkins but a moment to realize the guard was the place to be, especially if one could get onto one of the protection details – not Princess DG's, so there'd still be something for him to do. It was one of the reasons he volunteered to stay on as one of Princess Azkadellia's guards.

It was not the only one.

And then there was Officer Gulch. Dawkins considered him to be a signing bonus, and ruby slippers dancing over a rainbow shrouded sunrise what a signing bonus. Man was a calamity finding, chaos causing, pratfalling gift from all the humour deities – the resistance fighter turned guard always maintained there must be several – made for the sole enjoyment of fellows like himself. The eldest princess might disagree with this assessment, but that only added to the fun that was the Othersider what put the Otherside in Otherside princess (which only made it that much funnier when the Tin Man got himself the wrong idea). Life couldn't be easy on a guy who considered Princess DG to be the most fathomable part of his day, but then, he had a few insights into her thinking that it would be polite of him to share – Cain himself would probably grateful for the odd heads up, if he could ever get over his apparent urge to shoot the cop that is. It would be a great disappointment for Dawkins, though, if he did – can't have the Crown Princess getting predictable alright, and certainly couldn't perforate the entertainment.

A lot of people wanted to perforate the entertainment these days. Jeb Cain may not be the Hero of the Eclipse his daddy was, but he'd led the final assault on the Sorceress' Tower and the resistance fighters turned royal soldiers weren't too keen on seeing him beat bloody by an Othersider that hadn't had nothing to do with anything. Three weeks ago Dawkins had only regretted not being at the bar because it had sounded like one hell of a fight, two weeks ago curiosity had killed the cat nine times over and still hadn't been satisfied (someday someone was going to have to explain the Otherside's obsession with cat metaphors), one week ago the reluctantly neutral party had just been getting damn frustrated with both sides because, witches, after being commandeered by a Tin Man, subjected to a headcase, beset by blustering nobles and attacked by enraged drunken princesses, what in the Realm could have put the ever friendly Ol' Gulchy in a fighting mood? Some information would be nice – five minutes ago, if only as a way to enliven a thoroughly boring discussion on the state of the Old Road, but now…

…now all he wanted to know was why he was being forced to draw his gun on…on…

…a fire crackling in the woods, footsteps ghosting through the underbrush, imperceptible hand signals and deadly grins, an ambush turned in on itself…and hey, they didn't even burn dinner…

"Only you would sew 'For a Good Time Lift the Flap' on his own tent."

"Worked didn't it?"

"Sure did, Tom says he'll be along in ten minutes."

"…is Tom sure he wants to challenge me to a game of who can take this joke farthest?"

Oh Deities…

…laughter beneath the trees, amusing ideas in the field, dangerous expeditions in the darkness, desperate struggles on the battlefield…

"So who won?"

"You kiddin'? Tom practically ran screaming in the other direction at the first sign of a grin."

"What can I say, he had me at hello. Heartbroken I am, can't trust a man, gonna hafta content myself with the arms of women to comfort my wounded soul."

"And where do you think your hands are, funny man?"

Oh witch's black heart…

"This means nothing."

"That so?"

"I've got a betrothed."

"I had wondered…"

"Shut it, funny man, he's undercover, dallying with the Sorceress' whores, looking for information. We've got a deal, he can learn his secrets and I can take my comfort, as long as it means nothing."

"So happy to be of service."

"Don't even try it. You'd have to think twice if it meant something, why do you think I chose you?"

"Best man parts in the camp?"

"Funny, funny man. Prove it."

Oh Great Gale, no…

Brothers in arms, family in fury, war buddies, friends, comrades, angels of vengeance, demons of destruction, and a vow…

…he knew them, he knew them all…

…the vow not to stop fighting the Sorceress, not until their very last breath. A vow kept then…

…and yet his hand does not hesitate in reaching for his gun, does not pause an instant in drawing it out…

…a vow still kept…

…because that ashen faced princess being pulled behind what cover Turi could make from the heavy wood table is not the Sorceress. Almost two annuals of watching her flee nightmares – ghosts behind her eyes and nothing is more haunted than a ghost – have taught him that. Not the Sorceress, and the vow was made to protect her victims…

Oh Deities…

His gun barks out its challenge and is answered in kind. Guns are still comparatively rare in the O.Z., most of those available having been issued to the Royal Guard and Army, for the safety of the Realm and the Royal Family.

How fucking ironic.

He's running on instinct now, annuals of trained reflexes kicking in from the moment the decision was made, he needs to think, needs to plan, the council meeting has descended into bloody chaos as the frenzied mob – allies – crashes into the room, but his higher brain functions are a jumbled mess as a lifetime of loyalties scream and tear up his mind. It is enough that he is fighting at all. Ruvy falls…

…and that's how many times I've saved your ass now Ruvy?...

…one of Dawkins' bullets buried in his chest.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The Tin Man has his end of things well in hand, the youngest princess secured, the Southerner…

"And here I'd thought I'd be stuck with a Winky, 'stead I get an oversized mutt. I think I'd prefer a Winky."

"I was going to learn your name so as to be accurate with the headstone, but I think I can do alright on my own: Here lies a pompous ass…that didn't see the Longcoat tracker practically walking in his boot steps – would you like me to shoot him for you?"

…cut down by Cain's protective fury.

Eldest princess stowed as safely as possible, the Gillikin rises in her defense, his bullets slamming into Sarai…

…can't be a widow without a wedding…

All of them, he knew all of them. Royal Army or Royal Guard, resistance fighter or innocent bystander, there wasn't a face he didn't know, couldn't name or put a story to. Allies, his past screamed, enemies, his present screamed back, the gun would not be silenced. How in the eternal darkness did they get this far?

And then he answered his own question.

Dawkins wasn't even conscious of making the decision, his arm jerking suddenly away from the next target, so that the bullet took the Northern Giant through the throat instead of…

…oh moonless nights…

Not Sarge. He couldn't shoot Sarge; there were too many annuals, too many debts unpaid. Dawkins couldn't…Cain, Turi, anyone shoot him but him. Please don't make him…

…but the Tin Man had his own problems to worry about, and beside him the Gillikin's gun clicked empty – they'd been armed for guard duty, not a siege. Deities…

…and I vow never to lay down arms, never to run, never to cease fighting the Sorceress' darkness so long as there is breath in my body, on the blood of the Realm I swear it…

…and he forced his hand back to reacquire S-…the target – this was a princess of light – and his gun clicked empty, too.

Cain bought them some time, like an angry guardian angel his revolver slammed its fire through the front ranks of attackers, buying the two guards just enough time to draw their blades – and then someone found an opening to put the Tin Man's invincibility to the test. Dawkins only got a brief glimpse of Cain faltering under the hail of bullets before he was buried in a tide of screaming bodies.

He lost contact with Turi almost immediately and the princess was…allies, allies, not bloody allies! his mind howled as he threw Tom off him, stabbed that irritating Vinkan runner in the guts, and decapitated the only munchkin he'd ever known not to speak in rhymes on the backstroke. No Sarge! You don't understand…get OFF me Tom! Oh forsaken realms, the princess, Sarge had the princess and Dawkins – twisting desperately around the blade opening a deep gash in his side – couldn't get there in time…Turi, Cain, anyone…the knife was raised and…

Tap, tap, tap.

…and the angel of mercy answered with the only semi-automatic in the O.Z.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tom was snuffed out mid death stroke, even before Sarge had finished falling.

Tap, tap, tap.

The Southern Guilder menacing the Gillikin was cut down a second later…

Tap, tap, tap.

…and the city rat that had gotten too close to where the Tin Man was struggling to reload his revolver with one sound arm followed a moment after…

Tap, tap, tap. Bang. Bang. Bang.

…and then Tin Man and angel cleared the view for the most beautiful sight Dawkins had ever seen in his life. It was salvation, it was life…

…it was a bit of an awkward thought that, he'd realize later, really would it have killed Ol' Gulchy to stop to put on some damn pants?

Tap, click, snap. Tap, tap, tap.

…perhaps not, but it would certainly have killed the princess, and that, he remembered as the Othersider hauled Princess Azkadellia back under cover, was the material point here…

Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

…and vengeful Deities, when did Officer Gulch learn to shoot like that? This wasn't the chaotically misplaced Othersider of the past months, this was…

…beware the quiet ones, Dawkins, they won't tell you where the line is drawn in the sand, but they will sure as hell let you know when you've crossed it…

…Should have followed your own advice there Sarge. Pained understanding crept in on the mind but more than a decade of soldiering rose up at last to his defence, burying the past, hiding the faces and leaving behind the simplified realm of aggressors and defenders. A man tries to kill you, it's as much his responsibility as yours if you should happen to kill him right back. The soldiers' realm of now, where there was only the job and Othersiders that ran naked into gunfights. Which was hilarious…also, fucking awesome.

Shoving off T-…the weight pinning him, the guard forced himself to his feet with a pained gasp, pressed a hand to his bleeding side and prepared to rejoin the battle…excepting there wasn't much of a battle to rejoin. Apparently, nude Othersider was the ultimate secret weapon in violent mob dispersal. And could someone please comment on that already? His tongue couldn't seem to loose itself from the knowledge still trying to leech through the cracks in his killer's pragmatism, and damn, he can't have been the only one to have noticed…

A shuddering, strangled laugh filled the falling silence. "'M-maybe you should put some shorts on or something, if you want to keep fighting evil today,'" the Crown Princess choked out from behind the Tin Man.

That would do, the guard thought as his commander realized his, er, lack of surroundings. Quiet man to court jester in the blink of an eye, Dawkins wasn't just holding onto his side to keep his guts in. Could Old Gulchy hurry up and get the princess out of here? It was getting hard to stand around like there's nothing much wrong with him, and as hilarious as Princess Azkadellia's quiet hysterics were, she was only a few grains of moritanium short of an overload. He was no Viewer but he was pretty sure he'd need their services…hmm, that probably wasn't supposed to be sticking out like that…now sounded about right…best poke that back in…oh good, he'd been wanting to retreat into the black oblivion for a while now…

Dawkins stared intently at his pocket watch, almost enjoying the effects poppy draughts had on him. Sure, it still felt like there was a Papay gnawing on his insides, but he couldn't seem to care. The pain seemed to be a distant thing, as if his mind and body had gotten oddly detached. Hmm, we appear to have been partially eviscerated today. Oh? Isn't that interesting. Hurts like a bitch. That's nice.

Now if only the poppy draughts could detach him from knowledge like the fact that today he'd been partially eviscerated by Tom.

Across the infirmary two Viewers were working tirelessly to See Argus Flynt into his tomorrows. The off-duty guard had been returning with the remains of a kitchen raid when he'd found himself between an angry mob and the council room. He'd taken out three of them with a T-bone and fork before they'd put him down with a knife through the ribs. By the time Ol' Gulchy had streaked by, the professional had put a temporary plug in his sucking chest wound and was struggling to rejoin the battle. Tale was he'd been disappointed to find it over when he got there – they bred a special kind of nutter in the Crown Princess' protection detail.

And Avry always had liked steak…

That wasn't helping; the guard forced his attention back to the steady ticking of the second hand. Not that it was terrible effective, it was just nothing else came to mind. He didn't need the Viewers' whimpers of pain every time they brushed against him to know he didn't want to get better acquainted the snarl of thoughts hovering about the edges of his awareness. When they first brought him in here hours ago, the Viewer that'd healed him had actually howled for grief. The Royal Guard had never been more overjoyed to see Cain and Princess DG being themselves, bloody empaths.

It was almost comforting to see the Tin Man acting his usual dangerous, determined, and justifiably paranoid self, even with three bullet holes in him. Made a man feel almost weak for being bedridden by a mere stab wound, but then, Dawkins didn't have a princess he was absolutely not trying to impress. Such as the princess who'd danced about Cain's protective wake, agitated and infuriated and desperate to get the Tin Man to bed, but not for her usual reasons. They provided such wonderful distracting entertainment, though somewhat painful for a man who wasn't supposed to be stressing his stomach muscles quite yet.

But then the eldest princess had shown up, new ghosts lurking in her eyes, and he couldn't escape anymore, because some conversations just had to be had.

The Royal Guard watched as the minute hand struck the quarter hour. He almost wished the commander hadn't succeeded in sending the entertainment to bed. It had been necessary – couldn't have the Tin Man storming about until he finally succumbed to something like a human weakness and collapsed – but Dawkins would have been grateful for the distraction of, oh, a dozen more palace sweeps. For Princess Azkadellia's visit, doubtless helpful in the long run, had let the day's ghosts in to crowd him.

"…you going to finish that?"

"Yes, and yours, too, if you keep asking."

"Not if I stab you with, you won't."

"Ooh scary…"

…and apparently effective if you aimed for the jugular, which was still decidedly less disturbing than what Argus had done with his fork. Dammit.

"…what would you have done if Tomyn hadn't lioned out?...That is the creepiest grin I have ever seen. Knock it off; I don't want to know anymore."

Damn it.

"…kid have you ever thought of wreaking a little of your havoc on the other side? Our side could use a break…"

Damn. It.

He wondered, if they'd rotated the army through the guard, if it would have changed anything. No he didn't, the old resistance fighter knew damn well it wouldn't have. In the last couple annuals there'd been more than one supposed guard that had attempted to assassinate the eldest princess. They'd never see her for the Sorceress. It would have changed nothing, except maybe to get the princess killed sooner.

Damn it.

"…what are you when you're not being funny, funny man?"

Dammit. Damn it. Damn. It. Damn it.

"I knew I should've had Raw dope you."

Dawkins had a singularly painful start of surprise as the sudden voice on the other side of his skull wrenched him from his thoughts. The Othersider was standing beside his cot, swaying slightly on his feet, and looking down at his subordinate with concerned, if bloodshot, eyes.

"He tried," the former resistance fighter replied with a grunt, nodding at the ignored vial of poppy draughts by his bedside, "didn't want any."

"Ung," Officer Gulch grunted back as he collapsed in the nearby chair. "Nobody wants to sleep around here," he commented, his voice rasping a little as if he'd been using it all night, "Cain is already up and ready to terrorize the neighborhood, and I was due to go horizontal hours ago," Gulch added, watching as the faintest bit of light filtered through the window, heralding the rising of the first sun.

There was a pause while both men attempted to gather uncooperative thoughts. "The princess?" Dawkins asked at last.

"Enjoying a sleep over," the commander replied, rubbing his face wearily, "I got Ayan to cover Turi's shift, fortunately there isn't anything wrong with the Gillikin that a little rest won't cure. We'll just have to shuffle things a bit until you are back on your feet…" he trailed off, looking at the guard. "How are you…" the cop grimaced in derision at his own almost question. Silence fell as he glared at once more at the window. He looked…lost. "Damn it," Gulch growled suddenly, "on the Otherside we have protocols for this kind of thing, specialists you can talk to…"

The guard blinked in surprise. That was the closest he'd ever heard his commander come to swearing…and he wasn't looking just lost… "You haven't killed before have you?" the ex-resistance fighter demanded abruptly.

The sound the policeman made in response could have been a bitter laugh's older, uglier, angrier cousin. "I've hardly even had to draw my gun before, and even then mostly to scare off wildlife," Gulch stated bleakly, "Should've had dad take me hunting more often as a kid, but I never was terribly fond of venison and the rule of the house was if you won't eat it, don't kill it. Vermin excepted, of course."

Every moment of the attack had been seared into Dawkins' memory; he knew exactly how many people Officer Gulch had killed that night. He knew most of their names, all of their faces; he'd been a rebel soldier for over ten annuals, and he'd never met anyone whose kill sheet had gone from zero to double digits in under five minutes. And for someone like Gulch…

Someone was certainly enjoying their irony tonight. "Had a sergeant once," the resistance fighter found himself saying for the second time that night, "used to tell me that if a man tried to kill me it was as much his responsibility as mine if I should happen to kill him right back."

"They weren't trying to kill me," the Othersider drawled in reply, sounding as if he'd have found that to be a more forgivable offence.

It was possibly ironic – or not, Dawkins never was entirely sure of that definition – that he wished Sarge was here. The old bastard had been good at this sort of thing.

"What happened to your sergeant?" Gulch queried after a moment's abstracted thought.

Uncanny that both should ask him, he had answered her. "He went after Princess Azkadellia with a knife," he told her chief bodyguard.

And just like that, the quiet man was back in the guard commander's eyes, that burning look that morphed suddenly into horrified comprehension, the Othersider's mouth working soundlessly as if some part of him was trying to choke out an apology that never came. Then his expression smoothed into one that was nothing if not honest. "When I ran into the room," Officer Gulch said quietly, "a man had a knife to Azkadellia's throat, the only thing between DG and a bloodthirsty mob was a bullet-ridden Tin Man, and I'm pretty sure the rest of the royal family wasn't fairing too well either. I have no trouble mourning what I had to do but I am having a hell of time trying to regret it. I'm beginning to doubt I can."

Unholy son of a witch, Dawkins thought as Gulch looked him square in the eye. Beware the quiet ones indeed, but somehow the resistance fighter didn't think that line was drawn in something as pliable as sand. He wondered if the Othersider knew what that sentence said about his priorities. Another, lighter hearted part of his mind, the part that accepted that life generally went on regardless and one might as well enjoy it, wondered: if Cain and Gulch ever got in a fight, who would win? Just yesterday anyone would have doubled down on the Tin Man without question, but now…and how would one go about getting them to fight in the first place? Their known triggers were unfortunately self-exclusive…

"He would have thanked you for it," the guard uttered while that distant part of his mind puzzled away on cheerier matters.

"Eh?"

"Sarge, he would have thanked you for stopping him, had he been in his right mind, if he'd truly known what he was about to do. He had a daughter once…" Dawkins trailed off to be visited by older ghosts.

…dancing, laughing, like emeralds in her father's eyes…until the village burned…

Officer Gulch nodded with perfect, grim understanding, "I…can sympathize, but I can't condone, guess I'm a bit hypocritical there. Policemen aren't supposed to kill people but…" he fell silent, the quiet man in his eyes, burning, burning. But he'd do it again, never lightly, every death carried with him until the end of his days, but he'd do it again, if they crossed that line carved in moritanium…

…ghosts in her eyes and nothing is more haunted than a ghost…

And so, Dawkins realized with something akin to relief, would he. Because it had been the right thing to do. And they had known it once, the ghosts that crowded him now, before they'd forgotten where their vow had carved its line in the sand. So they could be quiet now…

"You're good at laying, you know that?" the ex-resistance fighter said conversationally, following up on that thought.

Old Gulchy choked in surprise, quiet man to court jester just like that. "I beg your pardon?" he demanded in baffled tones.

"You're good at laying ghosts to rest," the Royal Guard explained artlessly. He'd been doing that for the eldest princess for weeks now, come to think of it. Dawkins, meanwhile, tucked the previous phrase away for later study. From Gulch's reaction, his innocent phrase had not so innocent connotations on the Otherside. Might come in handy later when life did that getting on thing, it would be a shame not to enjoy it after all.

Great Gale did he love his job…