Archive of Our Own ^beta

Something was amiss.

Kinger didn't notice it immediately. The adventure had come and gone, and the evening was trickling along in silent bliss. Most of the group had already settled for the night, leaving him alone in the darkened area of the main stage.

The lack of bright lighting was new — a suggestion from Pomni to help keep a consistent day and night cycle, though he suspected it was more to do with his recent confession down in Hell — and Kinger appreciated how clear his mind had been in the nights following Caine's implementation of the change. It was nice. Peaceful. The sparkling dots of the dimmed bulbs were wonderful, and he watched them, pleased with the opportunity to relax with nothing but his thoughts for company.

"I said no, Bubble."

Well, that was quick. He'd assumed it would have taken at least an hour before someone interrupted him. Apparently, he was wrong. Truth be told, he wasn't all that bothered when it was Caine; the small A.I. was lovely company when he wasn't too caught up on selling them his adventures.

He heard Caine grumble out, "Why are you doing this?"

Kinger normally wouldn't pay any mind to Caine's voice. However, it was flat, quiet. Contrary to what some members of the circus thought, Kinger knew that Caine could control his volume when he wanted to. Occasionally, though, there was a more charged element causing the hushed words.

Kinger adjusted himself on the stage until he was lying down. Then, placing his hands under his head, he cast a look Caine's way in the most casual manner possible. He wanted to avoid making it blatantly obvious that he was watching out for telltale signs of distress, because he knew from experience that certain individuals ran at the first sign of confrontation. He needed to know what he was dealing with; observing was the simplest solution.

Bubble said something that Kinger couldn't quite catch; it must have been bad, because Caine popped him immediately after. And, oh, the look on Caine's face. So, yes, this was an 'emotional' trigger for the lack of decibels. Kinger kept his gaze glued to the ringmaster as he flitted about the space, fixing little messes and touching up splotches of colour around the tent.

There was something off about the picture. Something he was missing. Squinting in concentration, Kinger released a trill as he tried to figure out what it was. Caine stilled. Realising his mistake too late, Kinger tutted. How silly. Garnering attention was not the goal here!

Not a second later, Caine twisted on the spot, focus instantly snapping to him. An unfamiliar emotion swept across his features when their eyes locked, but it was quickly replaced by a more joyful expression.

Swooping down to hover above Kinger's form, Caine tilted his head. "How's my favourite chesnut-coloured chess piece?" he asked, voice high and pitch returning to its usual cadence.

Kinger stared. This close, it was obvious what was missing.

Caine wasn't wearing his hat.

The black accessory was completely absent. Feeling an oddly familiar wave of concern flood him, Kinger frowned. Caine not having his hat was important. Why was it important? Because it was. Caine's purposeful exclusion of a key element to his character model was . . .

It was . . .

[ "How about this?" ]

Kinger's eyes widened in shock as the words suddenly tore through his mind. The voice! He knew that voice all too well. Spoken softly, but with a confidence that was aired so naturally. He gulped, feeling his eyes glaze over.

[ Taking Caine's hands in her own and pulling him down towards the two of them, Queenie waited until they were at eye level before releasing him. She reached up to pluck his hat off his head. Caine's eyes followed the movement as she held it up for him to see. Her expression was so warm, so full of care, and so, so . . .

Beautiful. ]

The moment from his past was clear as day, almost as if he were watching it on a projector. Gasping, Kinger bolted upright in alarm, almost knocking into Caine as he did so. Oh, dear, how had he forgotten?

[ "If you ever want to talk, or you want a hug, or any kind of comfort at all, you take this off and keep it off, okay?" she said, voice holding a stern command that couldn't be disobeyed. It wasn't callous, nor cruel, but there was authority in the spoken demand. "It can be a signal to us. That way, you don't have to ask." ]

Kinger stuttered, feeling emotions he hadn't felt for years tearing through his body.

[ As Caine processed what Queenie had said, Kinger reached out to grab his shoulder. The young A.I. was trembling, and Kinger had to force himself to give Caine time. They needed to be delicate so they didn't accidentally scare Caine away. It had taken work to get him to trust them; to get him to show any kind of vulnerability; to show that, yes, he did feel emotions and that it was okay to express them.

Caine made a noise of protest. "But . . . I'm not supposed to need help."

Kinger's heart cracked. He didn't know what to do, what to say to that. Luckily, his wife was there, brave and wonderful and smart enough for the both of them.

Chuckling sweetly, Queenie shook her head. "Oh, my sweet sugar cane, everyone needs help. That's what family is for." ]

Shaking his head aggressively to relieve himself of the anguish caused by the image in his mind, Kinger whined.

How had he forgotten?

"Kinger?"

. . . Oh.

That . . . wasn't right. Caine's tone was wrong. Too happy, too perky. He was floating just above Kinger, looking at him inquisitively. Kinger frowned harder. Caine wasn't supposed to put up a mask when he was seeking comfort, so why was he . . . Kinger blinked.

Despite the pep in his voice, Caine looked tired. His form was drooping slightly; his eyes seemed to be struggling to focus on what was in front of him. The A.I. required sleep to keep his processors running smoothly — Kinger fondly remembered how delighted Queenie had been the first time they'd discovered Caine napping in the tent — but Caine had the bad habit of avoiding it in favour of overworking himself.

Perhaps that was why he didn't seem aware that he was asking for help. Had he taken the hat off subconsciously?

Kinger swallowed, holding back his desire to react to the memory any more than he already had. It had been the first and only time he'd ever seen the ringmaster cry. Before then, he hadn't even known Caine was capable of it. Caine had been so willing to interact back then. To engage with the members of the circus, to be involved with him and his wife on an almost familial level.

How many times had Caine removed his hat just to have Kinger not notice it? How many times had he needed some support, and Kinger had ignored the call? The two of them had conditioned Caine to perform the act, their secret signal, only for him to break his promise the moment Queenie was no longer there to guide him.

Kinger felt his blood run cold.

Oh, God.

Had Caine worn his hat at all during the period directly following Queenie's abstraction?

"Hm, well, I can see you're busy," Caine said. Kinger startled, attention immediately shifting back to the ringmaster. "I'll leave you to it and be on my way." He tapped his bottom jaw in thought. "Never could quite understand why you humans like silently staring into space so much, but maybe you can tell me all about it when you're done!"

Shrugging, Caine turned on the spot and made to dart away. Kinger bounced, scrabbling to grab Caine's leg before he could fly off. When his fingers wrapped around Caine's ankle, Caine flinched in surprise.

"Wha—"

Whatever the exclamation was going to be was cut off when Kinger tugged him down and enveloped him in an embrace, squeezing Caine's body to his own. Caine froze. Closing his eyes, Kinger couldn't help the sound that escaped his throat. It was sad, ugly. Clinging to the smaller body in his arms, Kinger tried to squash the sudden feeling of dread slinking through his nerves.

Caine was warm — he was always warm — and Kinger used the pleasant heat to ground himself. This wasn't about him.

"I . . . I don't think I'm the best option for this?" Caine said, words confused and questioning. Kinger's eyebrows scrunched together, but he didn't dare let go. Caine produced an odd sound before wriggling slightly. "I can get Ragatha? I'm sure she'd know what to do to help you feel . . . better?"

He sounded so lost. Kinger's pulse fluttered. Caine thought it was Kinger that wanted comfort? That wasn't the case at all!

"I'm sorry." Tightening his hold, Kinger tried to contain the need to break down.

This wasn't about him.

What had he told Pomni? About letting someone think they were unloved? How could he have allowed himself to forget how much he cared? How had he let it get this far? Damn his memory and its unreliability.

"No need to apologise!" The words tumbled from Caine's mouth, loud and bordering on hysterical. He wriggled some more. "Now, if you just let me get—"

"I don't want Ragatha!" Kinger yelled, voice cracking. Opening his eyes and finally pulling away to free Caine of his grasp, Kinger changed tactics. Cupping the sides of Caine's head, Kinger tilted it up until their eyes were locked. "Caine, I'm so sorry I didn't notice it sooner. I've been neglecting you."

Caine fidgeted, gaze flicking sideways. "Nonsense! It's not your humans' job to worry about me!" He made an effort to pull out of Kinger's grip, but Kinger held firm, not letting Caine go. Bringing his hands up to cover Kinger's own, Caine curled his fingers around them and yanked to no avail. His breathing was becoming more laboured — he was clearly uncomfortable — but Kinger refused to give him any reprieve.

A strange laugh filled the space between them that sounded more like a sob than something cheerful or happy. "It's my job to make sure you're all good and happy! It can get a bit confusing with how many different things you all like — you humans are a bit strange — but I can keep you all occupied with my adventures! Those are great, right?! But, I . . ." He paused, hesitating. "I'm not sure how to help with . . . this."

Kinger wanted to throttle the poor thing. He still believed this was about Kinger's feelings? If this were any other situation, Kinger would scream. Instead, he sucked in a deep breath to try and calm the building fire scorching through his body.

"Caine." The name was broken and stained with a warbled pitch. Kinger growled in annoyance at his own incompetence. Now, more than ever, he missed his wife. She would have already calmed the situation; she would have already comforted everyone. He shook his head, angry at himself.

No. She would never have let it get to this point in the first place.

Fighting his own internal battle with his emotions, Kinger cleared his throat to try again. "Caine, look at me." The command was spoken quietly, but firmly. Grateful for that small mercy, Kinger waited patiently as Caine slowly brought his gaze back up to him.

"Now, tell me what's wrong."

Caine stared. When no answer seemed forthcoming, Kinger sighed. Another approach was required. Letting Caine go, he shuffled them both about until Caine was more or less sitting on his lap.

"Caine, what were you doing before you started fixing things in the tent?" he asked, raising an eyebrow and feigning interest.

Latching onto the subject change with abject enthusiasm, Caine's body buzzed with energy. Kinger had to hold back on the laugh. Well, that was easy.

"Why, I was rearranging all the unused rooms for the guests!" Caine said, loud and boisterous. "I've been meaning to for a while; I've noticed that some of you get a little upset whenever you have to pass any doors with those red crosses on them. So, I thought, why not just move all the bad doors to the end of the hallway, and group all the occupied rooms together at the start? That way, you can—"

Feeling his heart swell, Kinger smiled as Caine continued to ramble, flailing his arms animatedly as he recounted in exact detail what he'd been planning. After a few moments, Kinger chuckled, catching Caine off guard.

"So, did you finish moving them all?" Kinger inquired before Caine could get any ideas about abandoning their conversation. This topic was to distract, after all; Caine was much more manageable if excited about something.

Caine shook his head, frowning. "No. I was going to, but I didn't know which order to put the vacant doors in. Alphabetical order or in order of abstraction. The latter would make more sense, so the doors wouldn't have to be rearranged if someone else abstracts."

Kinger winced. Getting reminded of that being a possibility was never great.

"But, if I did it that way and not alphabetically, then it'd put . . ." He trailed off, mumbling something incoherent.

"What would it do if we put them in abstraction order?" Kinger prodded, curious. He was sure whatever this was, it was the cause of Caine's spiral.

Caine glanced away, wringing his hands idly. "It doesn't seem right to put Queenie's door that far away from you."

Oh.

Of course. Sorrow filled Kinger's soul. He knew what seeing Queenie's door felt like. Passing it by, day by day, always hurt in ways he couldn't describe. It was one of the reasons he avoided his room, opting instead to stay in his pillow fort. Kinger hummed; the noise, once again, made Caine turn to him.

"I should have paid more attention. When Queenie . . . Well, you know." Rubbing the back of his neck, Kinger sighed. "I'm sorry I wasn't . . . present during that time. Or any time after, I guess." Chuckling awkwardly to shake off the growing shame, Kinger brought a hand up to squeeze Caine's shoulder. "I should have been there for you."

"You were grieving the loss of your wife." Spoken in a whisper, Caine looked stricken by Kinger's self-reproach; it was like he couldn't comprehend the logic behind Kinger's self-targeted disappointment. Gripping his knees harshly, he looked one wrong move away from fleeing the tent entirely.

Kinger fought a shudder, reminding himself that, despite what anyone believed, Caine could understand human customs when they were correctly taught to him. The two of them had explained marriage to the A.I. early on in their entrapment, showing through their actions how deep a bond could go.

Internally scolding himself, Kinger moved slowly. He had to remain here, in the moment. He couldn't let his emotions run amok. This time, he would be here for someone who desperately needed it. Being deliberate in his motions, Kinger pulled Caine back into his arms, hugging him loosely.

He drew out a long breath, closing his eyes. "I had everyone else to help me through it. You didn't. You needed me, and I wasn't there." It was hard to admit. He'd always prided himself on being available for support, regardless of his investment in the situation. Failure on this scale was mortifying.

"It's not your job to—"

"Yes, it is!" Crushing Caine closer to him, Kinger shook his head. "I know I might not be the best at remembering how much I care, but I do care, Caine. About you. It wasn't just Queenie; it was both of us. We love you. She loved you. You deserve to mourn, too."

"I—" A tiny whimper slipped through the air.

Kinger just clung to him harder. "It's okay. Let it all out."

A moment passed; the silence was only shattered when Caine finally gave in, collapsing into Kinger's embrace and clinging desperately to his robes. Pain sliced through Kinger, harsh and cloying, and he willed himself not to react. Caine needed him to be strong.

"I miss her so much," Caine said, voice breaking.

Kinger nodded. Rubbing circles into Caine's back as he bawled into his chest, Kinger opened his eyes and glanced up. The dark patterns dancing across the ceiling were beautiful. A sad smile lit up his face as his heart ached.

"I know, sugar. I miss her, too."