Work Text:
Because a vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
~~~
“And so Gerard Keay ended.”
There was a sort of snap, a change in air pressure, and where before there had been only emptiness, now there was something more. Gerard—Gerry—stood in the middle of Jon’s sparsely furnished living room, his expression a mixture of confusion and anger. “I told you to destroy my page,” he hissed, his voice resonating in a way that sent a shiver down Jon’s spine.
“I’m sorry,” Jon said, and meant it. His chest tightened, and he looked away from the supernaturally bright eyes that bored into him. “I need your help.”
Gerry’s face twisted into something slightly more and less than human. “Why should I help you? You wouldn’t help me.”
“I will, I swear it,” he said, putting every ounce of conviction he felt into his voice. “But I need to know more, and you’re the only one who can help.”
Gerry scoffed. “Haven’t you heard the saying, ‘curiosity killed the cat’?”
“The second half of the proverb is, ‘and satisfaction brought it back,’” Jon retorted. Gerry snorted and rolled his eyes, but didn’t interrupt, so Jon continued. “Listen, I need to know about the Watcher’s Crown. The Unknowing is…” He trailed off as visions of an uncanny ballet and the echo of Tim’s pained screams tumbled through his mind. He swallowed and consciously pushed those images away, focusing on the man in front of him. “It’s done now.”
There must have been something in his voice, because Gerry’s expression softened. “Ah. Well.” He shifted uncomfortably, his insubstantial leather coat creaking. “I suppose that’s good then.”
“Yeah,” Jon said.
They sat in silence for a long moment, and Jon pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, more for something to do with his hands than any desire for a smoke. He had the cigarette halfway to his mouth when Gerry cleared his throat. “You mind?”
Jon looked up to see one pale, ghostly hand extended toward him. “You can’t smoke.”
Gerry shrugged. “I haven’t actually tried. Sam and Dean never offered. And it’s not like I’m likely to develop lung cancer.”
“Sam and—? Never mind.” Jon shook his head and reversed direction, reaching across to place the cigarette into Gerry’s outstretched hand. Their fingers didn’t touch, but all the same, Jon felt a strange sort of energy radiating from where his eyes told him Gerry’s hand was. It wasn’t warmth, as there was no body heat rising from his dead skin, but something like the repulsion of two like magnetic poles coming together. Jon’s fingers twitched, and he released the cigarette.
It fell to the floor.
Gerry cursed, and Jon let out a breath he’d not realized he was holding. “I can’t even have this one thing,” Gerry muttered, throwing his body back onto the couch like the moody teen he had likely never truly been. The cushions didn’t dip under his non-existent weight, but neither did he sink through them.
Jon found himself cataloging the way Gerry’s clothing moved, comparing it to how non-ghostly fabric draped across a body, and wondering idly how Gerry appeared dressed like this when he’d almost certainly died wearing a hospital gown. He reached out to poke at a particularly deep fold in the leather, then ran his finger down the shadowy cleft. It didn’t feel any different than any other leather coat he’d touched, with the expected slick, slightly nubby texture, softened further by its age.
“I can feel that.”
Jon’s head jerked up at the strangled tone of Gerry’s voice. He was looking down, his eyes focused intensely on where Jon’s finger made contact with the fold of his coat. “You can?”
Gerry swallowed audibly. “I can.” His hand shook almost imperceptibly as he reached out toward Jon, only steadying when it rested lightly on the curve of Jon’s shoulder. He squeezed, hard enough that Jon winced. “I can feel that. I can touch you. Why is that, do you suppose?”
Jon’s mind, usually so agile, had stuttered to a stop at the feel of Gerry’s hand. It wasn’t warm, not like a living human’s would be, but it wasn’t cold like you’d expect from the dead. Again, he could only think of the push and pull of magnets, of a force intangible but real, somehow giving shape to something that was, by all accounts, impossible. “I can’t imagine,” Jon murmured, fascinated.
Gerry released him and folded his hands into his lap, lacing his fingers together. “Mum could manipulate things, sometimes,” he said, his voice soft. “After she— Well. After she died. I always thought that was down to her ritual, how she became the book.” He shrugged, the picture of apathy, but the whiteness of his knuckles told a different story. “I’ve not really had much chance to try. I’m only ever summoned when someone wants something,” he added, narrowing his eyes in Jon’s direction. “Not to mention the unimaginable pain of existing like this.”
Jon murmured a wordless agreement, dropping his gaze to the lighter in his hand. He’d long ago gotten rid of the web-marked one; this one was brightly colored plastic, bought at the local corner shop, and as far as he knew, wasn’t tied to any malevolent entities. He fumbled a little as he shook a cigarette free from the pack, conscious of Gerry’s eyes boring into him as he lit it and took a drag.
“Now you’re just taunting me,” Gerry said, his voice sour like old wine. “You think that’s how to get on my good side, Archivist?”
Jon exhaled slowly, watching the way the smoke curled around and through Gerry. Still, he wondered, a sharp ache in the back of his skull that would not be satisfied until he knew. “Let me try something,” he said, shifting on the couch until he sat sideways, facing Gerry. “And then I’ll let you go.”
Gerry pursed his lips, but Jon could see the hint of curiosity in his eyes. He would have done well at the Institute, Jon thought, though he would have hated every minute of it. “Fine,” he muttered. “Experiment away, Archivist.”
Jon flashed him a quick smile and brought the cigarette to his mouth. He sucked in a deep drag, reveling in the familiar light-headedness and the slight tingle that radiated out from his lungs as the nicotine raced through his bloodstream. Lungs full, he leaned in, placing his hands on either side of Gerry’s face, careful to keep the lit end of the cigarette from tangling in the mess of dyed-black hair. He watched Gerry’s eyes widen in surprise as he realized what Jon intended, then closed his own eyes just as their lips made contact.
Pressing his lips to Gerry’s was unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his life. Beneath his own he could feel the expected shape of Gerry’s mouth, but the texture was all wrong. No, that wasn’t quite right—the texture wasn’t wrong, there simply wasn’t any. Something was pressing back against Jon, something that moved like a mouth ought to, but there wasn’t any weight behind it, like a skin stretched tightly over a drum. Jon opened his mouth and tilted his head slightly, aligning his nose to the side of Gerry’s, and exhaled slowly, pushing the smoke out of his lungs and into Gerry’s.
Gerry’s head moved slightly as he inhaled, “God, I can taste it,” he whispered, his mouth moving against Jon’s and his tone husky with something like awe. He blinked slowly, and Jon saw his pupils dilate. “Again,” he breathed.
Jon nodded and pulled back enough to take another pull of the cigarette, this time watching the way Gerry’s eyes tracked the motion. Gerry licked his lips, leaving them shiny and wet, but when Jon pressed his mouth against them, he felt no change. It was easier this time, with Gerry eager rather than nervous. Only a few tendrils of smoke escaped the seal of their lips to curl up and around Gerry’s head as the tip of Gerry’s tongue brushed against Jon’s bottom lip. It should have been warm and wet, slick with saliva, but it wasn’t; still, it glided over Jon’s lip with no resistance, and Jon felt a tingle of warmth that had nothing to do with nicotine.
They shared the rest of the cigarette, Jon feeling more and more light-headed with each drag. He tried to keep his motions economical, professional, a favor to a friend or an overture to an ally, but with each slide of Gerry’s insubstantial lips against his, Jon felt his excuses falling away. When there was little more than the filter left, Jon barely managed to stub it out on the ashtray before all dropping all pretense and leaning back in to kiss him properly.
It should have been awkward, like so many of the first kisses he’d shared before, but somehow it wasn’t. Gerry cupped his head, carding his fingers through Jon’s hair as Jon pressed his tongue past Gerry’s lips, licking into his strangely cool mouth. He could feel the first hints of arousal spark to life deep in his belly, but there was no urgency to it, and Gerry didn’t seem keen to push things, keeping his kisses languid and exploratory. Jon’s hands settled on Gerry’s thighs, the texture of denim unexpected under his palms; he couldn’t help the way his brain contrasted that to odd smoothness of Gerry’s ghostly skin.
Under the weave of the fabric, he felt Gerry’s muscles shift as he moved closer, his lips leaving Jon’s to skim down the line of Jon’s neck. A whimper escaped Jon’s mouth as Gerry’s teeth closed down on the thin skin above his pulse point. “Please,” Jon breathed, “please.”
“Please, what, Archivist?” Gerry’s voice sounded deeper, roughened by desire, and for the first time, the title wasn’t mocking. “It’s been so long since I touched anyone—” He trailed off, tightening his grip on Jon’s hair, and sucking a mark into Jon’s shoulder, just above his collar. His tongue soothed the tiny hurt, stroking over Jon’s skin in a way that felt wet but wasn’t. “I can taste you. I want to taste you.”
“I—” Jon stuttered to a stop when Gerry kissed his mouth again, hungrier this time, fanning the small ember of arousal into a hot flame. He kissed Gerry back, sliding his hands up and under the hem of his shirt, fingers splayed against ghostly skin, tracing the shape of a person who could not be.
It was a sound that finally cut through the smoky haze that Gerry’s kisses had made of Jon’s mind. Just outside the open window of his flat, a small bird warbled its mating tune, though Jon did not recognize it. No, the sweet trilling sounded, just for a moment, like the haunting melody that had accompanied that last, terrible ballet, and Jon panicked, yanking himself out of Gerry’s arms and flattening himself back against the couch, heart in his throat. The bird sang again, and Jon let out a deep breath, his body shaking as adrenaline coursed through his system.
“Jon?”
He flinched at the sound of Gerry’s voice, and looked up to see Gerry watching him with concern. “You alright?”
He swallowed. “I’m sorry. I just, ah, remembered why I summoned you. And it wasn’t for, ah—” Jon cleared his throat and waved to the space between them.
Gerry arched an eyebrow. “To neck like teenagers?” he prompted.
“Yes. I mean, no,” Jon corrected. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, willing his heart rate to slow. When he felt steady, he opened his eyes and looked at Gerry. “What can you tell me about The Watcher’s Crown?”
Gerry’s lips thinned in annoyance, and he turned away from Jon to recline against the sofa, crossing his arms over his chest. “You really know how to kill the mood, Archivist,” he muttered.
“Yes, well, I would prefer to not see any more of my friends consumed by a manifestation of our basest fears,” Jon shot back, residual panic giving his voice an edge. “You may be dead but I’m not, not yet, and I’m not going down without a fight.” Jon watched the muscle in Gerry’s jaw twitch. “When it’s over, when it’s stopped, you can watch me burn the page, if that’s what you want,” he added, voice softening.
Gerry stayed silent for several long minutes. The air in the room felt charged, as if they stood on the edge of something too big to name, and one wrong step would send the whole thing tumbling down. Finally, just when Jon was rethinking his plan not to push, Gerry sighed. “Fine. I’ll help.” Jon opened his mouth, but Gerry held up a hand and continued before he could say anything. “I have conditions. One, I won’t give my information to anyone but you. None of your underlings, and certainly not your director. I’d rather they not even know about me. I know you can’t do anything about,” Gerry waved his hand vaguely toward the ceiling, “that, but you can keep the more human ones out of my business.”
Jon lips twisted up into a wry smile and nodded. “Of course.”
“And two…” Gerry shifted in his seat, the leather of his coat creaking slightly. “I’d like another cigarette,” he said, his sallow cheeks coloring slightly. “Not, ah, right now, but soon. Next time.”
Jon stared at him, and felt his own cheeks heat. “Oh? Oh! Oh, ah, yes, that would be—” He stopped and swallowed. “That won’t be a problem,” he said. “I would, ah, I would like that. I think.”
Gerry’s mouth turned up into a smile. “Well then. Until next time?”
Jon nodded a little too fast. “Yes.” He swallowed audibly. “Ah, I’ll just let you go then?”
“That would be nice,” Gerry said, a hint of sardonic humor coloring his voice.
“Right, then.” Jon took a deep breath. “I dismiss you.”
As the last syllable left Jon’s lips, the air in the room shuddered, and Gerry disappeared, leaving the room silent but for Jon’s breathing, and the barely audible whirr of the tape recorder.