Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     tick tock tick tock tick tock. . .

   The sound reverberates off of dark walls and muffles in rich carpets. Fingers trailing across the mahogany paint stop, and he stills, eyes clouded in confusion.

    When. . .why. . .wh-

     “When did I get here?” He finally whispers.

    Nothing answers save the droning of time.

    tick tock tick tock tick tock. . .

    It takes him a moment to realize that he has started to walk on autopilot. That he has arrived to a furnished room, like that of a wealthy, upper class man; a great armchair and some stools, a wall of shelved books behind the arm chair, while a fireplace sits opposite.

    And a great grandfather clock surveys, next to the master of the house’s chair.

    He stands there, confused, trying to muddle through whatever little memory he can access; struggling to grasp and just pull them to the surface-

    He gasps suddenly, eyes wide. And he knows-

    Phil knows that someone is missing.

    He’s missing someone, needs to find them; this is all wrong, bad, he’s worriedterrifiedscar-

     And he’s on his knees suddenly with his hands covering his ears as the house bellows with an indiscernable sound that he can feel, echoing in his lungs.

   He doesn’t even notice when he gets on his feet to run.

    He’s looking for Dan, he remembers. They got separated. Separated when they realized-

It nags them both the entire time.

something is off.  Wrong.

They don’t spot it right away; not until they pass a hallway with a dresser and an ornate mirror. It catches the corner of his eye and he cannot look away.

tick tock tick tock ti-

  “Dan. . .it’s the clocks! Look at the clocks!”

  And they both turn away to see what the mirror shows.

The faces are the same, but the hands are moving backwards.

and they stop once Dan and Phil catch sight.

  Remembering hurts.

    “Dan?”   

    The person in the chair doesn’t respond; hand hanging limp off of the edge. Phil inches slowly closer, cautiously. It could be a stranger, but that brown hair looks so familiar. . .

    And then he sees the blood.

    Dripping down the hand, the hanging fingers, and hitting the carpet below with a dull thwap. He tastes acid in his throat, wants to run, but he has to know-!”

    He reaches the other side, his sob horrified but not mournful.

    It’s not Dan, but it looks close enough. This person is too short, the thin lines as though made with wire carved along the face, down the neck, and to the heart -

    “Do you like your gift?”

     Phil whirls around and it’s a stranger, face masked though open above a grin, a bloody grin - as in literally bloodied - teeth yellow and orange with plaque and gore.

    “I picked him just for you.”

    The voice is too smooth, too lovely; but it’s words are too direct and malicious.

    Unable to move, the masked monster prowls over to him, deliberate. It talks, and Phil wants to vomit. 

    “You two are a lot of fun, you know; easy to trick and manipulate. The labyrinth wipes your minds, and time heals your wounds - tell me, how is your side, Raven?”

    And then he notices that his side has been aching him; pulled from running earlier. Trembling fingers grasp the edge of his shirt and he lets the drift over the skin.

    It’s marred with deep lacerations ridged in partially grown scar tissue.

    The monster grins.

    “And you have yet to find Sparrow,” it hums. “That is, if I haven’t killed him already.”

     “Where’s Dan,” somehow he picks up the courage to ask, voice barely below a yell. Fear of his predicament abandons him in favor for fear of his friend.

    It cocks it’s head.

    Then it is before him, a hand encircling his wrist. The whorls in the mask are close enough that Phil can tell they’re purple against the faint, pale key lime color of the mask.

    Dark pits look into his own eyes as the voice breathes, “Oh, you two are so much fun. I think you’re my favourite. Ah, ah, ah,” It chides as he tugs, trying to pull away, “I am not done with my favourite, yet.”

    “Eff off!”

     There’s a roar as the masked man(?) is hit over the head with a battered pipe, and a young man with wild eyes stands over him, quivering with anger and fear.

    And Phil knows with absolutely clarity that this, this is Dan; Dan his best friend, his family.

    Dan who is now grabbing him by the arm and dragging him along, babbling and cursing, voice rising higher in octave.

    He follows, in absolute trust.

    And glances back to see the thing with a crack in its mask, getting up onto fours from a pool of something too dark to be blood.

    it’s teeth still split into a wide grin.

Chapter Text

     Brown eyes dully reflect back as he surveys his haggard appearance in the mirror.

    And the truth shown in the mirrors-

  Dan shakes his head, dismissing the thought. His friend, the missing person, he has to find him - worry works itself through him with each passing moment echoing throughout the house.

  He had only stopped at the bathroom for the literal buissness of it; better than pissing in some corner at least. He just couldn’t avoid seeing his expression, and then. . .

    Well, it had entrapped him.

    Because who was he, exactly? All he knew was his name, that he had come here with a friend (Phil, his mind sometimes offered up), and that something was going on here.

    Something sinister. Wrong.

    the clocks are wrong wrong wrong; backwards  time is wrong and flowing forward-back-

He pulls himself away and continues on.

     “Oh little Sparrow, so lost and forlorn,” a voice echoes almost whimsically.

    Dan’s mouth is suddenly dry and he is seized with ice.

    He- he knows that voice.

    Oh god.

     He knows that voice.

    He turns around, slowly, tensed and ready to run.

   It’s. . .he wouldn’t call it a man, exactly, even if its voice leans towards masculine. There’s just - it’s not right; it’s like a mimicry of a human, tall and slim with a smiling mouth below a mask some faint color with whorls in a darker shade. He can’t pick out the colors from here, but he doesn’t want to be close enough to be able to, quite frankly.

    The man(?) cocks his head to the side. “Well well well, quiet this time, are you? Maybe you grasp more than I would have thought. That’s okay, though,” and it, he?, smiles disarmingly and Dan can see the red running between the plaque-covered teeth, “it’ll make the game all the more enjoyable.”

     Dan bolts.

     His body is working without conscious thought; one moment he is in the room with a nightmare, and the next he is out, streaking down hallways and trembling at the thought of that, that thing. 

    He doesn’t stop until he can barely breathe, throat and chest burning as he gulps in air. He’s beside a grandfather clock and leans into it, glancing this way and that.

    It would seem that it hadn’t followed him.

   This time.

    . . .this time?

   Dan shakes his head. “That’s not important. I need - I need to find Phil and get out of here. Yeah.”

    He is yanked backwards, head aching where the fingers grip into his hair and pull-

grinning chuckles of something too sing-songy and elegant: “little sparrow - I like raven much, much more, but you’ll do.”

and he screams as flesh is torn and, and he can’t see, oh god-

   He falters, retching at the intrusive memory; he’s tremoring now, as bits and pieces trickle together, until there’s a cacophony of sound and sense and sight-

    “Dan!”

    Suddenly, everything comes back into focus.

    He. . .he knows that voice.

    And it isn’t that thing.

    The hallway stops tilting and is straightening out before him. Distantly, he’s aware that it’s a memory he heard. But that doesn’t matter.

    Because he’s found his friend at least once, he’s sure of it.

    He grits his teeth and goes forward.

    They’ll find each other again.

    And get the hell out of here.

    Dan manages to get his hands on a battered pipe, though how the hell he managed he can’t recall. There’s plenty of elaborate restrooms and occasional sitting rooms; maybe he wrenched it out from underneath a sink at one point.

    Regardless, there’s a certain sense of security in holding the metal-turned-warm in his hands.

    Dan is aware he’s not a violent person. Still,

his hands grip the metal pole tight

there’s no harm in protecting himself, especially against something inhuman, is there?

    “This is a bad idea,” he mutters to himself.

    After all, arming himself is just asking for trouble, isn’t it?

   When Dan finally manages to find Phil is when ish hits the fan.

    There’s voices spilling out into the hall, and at the sound of those familiar voices, he’s spurned into action.

   That creature is pulling the other guy close, and he looks terrified, bluey green eyes blown wide and trying oh-so-desperately to pull away.

   The creature digs in deeper, pulls closer.

   Dan is not a violent person.

   But Dan won’t stand by and watch someone else be hurt, either.

   He doesn’t recall running but he remembers jumping; slamming the pipe down with as much force as he can muster given his terror, and he feels it - the reverberations as metal meets skull and the creature goes down.

    He knows it won’t stay down.

  Without hesitation he grabs Phil’s hand and drags him along, grimacing and shouting who-can-recall-what. He pulls him along without a backward glance, because he knows (how the hell does he know?) that they’re not safe yet.

    That they won’t be safe for a long, long while.