Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tommy Bradstaff doesn’t scream when Mr. Spider takes him, and Jonathan Sims doesn’t run, and sometimes Jon wonders if either choosing differently would have changed anything. Had Tommy screamed, perhaps someone would have heard, someone who might have been able to help more than the eight year old complication-with-legs from Brixton Street, and had Jon ran, perhaps he wouldn’t have been there to see the legs reach out and pull him in, and perhaps he wouldn’t have seen the book tumble from his hands and thud dully against the pavement. Perhaps he wouldn’t have noticed any of it, and perhaps he would have never seen the book again. Perhaps someone else would have found it there, corner slightly dented from where it hit the ground, and they would have picked it up and taken it home, flipped through it perhaps, paused at the last page like Tommy had before them, pressed it against a door and raised it to knock—

It’s that last image that gets him, really. It’s the thought of those spindly legs that makes him do what he does. 

The book is there, gleaming dully in the lackluster sun, and it will eat whoever picks it up.

And so Jon picks it up.

He doesn’t want to, okay? He never wants to touch that book again. He hated it from the moment he saw it, and he hates it now, hates it with every burst of blood pounding through his weak-walled heart. He’s scared of the book, if he’s being perfectly honest. Of what it will do.

Except.

Except it ate Tommy Bradstaff. And it’s going to eat whoever reads it next. 

Only Jon knows not to read it, which is why, in a stunning moment of stupidity that he is never, ever able to take back, he decides he must be the one to destroy it. 

He scuttles to the book, right up to where it lay by the blood-rusted door. He doesn’t pause to pick it up, barely even slows, just hangs his hands low and catches around the cover before he’s off again, sprinting as fast as his legs can carry him. He’s so scared of the door in that moment, of it opening, of the legs folding out and around him. 

But the door doesn’t open, and the legs don’t come. 

Jon sprints the whole way home. 

~*~

He doesn’t dare open the book again. He can barely bring himself to look at it.

When he gets home, he goes straight to the shed, where no one has been since his grandfather died. He takes the book and stacks a paint can on top of it, and then the tool box, and then anything else he can wrap his fingers around and add to the stack. 

He stacks for ten minutes, wrenches and screwdrivers and rakes assorted being added to the teetering monument to his fear, most of them tumbling to the ground directly after being added to the tower. He doesn’t care. He keeps stacking. 

Then, all at once, the fight goes out of him. He stumbles to the other side of the crowded, wooden room before curling up in a ball on the ground, watching the tower with a weary fear. 

(Tommy Bradstaff is dead, and Jon thinks it might just be his fault.)

He has to destroy the book. That much is obvious. He can’t let Mr. Spider get anyone else. The book must be a… door… of some sort. It must open some kind of horror dimension, where Mr. Spider waits to feed. 

He should burn it. Shouldn’t he? Burn the door, burn the way it gets through. That’d be enough, wouldn’t it?

Jon thinks of the door to his own house, of it burning, and he can’t help but think that it’d be so much easier to get inside or out if that door was gone. 

Does the door let Mr. Spider out?  Or does it also keep him in? 

Jon barely makes it outside before he throws up. 

(Tommy hadn’t screamed when it took him. There hadn’t been time. But Jon wonders if it had hurt for long. He wonders if he had been afraid.)

Jon closes the door to the shed behind him, and makes sure it locks. It will keep for now.

He needs to figure out what to do. 

~*~

He makes a list. It reads:

Burn it. 

Bury it.

Freeze it in ice. 

Toss it into the ocean. 

Encase it in cement.

Burning it is out. He doesn’t know what that would do, if turning it to ash will make it better or worse. He’s too afraid to try. He thinks burying it might work, but he doesn’t know where he could put it without the risk of it being dug up again. He doesn’t think he could dig deep enough on his own to make it any real difficulty, and there are plenty of dogs and kids alike who like to dig. The ice stops making sense not long after he comes up with it--ice melts, after all, and he needs the book to be locked up for good. Perhaps the ocean would work, but he can’t exactly leave it near the shore. Waves might wash it up again, or divers might find a childrens’ board book encased in the muck, might bring it back up to the surface with them, might wonder what it says… 

He’d need a boat, at the very least. One that could take him to a point where the ocean is dark and deep, where he could put the book in a bag and fill it with rocks and then send it sailing down below. But he doesn’t know where he might possibly find a boat, or anyone willing to take him out. 

The last one is daft. He doesn’t even know where he might find cement. 

In the back of his mind, Jon can still feel the book in the shed. Waiting. Like a spider on a web. 

~*~

At dinner that night, Nan says that Tommy Bradstaff was supposed to come help her today, and he hadn’t, and it was so unlike such a responsible, punctual boy to not so much as ring. She says it in the pointed way that means she thinks Jon has something to do with it, that he’s somehow to blame. 

He doesn’t make it outside before he throws up, this time. 

~*~

Jon wakes to wet, cold grass beneath his feet and a sharp pain in his foot. 

It is night, and he’s in the back garden, moonlight on his skin and cobwebs in his hair. He had stepped on a rock, and it had sliced up the sole of his bare foot. 

The shed key is in his hand. He doesn’t have to wonder long how he might have gotten there, or what he might have been looking for. 

He doesn’t sleep again for the rest of the night. But when he’s pressed against the mattress that night, the door to his room locked firm, he thinks of the feel of the pages against his skin, the words sliding against his brain, the press of the covers beneath his palms. How… right it had felt. How wonderful the words had been, slick and smooth and horrible in his head. He wants the book, doesn’t he? He wants to knock. But… that can’t be right, he locked the book up, didn’t he? He ran from the door. Should he have ran? Shouldn’t he have knocked?

He wants so badly it hurts.  

~*~

The next day, Jon is feverish with fear and trembling like a leaf, and he looks just horrid enough that Nan doesn’t make even the slightest intimation that he’s faking to get the day off. Rather, she simply presses the back of her paper thin hand to his forehead and purses her lips before trailing off to call the school. 

After, she comes back to his bed with a bowl of cereal and a glass of juice. There’s something soft at the edges of her eyes, something close to concern, but her face has been carved in stone for so long that it can hardly make much of a fight. 

“I’m meant to go help out down at the library today,” she says, crisp and clear, in the way that Jon imagines his dad’s voice had sounded. “But if you’re not feeling well, I can call and--”

“No,” says Jon, just quickly enough for the softness to vanish. He wonders if it ever had been there at all. “I’ll be fine on my own. You go.”

(There’s a book in the shed. Jon can feel it, waiting. He thinks it’s still hungry.)

“Alright,” says Nan, and then Jon is alone again. 

He’s always alone, he can’t help but think. He wishes she had stayed. 

~*~

Jon finds himself trailing for the shed, key in hand, on four separate occasions throughout the day. He always snaps out of it before he ever gets close to the book itself, but on the last time, the key is already in the lock, and it’s about to turn. 

And when he pulls the key out, when he places it in his pocket once more, and sprints back to the house, there’s a momentary pange of anguish, of pain, a part of him screaming to go back and retrieve the book. He wants it, he wants it, he needs it, such things were meant to be read and consumed and consumed by. It should never be locked up. He shouldn’t have locked it up. It needs to be read. 

(He can’t let it stay in the house for a second longer.)

~*~

Jon’s hands hurt when he moves them, but he supposes that’s what happens when you wedge four thumbtacks in the places between your fingers. The pain is the point. 

It’s always pain that snaps him out of the book’s thrall--Tommy Bradstaff knocking him to the ground, the rock beneath his feet, a bee stinging him before the lock can turn--and it’s pain he needs to get rid of it. 

He built a box, while Nan was gone, and he’s decided to put the book inside. 

It’s hardly a box, really--it’s made of cardboard he found wedged in one of the drawers. He’s dotted it with thumbtacks, all facing out, and on the cover, he’s written DO NOT OPEN in sharp black letters. 

He’s going to put it somewhere no one can ever see it again. But he figures the warning doesn’t hurt. 

Blood rolls down the bottom of his wrist when he inserts the key into the lock, and his hands twinge with pain when he turns it. He’s grateful, though, because it means the cobwebs creeping along the edge of his vision burn away, and his head is mercifully, blessedly clear when he at last sees the book. 

There’s nothing on top of it. All of the things he stacked on top huddle at the other end of the shed, as if they, too, are afraid of what it might do.

Jon swallows. He twists his fingers, and the pain burns clear and bright. 

He tapes the book shut first, careful to make sure the cover doesn’t so much as crack open. Then, he places it within the cardboard, thumbtacks pricking along his palms and winning new droplets of blood from his skin. He tapes the box, too. 

Then, he puts it all in his bag, and he begins to walk. 

There are woods on the other end of town. Jon’s been there many times, though he doesn’t think he’ll ever go there again, once he’s done. It takes him the better part of an hour to walk there, and by the time he sees the first trees, the sky has opened above him, and the rain has started to pour.

It had been sunny, when he started his march. 

He walks for another hour before he’s deep enough that he thinks it’ll be safe, then stashes the book in the hollow of a tree. The hollow is hard to notice, and it hides the book completely. Jon doesn’t think it will be found, here. Not by anyone. 

On the walk home, he cries for the first time since Mum died.

~*~

Nan’s furious with him when he finally makes it back, and Jon takes it all with a tired kind of relief. By the end of it, he’s grounded for the next three months, school and home and nothing else, and don’t even think of having friends over young man--

Jon is tired, and he doesn’t mention the blood on his pin-cushion hands, or the redness in his eyes, or the way he hasn’t stopped shaking for hours, or the fact that he doesn’t have any friends to want over. Nan doesn’t either, but he hadn’t expected her to.

He’s sent to bed without supper, but that’s alright. He doesn’t think he could stomach the food anyway.  

~*~

Jon dreams of spiders that night, of webs around his limbs, of crawling, creeping blackness. He doesn’t scream when he’s awake but that’s only because he can’t find the breath, paralyzed beneath his covers. He can still see the stained-red white of the door, still hear Tommy Bradstaff’s gasp-before-a-scream, still see the limbs reaching out, out. 

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, curled against the mattress and waiting for dawn. The book is gone. That’s all that matters. The book is gone. 

There are creaks in the night, groans of a settling house, and Jon tells himself the book is gone. 

There are pauses in the silence, moments where he can feel the scream trying to claw its way up his swollen throat, and Jon tells himself the book is gone.

Tommy Bradstaff is dead, and it is the fault of no one but Jon, and Jon tells himself the book is gone. 

He’s so very afraid. The book is gone. He’s afraid. The book is gone. 

All that matters is that the book is gone.

~*~

The next day, there’s a knock on the door, twice and measured. 

It’s Tommy Bradstaff. He’s come to help Mrs. Sims. 

~*~

Tommy Bradstaff moves like a puppet jerked by strings, and Jon is the only one that notices. 

He sits at the table, barely moving from the sheer terror of it all, feeling the blood pulse from his heart to the tips of his fingers, down his legs, in his ears. He doesn’t know if he’s breathing. He doesn’t think he is. 

Nan gives him tea before she gives him any chores at all, tuts over his disappearance--she calls it that, his disappearance, and she has no idea how right she is--and brushes the cobwebs from his hair. 

“It’s from the Jones house,” says the thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff, and it smiles. “They had me clean their shed for them.”

Its voice lingers on the word “shed.” Jon is the only one that notices that, either. 

Nan’s nose wrinkles at the mention of the Joneses. She never has liked Mr. Jones. Jon wonders if the thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff knows that. 

It smiles at Jon from across the table, thin, just enough to reveal its broad, white teeth. Jon stares at it, and he does not smile back. 

(A spider crawls from the corner of his mouth, up his cheek, settles at the corner of his eye.)

“Well, Tommy, you’ll find no such filth here. I have a few things still left from the other day. If you’ll--”

Nan trails off, her words suspended in the air between them like they’re caught in a web. 

“I have to go to the store,” she declares, suddenly, standing. She doesn’t pick up her bag. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

(Nan went to the store yesterday.)

“Do you need anything, Tommy dear?”

“No, Mrs. Sims,” says the thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff, and it’s still smiling, and it’s still watching Jon. “You just be off now.”

“Jon? Do you need anything?”

Jon can’t find his voice. He shakes his head, just barely. 

Nan doesn’t stop for her shoes before she walks out the door. She doesn’t get her coat. 

She doesn’t knock, either, and Jon can’t help but be grateful for that. 

The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff does not speak for a long while after Nan has left. It just. Sits there. Watching Jon. 

His hands scuttle across the surface of the table, fingers tripping over themselves like the legs of a spider.

“You should be more careful with your things, Jon,” it says, eventually. “You seem to have a nasty habit of leaving them lying around.”

Jon cannot speak. 

“I found something in the woods,” it continues. “It belongs to you.”

Jon cannot speak. He shakes his head in mute terror.

The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff looks at him sharply. “Belonging is important, Jon. Ownership is important. It counts. You cannot get rid of things so easily.”

 “Get out,” Jon manages, his voice barely a croak. “I’ll--I’ll call the police.”

The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest. “Of course, you don’t own the book. Mrs. Sims bought it. It belongs to her. She paid for it, paid for the cost, paid for the consequences. Perhaps I should return it to her instead--”

The threat is enough to break the fear gluing Jon to his spot, shatter it like glass, freeing him cleaner than any thumbtack could, and in a moment he’s rocketing to his feet, his chair screeching back. 

“Shut up!”

The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff grins, this time wide, and Jon can see the black emptiness waiting inside. Cobwebs cling to his teeth, to the back of his throat, down, down, down. 

“The Web isn’t so bad, Jon,” it says, and it stands, too. It walks towards him jerkily, like his limbs don’t fit, like they’re pulled by threads. “It already knows you. You already know it. It won’t hurt you, Jon.”

Jon trips backwards, heart pounding in his chest. His legs tremble. He doesn’t think it can make it to the door. 

“It won’t eat you. Not like it ate Tommy. It wants you, Jon. It likes the way your thoughts feel, so slippery, so hungry, so keen. It wants to keep you close, tangle you up, fill you up, keep you in its threads, forever, forever, forever.” And not-Tommy looks so earnest, in that moment, so sincere, like it hurts, wanting Jon. “You’re already so empty, Jon. So lonely. But the Web can make its home in you. It loves you so very much. It will never let you go.”

Jon’s throat is a cave in, an avalanche, a scream that never ends. He can’t breathe. 

He moves back, two steps for the thing’s one. It is between him and the door, though, and he runs out of space fast. 

The kitchen countertop cuts into the base of his spine. He can’t run any further. 

The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff creeps to Jon’s side, leans over to whisper into his ear. 

(A spider falls from its open maw. It scuttles along the collar of Jon’s shirt, then slips and falls to the counter below.) 

“Come home, Jon,” it tells him, soft and earnest, and the words scuttle into his brain like spiders, all in a line. Its fingers wrap around his wrist, pins it to the countertop. “It will only hurt for a moment.” 

Jon shakes his head mutely. He can’t breathe. 

The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff continues to whisper, continues to speak, and the words wrap around the edges of his vision like gossamer threads. It tells him of a million spiders, a million things to love him, to fill him up, to make him a home. It tells him how very ill of a fit Tommy was, how empty and hollow and sick Tommy feels, how it would have hollowed him out and left him to rot if it hadn’t needed to talk to Jon so very badly. 

Jon is so very clever, with such clear thoughts, nimble and quick like the scuttle of a spider’s legs. He was so very smart in his plans, in his resistance, and his clever little tricks with the tacks and the boards only made it love him more. But it’s enough of that now. Enough of the naughty resistance, the running, the fleeing from his rightful owner. It will love Jon forever, if he only comes home. It will tangle him up and hold him close and it will never let him go again, never never never. 

Come home, Jonathan Sims. Come home to the Web. 

Amidst the fear, amidst the words, amidst the cobwebs he can feel around his neck, Jon remembers something. There had been a slight tilt to his path when he ran, a plan half-formed, a reason he had angled himself towards that corner of the kitchen--

(Nan kept her knives here. And Jon was never, ever to touch.)

His free hand scrambles behind him. His hand wraps around a hard, wooden handle, and the knife leaves the block with a clumsy tug.

He buries in in the chest of the thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff, his lunge nervous and weak, but it sinks in without any trouble at all, as if Tommy were empty and there’s nothing to stop it from slicing deep. 

He pulls it out. Buries it in again. 

The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff watches him with a puzzled smile. It doesn’t so much as flinch. 

So Jon pulls it out, and he uses it to slash at its wrist. 

The skin severs easily, weakly, like wet paper torn. Inside, Jon can see empty blackness and empty cobwebs.

But the hand releases. And Jon runs. 

As he sprints on the door, feet bare and heart rattling his ribs, the thing that used to be Tommy Bradstaff calls after him, and it tells him it will be waiting for him in Jon’s new home. 

~*~

Jon goes back to the house less than an hour after he flees it, not because he wants to, but because the thought of Nan coming home to find it waiting for her makes him sick inside. He’s crying as he walks through the open door, shaking in fear, but deep inside, he knows it’s foolish to worry. 

He already knows where it is, after all. It’s waiting for Jon on the other side of a white-red door. 

The house is empty, neither Tommy nor Nan anywhere to be seen, but Jon can feel the book waiting for him in his room. 

He walks up the stairs, tugged, compelled, like a puppet on strings. His bedroom door is open. He knows the thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff opened it. 

Inside, it’s covered in cobwebs, from the ceiling to the floor. On his bed there sits a box, studded with thumbtacks and bound in tape. 

DO NOT OPEN ME JON

The thumbtacks dig into his palms as he picks the package up. He swallows, and watches the blood drip on the corner. 

Then, calm as anything, he places it in his backpack, slings it over his shoulder, and walks out the door. 

~*~

The year is 1995, and there has been no leak of secured files, and the Magnus Institute is not yet known as the trusted haven for lunatics and liars. There is no ridicule. No disdain. No emotions towards it at all, really, and hardly anyone knows its name. 

The year is 1995, and Jon is eight, and he has always loved reading, because he once had a mum who loved it as much as him. She used to hold his hand as they browsed book shelves, used to push them between his open palms, used to sit with him tucked to her chest, reading him books that never ate a soul. She never got mad at him for his picky taste in books. She had always just laughed, and called him clever, and told him she loved him a thousand shining stars, a thousand cups of cocoa, a thousand kisses, a thousand hugs. Jon misses her laugh. He misses her telling him she loved him. He hasn’t heard anyone say it in so long. 

Sometimes, it hurts, how much he misses her. It had always been the two of them, musketeers without any need of a third. 

He thinks the Web had been right when it called him empty. He thinks he’s been empty for a long time. But he’s so very afraid of what it means to be filled up. 

The year is 1995, and it has been two years since Mum laid a newspaper out in front of him, let him nose through the adverts to find words he didn’t know. He was six but he still remembers it, remembers the feel of the paper beneath his fingers, the slightly dirty tinge of the ink, the sunshine on her hair, the clean, brisk smell of the wind drifting through the open window. He remembers one of the adverts, so odd, so out of place amongst the plumbers and the cleaners and the restaurants. He remembers what it said. 

Have you experienced something

unexplainable? Do you believe you’ve 

been touched by the supernatural?

Give your statement. 

The Magnus Institute, Research Center of the 

Paranormal and Supernatural. London. 

~*~

Nobody pays Jon much mind on the train into London, despite the ashen hue to his face or the pushpins crammed between his fingers, despite how he jumps whenever someone comes close or how he started shaking as the train pulled out and hasn’t stopped since. He’d like to think it’s the book ensconced in his bag, the danger of it radiating out and warning others off they way it didn’t warn Jon, but he knows in truth that they probably just don’t care. 

Jon took the money from the emergency stash, and he didn’t tell Nan before he did it. He couldn’t, of course, not with her having shambled down the road with no shoes or coat to speak of. He hopes she’s okay. He hopes one of the neighbors found her. 

(He hopes Tommy Bradstaff didn’t.)

Nan’s going to be fine, Jon thinks, pressing the pushpin firmer between his fingers just for the prick of pain it brings. The… Web…. didn’t want her; it wants Jon. And Jon’s gone, which means it won’t be waiting around his house. He’ll go to the Institute, and he’ll tell them about it all, the book and the spiders and dead, dead Tommy Bradstaff, and they’ll help him. They’ll save him. 

“I’m afraid that statements are part of our Archivist’s duty,” says the lady at the reception, smiling sweetly, but she eyes his bloodied hands with a hesitant look, “and she’s away at the moment. You can write your statement down, though, and when she returns, we’ll be able to look into it.”

“I…” Jon feels cold. Jon feels sick. Jon feels…. Afraid. “What?”

“She’s not here, dear,” says the receptionist, almost apologetic, and she keeps looking at Jon’s hands like she wants to mention them, but she doesn’t, adults never do, they just look and look at the blood and the bruises and they pretend not to see them. “If you leave your name, statement, and number, we can get back to you in the next few days--”

“A few- -I don’t have a few days!”

The woman frowns at him. “There’s no need to be rowdy.”

Jon sucks in a breath, and he’s so afraid, he’s so afraid, he can’t breathe he’s so afraid. “I--In a few days I’m going to be--” Dead. Not dead. Worse than dead. A home to spiders. He doesn’t know. He’s frightened. “I need to talk to someone now, and I mean right now. Aren’t you all supposed to help people?”

The woman looks at him pityingly. “Your friends give you a spook, dear?”

“I… beg your pardon?”

“We get a lot of boys and girls your age because of it. They’re just teasing, dear. It wasn’t real.”

“It wasn’t--” Jon’s going to die, they’re not going to listen and he’s going to die, Tommy Bradstaff will drag him through Mr. Spider’s front door even if Jon doesn’t give into the book and walk through himself, and this woman is going to be smiling the whole damn time. “This isn’t about a prank--or teasing or, or--I found a book, and it’s going to kill me. It’s already killed someone else! I can’t wait for a few days!”

And the woman just. Sighs. Like he’s making things more difficult than it needs to be. 

She cranes a look around him, towards the lean, tall man walking down the hall, book in hand. “Elias, could you come give me a hand?”

“I--no, please, you have to help me, please I--”

The man moves next to them smoothly, smile already working its way onto his face. Jon thinks it’s meant to be soothing, probably, but the way he is now, it only serves to frustrate him further. “Of course we’ll help you,” he says, reassuring. “But how about we start with helping you find your mum, okay?” He glances up at the woman. “What’s the problem, Abigail?”

Abigail heaves a sigh. “A book he read frightened him.”

Elias nods, considerate, like it’s exactly as he expected. He smells funny, Jon thinks. Like smoke, but an odd sort. He doesn’t like the smell. “Books can be frightening at times. Why don’t you tell us the title, and we’ll hunt down a copy?”

Jon hates them terribly in that moment. He wants to scream. 

“It’s not--” He groans. “The story isn’t the problem here.”

Elias opens his mouth, begins to speak, but then:

“A book, you said?”

Jon jumps, because he’s jumped at everything since Mr. Spider opened his door. 

There’s a man in the doorway of the main foyer, brow raised in curiosity. He’s old, a bit weathered, a bit wrinkled, with a thick beard and sharp, clear eyes. He takes broad, clean steps towards Jon, quick and measured, then glances down at his hands. 

He frowns, kneeling before him. Before Jon can stop him, he takes his left hand in his own, carefully pulling out the pin between his middle and ring finger. 

“Did you do this to yourself?”

“I--” Jon stammers. “I had to. The book--it--I kept wanting to open it. Trying to. Even when I knew better.”

“This book that kills people?”

“I--yeah. Eats them. Or, well, the thing inside it does. It just. Lets it out, I think.”

“Mr. Wright, I don’t think--”

Mr. Wright smiles warmly. “I’ll handle this, Abigail.” He turns back to Jon. “This book, did you bring it with you?”

Shaking, Jon pulls the box out of his bag, and he doesn’t mind the pins as he does. 

DO NOT OPEN ME JON

Mr. Wright accepts it with interest, careful to avoid the tacks. “Did you do this?”

“I--wanted to get rid of it. Tried to.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I did. Something brought it back.” His heart hammers in his chest. “Will you help me?”

Mr. Wright smiles at Jon, and it almost makes him believe that everything will be alright. 

Then, he tears the box open in a swift, clean movement. 

“You can’t!” cries Jon, lunging forward. “It’ll--you’ll read it, it’ll make you knock--”

“Hm. A child’s book. A Guest for Mr. Spider,” reads Mr. Wright, regarding the cover with a clinical interest. Jon wants to rip it from his hands. He wants to open it up for himself, swallow the words whole, consume the book until it consumes him. Mr. Wright breaks the tape binding it with a sharp fingernail, flipping open the front. “From the library of Jurgen Leitner.” 

A jolt goes through the room, through Abigail and Elias, through Jon. When he looks at the receptionist’s face again, it’s stricken. 

“Sir, I never thought--”

Mr. Wright hummed. “I suppose you didn’t. We’ll speak later, Abigail. Get me someone from Artifacts Storage. Someone with a good, strong box.” He turns to Jon. “I suppose you know what it does?”

“I--” Jon nods. “There’s a door. And. Legs. Mr. Spider, he--does that mean you believe me?”

“Of course I do, Jonathan,” says Mr. Wright. “You’ve been very smart to come here today. If you follow me, I’ll take your statement.”

Jon’s heart leaps in his throat. “You’ll help me?”

Mr. Wright says, “Right downstairs, Jonathan. Everything worthwhile happens in the Archives. It’s the soul of the Institute, really.” He turns to Elias. “Elias, would you show him the way? I have to see the book is delivered safely to Artifacts. I’d hate to lose someone to a Leitner.”

Elias nods, moving between Jon and Mr. Wright--no, Jon and the book. Or both. He places himself between them like a shield. “Of course, Mr. Wright.”

“I did tell you to call me James, Elias.” He nods to them both. “I’ll be down in just a moment. A first aid kit for our friends’ hands, perhaps? And Abigail, if you might come down to my office at the end of the day.”

Abigail swallows, her face looking pinched. “Of course, sir.”

“Excellent. It won’t be a moment, Jonathan.”

“I… alright.” Jon nods. “Thank you.”

“Are you parents with you here today?”

“I, no, my Nan, she--” The words die in his throat. “No one will notice I’m gone, really.” 

Mr. Wright takes this in with an even nod. “Off you go, then.”

And Jon does, all the way down, until the chill gloom of the Archives has swallowed him up. Elias sets him up at a table, and offers him some water, and takes Jon’s hands in his own to pull the remaining pins out. He sets about cleaning them with medical wipes, then wrapping them in thick white gauze.

“Why did you put pins in your hand?” he says, as he adds tape to the junction of Jon’s wrist. 

Shrugging, Jon pulls his hands back, cradling them close to his chest. “I… wanted to open the book. Even after… what it did.” He studies the bandages with a careful interest. His voice drops until it’s barely there. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything so bad.”

Elias regards him carefully. “Must have been frightening,” he says eventually. 

Jon doesn’t answer. He looks back at the shelves

“Everything alright?” prompts Elias.

Jon jolts. “I--sorry.” He cranes around in his chair. “Is anyone else here, do you know?”

Elias raises an eyebrow. “With Gertrude gone? I very much doubt anyone would dare. She’s like a rabid hyena with this place. No one’s allowed in when she’s not here--Mr. Wright being an exception, of course.”

Jon doesn’t see. He doesn’t know who Gertrude is. He itches, deep inside, looking at those shelves. “I… just thought someone was watching me, is all.”

He sits at a table while Elias sets up a tape recorder, and taps his fingers, and stares at the shelves. He gets an odd feeling, staring at those shelves. Like he’s looking in the mouth of a cave. Like he wants to climb inside. 

“You’ve had a large scare,” says Elias. “Do you have your folks’ number? Anyone I can call?”

Jon thinks of Nan, of Tommy sitting at the table. His head hurts. “I’m worried that--”

“That will be all, Elias,” says Mr. Wright. 

Elias jolts. “Of course,” he says, blinking. “I was just about to get our friend’s contact information here--”

“I’ll handle that. You may leave now.”

Nodding, Elias says, “Yes, sir.” He smiles at Jon in a way Jon thinks is meant to be comforting. “Come find me before you go, okay? You can wait with me until your parents get here. You shouldn’t be heading off alone.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Elias,” says Mr. Wright, taking his place in the chair across from Jon. He sets a tape recorder on the table, then waits for Elias to leave before he presses the button. Jon wishes he had stayed, but he doesn’t say it. “Right then. Statement of Jonathan Sims regarding his encounter with the book ‘A Guest for Mr. Spider.’ Statement taken directly from subject, the seventh of January, 1995. Statement begins.”

He nods to Jon.

“I--” Those eyes watch him from the stacks, watch him shift, watch him squirm, those awful eyes he cannot see. A part of him wants to stare back. “I don’t like reading things that I feel I’ve already read before. It’s like, after the first, it feels like I’ve already crawled inside their minds and learned all they have to say. I like reading, but I like reading new things. My mum always said it was good, said I was curious, but Nan, she thinks I just like to be difficult. She found the book in a charity shop, and the second I saw it, I knew I hated it…”

~*~

Mr. Wright lets the tape recorder run after Jon’s words have already run dry. He stares at him from the other end of the table, silent, watching. 

Jon shifts uneasily. “So. Do you believe me?”

A beat. And then:

“Oh, it’s hardly a matter of belief, Jonathan. Do you believe in fate?”

Jon blinks. “Like… I was meant to find the book?”

“The Web certainly seems to think so. What say you?”

“I…” This doesn’t feel right, somehow, doesn’t feel like this is how the conversation is meant to go, but Jon feels himself slipping further down it’s spiral anyway. The words had flowed out of him methodically, rhythmically, like he was always meant to say them. He doesn’t want to stop. “I say I don’t want to be a mobile home for cobwebs.”

Mr. Wright smirks. “I suppose not, no.”

“Are… you going to help me?” Jon shifts in his seat, and he realizes he never heard anyone say anything about help, not upstairs, not in the ad. Just research. Just a statement. “Tommy Bradstaff, he’s probably still in my neighborhood. He’ll be mad when I don’t knock.”

“Yes, he is a dilemma.” Mr. Wright hums again. “Not a very large one though. These temporary hosts never last very long. Don’t hold together very well.”

Dimly, Jon thinks he should get up and leave in the same way he once thought he should stop reading that book. He thinks he’s afraid in the same way he was afraid when he saw that final page, though he does not know why. 

“I--” He cranes in his chair. “Are you sure there’s no one here?”

“There’s you and there’s me,” Mr. Wright tells him, evenly, and those eyes are still staring. “Who else could there be?”

“Someone’s watching me,” insists Jon. 

Mr. Wright cocks his head. “Do you think what happened to you could have happened to anyone, Jon?”

“What does this have to do with anything?” Mr. Wright does not answer. Jon huffs. “Anyone who read it, I suppose. What does it matter?”

“Anyone can act as spider food, that’s true,” acknowledges Mr. Wright, like he’s discussing the weather. “Your Tommy Bradstaff proves that well enough. But do you think the Web would have pursued anyone, Jonathan?”

“I… don’t recall ever telling you my name.”

“There are special people in this world, Jonathan, I truly do believe it. People above the rest. I think you’ve been noticed as one.”

Something horrible worms itself into his stomach. His palms itch. The shelves watch. “I… should go. My Nan is going to be wondering where I am.”

“No she’s not. You said it yourself: No one will miss you for hours.”

Jon pushes his chair back with a screech. His heart beats furiously, and he’s still not absolutely certain as to why. “I think I want to go now. Please.”

“Oh, that’s hardly safe. The Web’s likely been waiting for you since the moment you walked through these doors. You might not even make it to the train station before it moved.”

“I…” Jon falters. “Someone’s watching, aren’t they?”

Carefully, calmly, Mr. Wright reaches his hand in his pocket and digs something out. Jon can’t see it, the thing in his fist, but he knows there’s something inside, something terrible. He hates it in the same way he hated the book. 

“I’d like to make a deal with you, Jonathan.” He opens his hand then, palm up, to reveal an entirely ordinary coin, silver and shining. “Call the toss.”

Just barely, Jon shakes his head. He stares at that coin, that hand, and he feels like he’s staring down at a long, hard drop, and he doesn’t know why. “I... don’t want to.”

“Call the toss,” repeats Mr. Wright, like Jon hadn’t even spoken. “And if you win it, I’ll save you from the Web.”

“I--” Jon falters. “That… thing won’t get me?”

Mr. Wright smiles thinly. “You have my word.”

“Heads, then.” 

And the coin flips. Over and up. End over end. 

Mr. Wright does not look at it when he catches it. He just closes his hand over it and stands. “Follow me, Jon. I’ll show you the way out.”

Jon’s breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or not. He thinks he just feels sick. He gets up to follow, then stumbles briefly. His vision blurs, and Jon blinks. 

“Everything alright?” says Mr. Wright. 

Jon blinks again, then frowns. He must have gotten turned around when he stumbled. He could have sworn that he was facing the other half of the archives. He turns around, back the right way.

Shaking his head, he follows Mr. Wright past the stacks, through the shelves, back, back, back, right to the door which leads to the staircase which leads to the main lobby. They followed the exact path Elias had led Jon through when he first came, step for step. Jon is certain of it. The door that Mr. Wright opens is the door to the stairwell. The door that Jon walks through leads to the stairs. He sees them as he walks through.

Which is why Jon… can’t really explain why, a moment later, the image of the stairs melts away, only to be replaced by a clean, tidy old room with a desk and a stack of files and a cot in the corner. 

“Hm, this isn’t an ideal place for you,” says Mr. Wright, idly thoughtful. “But it will have to do until I can make proper arrangements. Gertrude won’t be back for a few days, luckily, so you won’t be bothered here.”

Jon turns just in time to see the door swing shut. 

“Mr. Wright!”

(The door locks.)

~*~

Mr. Wright does not come back. Not for a long time. 

Jon doesn’t know exactly how long, because there isn’t a clock in the Head Archivist’s office. There’s a name plate--Gertrude Robinson--and a set of drawers filled with meaningless baubles--a fistful of paperclips, a flashlight, some blank pages and old tapes--and an iron-cast set of keys that do not open the door of the room he’s trapped in. There aren’t any windows, either, and there’s no way to tell if it’s been two hours or two days since Mr. Wright locked him in here. 

Jon has been in the office long enough to scream himself hoarse calling for help. Long enough to beat his fists bloody against the door. Long enough to wonder if Tommy Bradstaff has killed Nan yet, or if he’s still waiting for Jon to kill himself first. Long enough to curl up on the carpet in despair and cry himself to sleep. 

When he wakes, Mr. Wright is there. Sitting in the armchair across. Watching him.

“Sleeping on the floor when there’s a perfectly good cot in the room? Honestly, Jonathan. Have a little decorum.”

Slowly, Jon sits up. The carpet clings to his cheek painfully as he rises, pulling at the imprints in his skin. He scoots back against the wall. 

Mr. Wright raises an eyebrow expectantly.

Jon licks his lips. “I want to go home.”

Mr. Wright looks disappointed, pursing his lips like Jon had asked the wrong thing. “That’s hardly likely, now is it?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“You won the toss. Congratulations.”

Jon’s mouth goes dry. “You said you’d help me.”

“I said I’d protect you from the Web’s puppet. He’s hardly likely to feed you to Mr. Spider here, now is he?”

“You can’t keep me in here forever.”

“No,” allows Mr. Wright, inclining his head slightly. “Though I had hardly been planning to.” 

“What are you going to do to me?”

Mr. Wright ignores him. “I brought you food. Not much in lieu of a proper meal, I’m afraid, but you’ll survive.”

There is an apple and a protein bar on the table, with a water bottle besides. Jon doesn’t so much as look at them. 

“People are going to come down here,” he says, with a bravado he doesn’t feel. “They’ll find me.” 

“Let me worry about that, Jonathan,” says Mr. Wright, and he stands. “I’ll be back in a few hours with your dinner. Try not to get into any trouble.”

Stumbling, Jon tries to stand, but his legs collapse from under him like a half-broken folding table. “Wait, please--”

(The door locks.)

~*~

He comes back with a cold cheese sandwich, an apple, and some water, and he still does not let Jon out.

Jon is waiting for him, that time, tucked against the frame of the door and waiting for it to open. When it finally does, he almost doesn’t realize, and his surprise costs him a good few seconds. 

That’s too much, as it turns out. 

Mr. Wright catches him easily when Jon tries to dart through the crack, tossing him back with a strength surprising for his age. Jon’s back hits the floor, and the wind goes out of him, and Mr. Wright watches it all with a calm, appraising look. 

“That wasn’t very smart,” he tells him, evenly, “now was it?” 

Jon scrambles back.

Sighing, Mr. Wright steps inside, shutting the door behind him. The lock snaps closed cleanly. Jon flinches at the noise.

“I think it’s time we set some ground rules,” says Mr. Wright, settling the food on the desk beside its uneaten counterparts before he strides to the other end, seating himself solidly in Gertrude Robinson’s chair. He gestures to the chair opposite. 

Jon doesn’t move.

Mr. Wright’s voice turns sharp. “You’re not an animal, Jonathan. Get off of the floor.”

Jon turns red despite himself. He stands, then, after a moment, settles himself on the edge of the chair.

“Eat your food, Jonathan.”

“I’m not hungry,” lies Jon.

Mr. Wright smiles humorlessly. “We’ve arrived at rule number one, then. When I tell you to do something, you do it.”

Jon swallows. He still does not reach for the food.

Mr. Wright moves to stand. 

Shaking, Jon snatches the apple out from before him. He takes a small, tentative bite, his teeth barely breaking the bright red skin, before he drops his hand and the apple alike back to his lap.

“All of it,” says Mr. Wright, and he watches as Jon takes in every last bit, apple, sandwich, and water alike. 

Jon feels vaguely ill as he settles back in his chair. The food sits in his stomach like a rock. He didn’t like having to eat it, and he doesn’t like the way Mr. Wright is still watching him.

“Good boy, Jonathan,” says Mr. Wright, warmly, and something twists unpleasantly in Jon’s gut. “Rule number two. Do not try to go anywhere I do not say first. We wouldn’t want you getting hurt, now would we?”

Jon swallows. “Are you going to hurt me?”

“I’m sure I won’t have to.”

Tears push at the back of Jon’s eyes. Something hot and thick lodges itself in his throat. He swallows it back. 

“Now, there’s something I want you to do for me,” says Mr. Wright, calm and understanding, “and if you do it, I won’t hurt you. Do you understand?”

Jon nods shakily. 

“Good boy,” says Mr. Wright again, but the words sound bitter to Jon’s ears, and he hates them, he hates him. He wants to go home. Mr. Wright slides a thin manila folder across the table, then settles a tape recorder between them. It turns on without anyone pressing the button. “I want you to read it for me.”

“I--” Jon blinks “--what?”

“I do not enjoy repeating myself, Jonathan.”

Jon swallows. He opens the folder. Skims it. It’s a statement, one of the Institute’s. It’s yellowed, with odd brown stains, and it tells the story of an old soldier who cheated death but didn’t live. “I--just read it?”

“Now, Jonathan.”

There’s a sharpness in Mr. Wright’s voice. Jon hurriedly picks up the papers. 

“‘Are you interested in folk tales at all? I know I’m--’”

“Stop.”

Jon freezes. 

“That’s hardly a proper introduction, now is it? We don’t have any information about who’s talking. We don’t know who is recording, or what your position within the Institute is. We don’t have the slightest idea why they gave the statement. Anyone who wanted to look back on it would have to listen to the whole thing to know if it had even the slightest relevance to the matter of their research, and that’s hardly productive. Start again. Give us the raw details of the case first.”

“I--” Jon sets the pages down again, his heart beating fast. “What?”

“What did I say about--”

“You kidnapped me.”

Jon’s chest heaves. He grips the page between tight, white fingers, panic clawing at his throat as he watches the paper crinkle in his grasp. It pulls, taunt, and Jon can see thin tears begin to form where his fingers dig at the page. 

Mr. Wright’s jaw sets hard in his face. “I would suggest you calm yourself, Jonathan.”

Jon’s mouth twists into something awful, and his ragged breaths quicken before calming all at once. He slams the page back against the desk’s surface.

“ Fine --I--Statement recorded by Jonathan Sims, captive of the Magnus Institute, who--who’s locked up in a dusty old office by Mr. Wright and--and--he’s crazy and I want to go home--”

Mr. Wright hits him. 

Jon hadn’t been expecting it, not really, though perhaps he should have. He was kidnapped, after all. It shouldn’t have surprised him that Mr. Wright was willing to hurt him. 

The hit is enough to send him tumbling off his chair, though not enough to do any real damage. His jaw aches something fierce and Jon knows there will be a bruise, but he’s broken bones before and this isn’t one. 

It hurts, though, and the spiraling panic that had been circulating through Jon’s brain since Mr. Wright first locked the door starts to shudder through his mind. God--unless Jon escapes, he’s going to hurt him, if not kill him, and even if Jon escapes then Tommy Bradstaff is waiting for him outside the Institute walls. Jon’s… Jon’s going to die soon. And it’s going to hurt. 

He doesn’t realize the exact moment he starts crying. One moment he’s on the ground and the next there’s hot tears spilling down his face, and his chest is heaving, and he can’t stop them again. He wants to calm down but he can’t, not with Mr. Wright watching him like that.

Mr. Wright keeps watching him. Right up until the tears run out. 

“Calmed down now, have we?” he says, lightly, as if nothing had been truly wrong. “Is your little tantrum over?”

Cheeks burning, Jon nods, then picks himself off the ground and slides back into the chair. He doesn’t meet Mr. Wright’s eyes. 

“Good. Start again.”

Jon licks his lips, and his tongue tastes of iron. He looks at the papers and the words begin to pass through his parted lips, one after another, as if they were pulled out on a hook. “Statement of Nathaniel Thorpe, regarding… his own mortality. Original statement given June 4th, 1972. Recording by Jonathan Sims, the, um, just… Jon Sims, I suppose. 

“Statement begins.”

~*~

Mr. Wright is smiling at him by the end of it, that thin-lipped, creepy smile that Jon is so quickly starting to hate. He nods appreciatively as the tape recorder clicks off. “Excellent work, Jonathan. That went even better than I expected.”

“I--right--” Jon set the paper down gingerly. He feels… dizzy, he thinks, too light and untethered, like he might float away. He feels tired. He feels like he’s going to throw up. “Did… was there something in that water?”

A wrinkled hand settles against his forehead lightly before it migrates down, cupping his cheek. Mr. Wright peers carefully into his face. “Hmm. Took more than a little out of you, it seems.”

“I feel--” Jon tries to speak, but the words just roll around in his mouth like marbles, too heavy and clumsy for his tongue to ever lift. The light hurts his eyes, suddenly. “Did you give me something?”

“Easy, Jonathan,” murmurs Mr. Wright, moving to his side. “Don’t go upsetting yourself now.” 

Distantly, Jon’s aware of Mr. Wright’s arms hooking under his, of him guiding him up and out of the chair and supporting his fawn-clumsy steps. He leads him to the cot in the corner and helps him lie down. 

“Rest now,” Mr. Wright tells him, and Jon feels his papery-white fingers twist their way through his dark, tangled hair. “Can’t have you making yourself ill, can we?”

Jon feels like he should say something clever then, but he also feels like if he ever opens his mouth again, he’ll vomit, so he elects to keep it shut. He tries to keep his eyes open but the room swims horribly the more he looks, so he squeezes them closed and prays for the room to still beneath him. There’s a chill at his back cutting through the thin fabric of his shirt, and Jon thinks there might be a vent there, something to let the air in. He wonders if he can shout through it for help, and then wonders if he’ll ever be able to shout again. He can’t open his mouth. 

Jon falls asleep as Mr. Wright begins a hum, and his last thoughts are of the chill of the air and the spin of the room, and of the thin, pale fingers crawling their way through his hair. 

~*~

When Jon wakes, Mr. Wright is gone, and he’s alone.

He blinks hazily, his eyelids coming apart reluctantly against the grit. The dim lights overhead burn when he peels them open, like knives in his brain, and Jon quickly shuts them again. 

His head pounds. 

It takes him a good twenty minutes to feel human enough to try to open them again, and a good ten minutes after that to be able to sit up. His mouth is dry and rancid, his tongue too thick in his mouth to have any hope for speech, and his throat isn’t much better. 

There’s a needle in his arm, feeding into an IV line that hangs from a coat hanger attached to a shelf. Jon blinks at it, confused, before he moves to fumble with the tape pinning it down.

“Don’t touch that, Jonathan.”

Jon flinches. 

He hadn’t noticed the door opening, hadn’t heard the heavy, lead-soled footsteps that always heralded the arrival of Mr. Wright. 

Mr. Wright frowns at him. In long, quick strides, he crosses the room, pressing his leathered palm to Jon’s forehead and forcing his head upwards. He forces their eyes to meet. “Still feverish I see.”

Jon swallows. 

Mr. Wright releases him a moment later. “Drink this,” he commands, shoving a lukewarm water bottle in his hands. Then, a moment later, he snaps, “All of it.”

Jon’s stomach aches by the time he’s allowed to lower the bottle again, and his tongue feels odd and swollen. “How long was I asleep for?”

Mr. Wright looks at him sharply, and Jon flinches. After a moment of watching, he says, “A few days.”

Jon startles. 

“You’ll be glad to hear that you won’t have to be here for much longer,” continues Mr. Wright, headless of Jon’s distress. “My arrangements for you are almost complete. We’ll be moving to a more permanent location tonight.”

Tears well up in the corner of Jon’s eyes once more. He tries to push them back, but they press harder, stronger, and Jon soon finds them spilling over the corners of his lids and down his cheeks. Mr. Wright sighs, looking over at him with thin, pressed lips, but that just makes Jon cry harder. Soon, he’s a mess of hiccups and sobs and wet, sticky snot, and he presses his forehead to his bunched knees in an attempt to hide from those awful eyes. 

Mr. Wright says nothing as Jon wracks with shuddering sobs. He just watches. 

“All done?” he asks, lightly, when his tears finally slow, but that just sends him into another spiral. Mr. Wright sighs. 

When Jon is close to calm, Mr. Wright jabs a handkerchief in his direction. “Clean yourself,” he orders, and Jon obeys, face red and tight. 

Mr. Wright regards him with cold, clear eyes. “Do try to avoid similar demonstrations in the future,” he says, his voice light with danger. “I hardly have the patience for them.”

Jon squeezes his eyes shut. In a small, thin voice, he says, “I want to go home.”

“You’ve established that.” Mr. Wright steps towards him, and Jon flinches backwards, crowding against the wall. Rather than striking him again, however, Mr. Wright merely takes his wrist in his hand and places the tips of his fingers against the pulse point. He frowns. “And I believe I have established that that won’t be happening.”

Jon sucks in a horrible, shuddering breath, and the fingers against his wrist tighten, nails digging into skin. “I want my mum.”

Mr. Wright scoffs. “You’re not even going to ask for something possible?”

Jon flinches.

His list of wants are impossible at the moment, he knows, bound away by the breach of time and distance. He still wants them.

He wants his mum. (His mum is dead.)

He wants his dad. (His dad is dead.)

He wants Nan. (Nan doesn’t want him.)

He wants to go home. (Mr. Wright won’t let him.)

He wants to go home . (Tommy Bradstaff is home, waiting.)

He wants to go home. (He can’t.)

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ll display a modicum of decorum when I bring you out from this room?” says Mr. Wright, a sour look on his face. “Allow me to take this moment to make myself clear: There will be no one else in the building when we leave. There will be no one around the building. There will be no one to hear you. If you try to run, I will find you, and the consequences will be… considerable . Am I understood?”

Jon presses his face back into his knees. He jerks a nod. 

“In words, Jonathan.”

“Yes,” whispers Jon. 

“In the meantime, I want you to rest in here.” Mr. Wright’s eyes rove over him in another awful, searing glance. “Do not excite yourself. I will be leaving you additional bottles of water, and I expect them all to be consumed by the time I return. You will remain in bed and out of trouble.” 

There’s a rustle of fabric, the creak of a chair, and then Mr. Wright’s footsteps are moving closer, until Jon can feel him hovering inches away. “Lie down, Jonathan.”

For a moment, Jonathan scrunches closer, presses his forehead harder against his knees as if it could possibly protect him. Then, trembling, he unwinds himself, and settles against the cot as if it were made of ironcast nails. 

Huffing a breath, Mr. Wright takes his arm in his hand once more. His fingers are cold when he presses them to his wrist, hard as a bone, and Jon buries his face into the pillow and squeezes his eyes shut. 

“You’ve worked yourself into a state,” mutters Mr. Wright, accusingly. “If you continue like this, you’ll make yourself sick.”

At this, his grip on Jon’s wrist slacks, and Jon hurriedly slips it free and tucks it to his chest. He presses his face harder into the pillow. 

For a moment, Jon thinks it might be over, and that Mr. Wright might leave him alone once more. But Mr. Wright does not leave. Rather, he settles into the desk chair and waits, watching him. 

And his eyes never leave him. Jon feels his gaze until the moment he falls asleep. 

~*~

There is a draft at Jon’s back. He feels it when he lies in the cot, which is always, as Mr. Wright never gives him leave to get out. He tries, a few times, but Mr. Wright unfailingly knows, and when he tells Jon that he disobeyed again, it… isn’t pleasant. 

So Jon spends a lot of time in the bed. He spends a lot of time feeling the draft. 

Because this is a soundproof room. This is a sealed room. There shouldn’t be a draft. And even if there were a draft, it shouldn’t be coming from beneath him. 

Which means there must be an opening somewhere. One Jon could find. One Jon could use. 

An air vent, at least. Something he could scream into. Ideally, a way out, but Jon’s not holding out too much hope. 

Slowly, Jon sits up. He gets out of bed, and he pulls the cot from the wall. 

Frowning, he inspects the floor, looking for any sign of anything. The carpet beneath is dull and grey and faintly stained, speckled with rusty brown splotches that Jon tells himself is coffee. But there’s no… secret trapdoor that’s going to save him. No way out. 

Jon huffs a breath, frustrated. Holding both palms out, he runs it along the edges of the carpet, feeling carefully along. His fingers graze upon a bump, and when he pushes, it slips beneath. 

Jon blinks. Excited now, he digs his fingers deeper, and the carpet gives way beneath them, coming up to reveal a dull brown door. 

It’s… a secret trapdoor that’s going to save him. Jon laughs, giddy, high-pitched, and he tugs it open. 

The cold air hits him first. It’s musty and wet, and it smells of moss and stale, aged water. As Jon peers down, all he sees is darkness, endless and deep. He can’t see more than a few inches past the doorway. 

It’s Mr. Wright that makes the decision for him. 

He hears the footsteps hammer overhead, for the first time panicked. Every other time he descended the stairwell, it had been a calm, leisurely thudding, giving Jon plenty of time to be afraid as he approached. This time, however, Mr. Wright is sprinting. 

There’s a flashlight in the corner. Jon lunges for it. As he catches sight of the window, he sees the door to the Archives open, and Mr. Wright sprints through. 

He has another locked door to get through before he can get to Jon. Jon, however, does not. 

He lets his legs hang over the edge, into the darkness below, and he hopes that the drop is not too far. He pushes off right as he hears the key slip into the lock. 

And he falls. 

Chapter Text

The stone is wet when he lands. 

The fall is short but Jon slips when his feet hit the surface below, his hands coming up before him to shield his fall. Beneath his hands there is a mossy, clinging wetness, and a cold which cuts through his palms and into his bones. 

Above him, Jon hears footsteps. Running steps. 

He shoves himself to his feet, fleeing the small square of light from the trap door above and rushing blindly into the dark beyond. He holds his hands out before him, searching for a door, a wall, anything but the dark. 

He’s barely ten steps past where he landed before he can no longer see his hands. 

His palm strikes against a wall. Another burst of muggy, clinging cold against his skin. 

Behind him, something lands heavy on the tile, and a grunt follows not a moment later. Jon darts further into the darkness, a hand braced against the wall. 

In the dark, Jon hears footsteps. Mr. Wright’s voice follows him, low and calm and entreating. 

“The tunnels are dangerous, Jonathan.” 

Jon hits another wall. He clamps a hand over his mouth to stop his gasp. 

“They go on for miles, you know,” continues Mr. Wright, and the click click click of his heels on stone follows his words with hardly a beat between them. “You’ll be lost, and I won’t be able to find you down here, and neither will anyone else. If you wander too deep, you won’t be able to find your way back.” There’s a beat. Mr. Wright’s voice grows louder. “If you come back now, I won’t punish you. We’ll pretend it never happened.” 

Jon’s eyes burn. His heart beats so loudly that even Mr. Wright must hear it. 

 For a few minutes, Mr. Wright continues to call him, though he never seems to drift far from the entrance. A few minutes pass. The footsteps retreat across the tile, and there’s a scuffle, and the slam of the trap door. 

Jon’s relaxes. He lets out a ragged, gulping breath. 

There’s a scuttle of footsteps in his direction. 

Jon jerks himself backwards. He flees into the dark, feet banging on the cobblestones, footsteps trailing behind. He runs until he can’t hear them anymore, the footsteps or Mr. Wright or the sound of his own name. The only sound is the drip drip drip of ancient water he could never hope to see and his own heaving, sobbing gasps. 

It is dark. And Jon is afraid. 

He doesn’t dare turn on the flashlight, though. It stays clutched to his chest, a token of the office more than any actual help. Not until he’s carefully listened for Mr. Wright for minutes and minutes and minutes more. 

The beam is yellow and dusty, offering nothing more than a puddle of amber-colored light against the ancient stonework. Jon sobs when he sees it. 

The twisting of the halls echo his sob back to him, and with each new iteration, it sounds slightly more distorted, and in slightly more pain. 

With a trembling hand, Jon casts the light about him. The halls are hewn of the same musty, damp stone as the floor beneath, and they are lined with doors every few feet, each of a different shape and height. 

Jon creeps forward to the nearest door, a short, circular door made of fossilized wood and a rusted brass doorknob. It creaks loudly when he opens it, and the sound spirals out and comes back, redoubled, different. Inside, there is a single chair turned on its side set before a dusty, lonely dining room table. There is no other exit. 

Jon pulls back. He drags the beam of the light past the hall with its many lurking doors. 

He begins to walk. His footsteps ring loudly about him, and when they return, they do not sound like his own.  

~*~

Jon’s shoulders slump forwards when the door opens. He hears footsteps approach, and sees a pair of shiny black shoes come closer to where he sits, ensconced on the break room couch. There is a blanket around his shoulders and a cup of something warm in his hands--the woman had told him what as she handed it to him, blonde and brown eyed with lipstick smudged over her front tooth, and Jon can’t remember her name or the name of the drink or anything she said. The fluorescents overhead had been buzzing so loudly, and they had been so very bright, and he had winced and flinched at anyone who came near. 

He hadn’t let them take him to the hospital. He screamed when they tried. 

There is a monster outside of these walls, peering in. He can feel it glaring at him. It is going to eat Jon as soon as he peeks out after it.

The monster had followed him from the tunnels, he’s certain on it. He had felt it watching him the moment he stumbled out of that rusted alleyway door, isolated, hidden from the glare of city lights. Jon had sobbed when he felt the cool, crisp night air hit his face, clean and sharp the way that follows rain. There were no cars passing in the nearby street, and no people anywhere near the secluded little alcove that housed the tunnel’s exit.

He doesn’t know how he made it out of there alive. 

It felt like he had been wandering for days before he found the door out. The tunnels were labyrinthine and endless, and at times, Jon could swear the walls moved. By the time he finally found the staircase leading up, his throat was painfully dry and his stomach had long since moved past mere hunger pangs. 

And he almost didn’t find it, Jon remembers, painfully. He wouldn’t have even noticed that passageway--it had been so small, barely there, really, and the dim light of the flashlight had only grown weaker, and Jon wouldn’t have dared another small passageway after the last one even if he had noticed it. Except. He walked down the other passageway first. 

The spiders. There had been so many of them. 

When he fled down the opposite passageway, he found a spiral staircase waiting at its end, rusted and ancient. At the top had been a door. An exit. 

He had staggered through the streets until he found a building labeled Police Station. He went inside, walked to the front counter, and told the person manning it that he wanted to go home. 

They had put him in the break room, and Jon had heard whispers of calling a social worker and an ambulance. Then, the mob had retreated, though he could still hear them behind the door, whispering. 

The woman who enters is short and thin, with a neatly tucked white shirt beneath her black police vest. She smiles at Jon when she sees him look. She tells him to call her Olivia. 

Jon looks back down. 

Olivia settles across from Jon, perched at the edge of an identical couch. “Can I ask your name?”

There’s a beat. 

“Jon,” says Jon, eventually. “Jon Sims.”

She smiles at him wider, a mix of encouragement and pity. “It’s nice to meet you, Jon Sims. I have to ask you a few questions now, if you don’t mind, and then we’ll talk about what comes next. Alright?”

After a moment, Jon nods, just once. 

“Do you mind if I record?”

“I… suppose it’s alright.”

Olivia smiles at him again, as if he said the right thing. Out of her pocket, she pulls a tape recorder, and she clicks it on, settling it on the coffee table between them. 

“Could you repeat your name, just once more, for the record?”

Jon’s lips pinch sharply downward at the sight of the recorder, but he does it regardless of that fact. 

“Now, Jon, can you tell me what happened to you?”

Jon had been dreading this part. He flinches. “You’ll think me mad.”

“I promise I won’t.”

Jon really, really doubts that. 

He’s not stupid. He sounds crazy. A book tried to eat him so he went to the Magnus Institute for help, and they locked him in a little room and made him record a weird story that made him feel sick. Then, he wandered for forever in the secret network of underground tunnels beneath the Magnus Institute before he finally came here. 

They’re going to say he’s making things up again. Adults always say that. 

“Adults don’t like me,” Jon admits, shamefully. “I wander too much.”

“Is that what happened to you? You wandered somewhere?” asks Olivia. 

“No,” snaps Jon, and then he sucks in a breath. “I mean, sort of. I went somewhere, but I knew where I was going and I was supposed to be back that same day. I don’t even know what day it is anymore and… I couldn’t go back.”

Olivia leans forward. “What happened, Jon?”

“He locked me in a room,” says Jon, after a moment, and his voice is soft. “And he wouldn’t let me leave.”

“Who is he, Jon?” presses Olivia. “Do you know his name? Do you know where the room was?”

Jon nods, eventually. “His name was Mr. Wright. He works at the Magnus Institute.” 

Olivia’s brow furrows. 

Jon flinches backwards. “You don’t believe me,” he says, accusatorial, and he pulls his legs to his chest. “Adults never do, and they never help, and you won’t help and Mr. Wright will lock me up again--”

His voice breaks off into a sob.

“Jon, Jon, no--” A weight settles at his side. “Jon, can I touch you?”

Jon sobs harder. He gives a slight inclination of his head. 

Olivia’s arms wrap around him, wiry and steady. She tucks Jon to her chest. 

“I believe you, Jon,” she says. “We’re going to help you, I promise. Now, this is important, I need you to tell me where he locked you up. Did he take you to another building? His house, maybe?”

Jon swipes at his cheeks, the heel of his hand dragging painfully against his skin. Shaking his head, he says, “We never left the Institute. There was an office in the basement. It belonged to a woman named Gertrude. She wasn’t in, for whatever reason, and the basement was soundproofed, so no one could hear me shouting. No one ever came inside other than Mr. Wright.” 

Olivia nods, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head slightly. “Alright, Jon. Now, what we’re going to do is, I’m going to pop out for a moment, and I’m going to have some of my friends out there find Mr. Wright. In the meantime, we’ll be taking you to the hospital--don’t worry, I’ll be going with you--and we’re going to fix you up and call your parents, and there will be a bit more questions after that, okay? How does that sou--”

Olivia does not finish her question. Instead, an odd, wet gurgling noise comes out of her mouth, and a red line paints itself across her neck, from beneath one ear to all the way to the other, and something hot and wet and red splatters across Jon’s face. When Jon blinks, the scene before him blurs, twists, takes a new shape, and he can finally see the old, weathered hand through the plastic of the glove, and it covers Olivia’s mouth. 

Another hand clamps over Jon’s mouth before he can so much as scream, and it wrenches him from his chair and against someone’s side. 

It doesn’t take long for her to stop moving. Jon watches as it happens. 

“You are a very, very stupid boy,” hisses Mr. Wright, low and furious in Jon’s ear. “I would have let her live if you had just kept your stupid mouth shut. I would have even let you go.” 

Jon tries to scream. Mr. Wright’s hand clamps down harder, forcing his jaw shut with a bone-cracking snap. 

“We are going to walk out there together,” he hisses. “And you are not to make a single sound. You are to walk quietly outside. If you so much as whimper, you will die, and so will the other people in the room. You are not going to run. You are going to do exactly as I say. Nod if you understand.” 

Jon nods frantically. 

Mr. Wright releases him. 

Jon falls to the ground, his jaw clamped tightly shut and his hands coming up over his head. Mr. Wright pays him little heed, instead scooping up the tape recorder from the table, not even clicking it off before setting it in his pocket. He begins to look over the scene around them with a careful eye, and it is in that moment that Jon realizes his clothes are covered in plastic and his shoes have slips over them, that there are gloves covering his bloody red hands and a net covering his hair and a mask covering his face. 

Jon’s read more than a few grisly detective novels in his day. There won’t be any evidence to be found. 

Olivia sits on the couch, eyes still open, staring at nothing. Blood leaks from the slit in her neck, turning her shirt from white to a sticky, leaking red. It trails down the length of her arm, down the line of her fingers, dripping a small puddle on the floor. 

Jon picks up her wrist in his hand. He gives it a small shake. “Olivia.”

It’s more of a breath than a word, soft, barely there. Mr. Wright doesn’t so much as glance at him. 

Olivia does not move, because dead people never do. Jon thinks she’s dead. He thinks it’s his fault.

Jon gives it another slight shake. “Olivia, Olivia, please. You promised.” 

Mr. Wright glares at him that time. He takes a step towards Jon. 

Jon’s whispers become more urgent, more afraid. There is a scream in his throat but he doesn’t let it out, not with Mr. Wright so close. He’s a coward. There’s a police station full of cops past that door and Jonathan Sims is a coward, because he won’t dare signal a one of them. Not with Mr. Wright right there, with his knife and his anger and the way he impossibly twists Jon’s sight. Jon swipes at his eyes, and he smears blood across his face, and his tears mix with it as they stream. 

He’s a monster.

He’s going to take Jon back. 

“Please,” whispers Jon. “Please, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Wright’s hand clamps over Jon’s mouth once more. He jerks Jon back by the throat and makes him stand. 

“Not a sound,” he hisses, and then he moves him towards the door. 

No one looks towards the door as it opens, and no one looks towards Jon and Mr. Wright as they step out, Jon led by the arm and both covered in blood. 

It’s like they can’t see them. It’s like they’re not even there. 

Mr. Wright squeezes Jon’s arm painfully. Jon walks. 

He hears them, as he passes, and they’re talking about Oliva, and they’re talking about Jon, as if one were still alive and the other wasn’t doomed. 

“Do you think she’s doing alright in there?” asks one, sipping at a mug, and he’s talking about poor, dead Olivia, with her shirt soaked in blood. “I mean, she must be, she hasn’t come out yet.”

His desk mate shakes her head. “Poor kid seemed scared to death,” she says, and she’s talking about Jon, who is inches from her, and he is so, so afraid. “She’ll get through to him, though. She’s good with kids.”

They don’t turn to look, no one does, and Mr. Wright leads Jon out of the building and into the street. He keeps dragging Jon down the road, turning around one corner and then another. They pass a man sitting on a street corner, awake and staring ahead, scuffing his shoe against the sidewalk and flipping a coin in one hand. He whistles an unfamiliar tune. 

His tune does not falter as they pass, and he continues to flip his coin. He does not blink as Jon’s feet drag straight past his spot, leaving the imprint of his sneaker tread in a sharp red outline, and his eyes maintain their distant, unfocused look. 

It’s like Jon’s a ghost. It’s like he’s already dead. 

Mr. Wright drags him for another few blocks before tossing Jon into the passenger seat of a van. As the door slams behind him, he hears the wail of sirens start up in the distance. 

Mr. Wright climbs into the driver’s seat a moment later. He inserts the keys into the ignition, but he does not turn them. 

“There are going to be consequences for that,” he spits. He does not so much as look at Jon. “Considerable consequences.”

“You killed her,” says Jon, panic climbing in his chest, and he wishes he had screamed while they were still in the station. He thinks it might have been better to die there than die wherever Mr. Wright is taking him. His vision blurs, though he doesn’t think it’s Mr. Wright’s doing this time. He can’t stop the tears as they flood his cheeks. “You--you’re crazy.” 

Mr. Wright gives him a nasty look. “Now you’re getting it.”

Jon flinches. “There will be cameras in the station,” he babbles. He's crying. He can’t seem to stop. “They’ll catch you.”

“The police are going to discover that all of their cameras stopped working all at once,” says Mr. Wright, his voice like ice. “Temperamental things. They short circuited before you even walked in the doors. You were too petrified to tell them much of anything when you first came in, so they don’t even have your name, let alone mine, and I have the only recording telling of either. The only physical evidence they might find will be of you, fingerprints or otherwise, and I very much doubt you already have a record in the system. All they have is your face, and you were covered in detritus and your own snot when you came in. They won’t have an accurate description. They are unlikely to trace your presence there, and they certainly won’t be able to trace my presence there. Now, I suggest you start thinking very hard of ways you might survive this night, because your actions so far haven’t exactly endeared yourself to me.”

Mr. Wright keeps the car engine off for another few minutes, until the sirens have long since roared past. Then, he starts the car, and he pulls them down one side road, then another, then another, until Jon can barely tell where they are. 

Mr. Wright doesn’t look at Jon. He keeps his eyes on the road. 

Jon’s eyes dart to the door. It’s locked. He isn’t wearing a seatbelt. 

Child locks typically are only functional on back doors. The front doors usually just pop open when you try the handle. You can usually open the locks manually, even when they don’t. 

Mr. Wright isn’t looking at Jon. Jon isn’t wearing a seatbelt. 

The car slows to a stop. When Jon looks up, he sees the red glow of the stoplight. 

He waits until it changes to green. He waits for Mr. Wright to begin to move once more. And then, he dives for the door. 

It opens. Jon tumbles to the pavement. 

The wind is knocked out of him with the fall, and he rocks backwards, his arm pinned beneath his body and his legs splaying every which way. His wrist hurts something terrible, though it’s not broken. Jon broke his ankle, once, and this is not nearly the same feel.

The car moves a few precious extra meters before Mr. Wright thinks to engage the brakes. 

“Jonathan!”

But Jon is already darting down a side road, and he won’t make the mistake of stopping again.  

~*~

Mr. Wright hadn’t taken the money from his pockets when he locked Jon up. There’s enough left for a one way ticket to Bournemouth. 

Jon scrubs the blood from his face in the train station bathroom, and it’s early enough in the day that there’s no one there to see it. From there, he barely makes it onto the early train, though no one pays him much mind as he sprints through the station. He wonders if it’s for the same reason that no one paid him much mind on his trip from Bournemouth, blood on his fingers and terror on his face and a book that kills on his back. 

Jon wonders which is the part of him which makes people not want to help. 

Tucking himself into the corner of his seat, he begins to consider his plan, and the fact that he very much doesn’t have one. His eyes begin to burn again. 

He wants his mum. 

Jon swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. He can’t afford to lose his nerve now--or, well, lose it any more, considering he’s well and truly lost it no small number of times already. 

Mr. Wright is going to come after him again. And he’s got some kind of… magic… sight… thing. He’s going to kill Jon, more likely than not, if he catches him again. 

(Tommy Bradstaff is at home, waiting for him.)

Jon can’t leave Nan to him. He can’t leave her to Mr. Wright, should Mr. Wright decide to come after her as well. He’s going to go to her, and he’s going to tell her what happened, and she’s going to believe him, and they’re going to drive very far away together. And they won’t stop driving until it’s safe. And… then they’ll be safe, and it will be over. It’s… going to be okay. Jon’s going to be safe. 

He really wishes he had his mum. 

~*~

Jon’s always been a terrible runner. He’s never cared to listen when the gym teachers tell them to do laps, preferring to find a nice tree out of sight to sit under and suffer a trip to the principal’s office when he inevitably gets caught. He had always been more of the bookish sort. That is not to say, however, that being the bookish sort kept him out of trouble. He got into plenty of it; he just preferred to walk his way out of it than run.

He got caught a lot, come to think of it. 

As he sprints from the train station, he wishes that he had gotten better at it, the running thing. He’s had to do quite a bit in the past few days. He has to do more of it now, if he’s to outrun the thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff.

The train station isn’t nearly as big as the one in London, and Jon clears its doors easily. Nan’s house is too far to make on foot, but his bus pass is still in his pocket as well, and the nearest stop is not far outside of the station. Jon collapses on the bench and waits. 

All at once, the absurdity of his situation strikes him. He’s on the run for his life, twice over, from an office worker and a bully full of webs. A book tried to eat him. He got kidnapped. And he’s sitting on a bench. Waiting for a bus. 

Jon laughs, and he pretends it’s the reason for all the trembling. He’s still shaking when the bus arrives.

The stop nearest his house is a good half hour wait. Jon spends the ride perched on the edge of the seat nearest the door, gripping the vinyl seat cover and flinching at every bump. When the doors crane themselves open, he’s off like a shot, more tripping down the stairs than descending them. 

There is a car parked outside of Nan’s house. It is not Nan’s car. 

It also isn’t Mr. Wright’s car, which gives Jon hope. The exterior is a slightly shiny grey and the car itself is obviously expensive, and not the sort of car that you always hear associated with kidnappers. It’s not a beat up van, at least. 

Jon slows to a stop. 

He could still turn around, he thinks. He could get back on the bus, and ride as far as it could go, and then get on another bus, and then another one. He could turn his life into an endless stream of buses and never ever have to deal with whatever is waiting in the house. 

His feet begin to move once more. Slowly, he crosses the driveway and the lawn, and ascends the steps leading up the door like a man mounting a gallows. 

Nan is still inside. It’s as simple as that. 

Jon places his hand on the doorknob. The metal is cold as ice and bites into his palm, stinging with the intensity of the chill. With a sharp intake of breath, Jon yanks his hand back, staring down at the door in shock. 

From the crack beneath the door, tendrils of fog leaks out, icy white and biting cold. 

Jon stumbles backwards. He can see more fog now, nipping around his ankles and dissipating against the pavement. It continues its steady creep out the door. 

Jon swallows. He looks back over the lawn, and at the freedom of the road behind. The fog has not yet reached the street. It swirls low against the grass, thin and faint, and Jon could so easily outpace it. 

He could get back on the bus. He could run. He didn’t have to open the door. 

But Nan is still inside. Jon can feel it. 

In the back of his mind, Jon can still see poor, dead Tommy Bradstaff, as he was before the spiders, as he was when he knocked on the door. There had been that moment, the second where the door creaked open, the legs, the gasp-before-a-scream. Jon can see it when he closes his eyes. 

There had been that moment after, too, that strange conviction that dawned on him as the door closed once more. Jon had known, in that moment, that moment after, that Tommy Bradstaff would still be alive if he had not had not met the misfortune that was Jonathan Sims.

There had been another conviction that followed not so much a second later. It had been the foolish, bullheaded certainty that Jon could have done something to save him, had he done anything at all. 

Maybe that’s why Jon turns that bitterly cold knob. Maybe he had been so stupidly operating on the belief that there was such a thing as saving people. 

Or maybe he had simply not wanted another person to die in his place. Jon never could quite figure out which it had been, after. 

There is more fog in the Sims house. 

It licks up the walls, frothing around the photographs, misting about the dim light slowly swinging above. The chill intensifies the moment he crosses the threshold, and Jon gasps against the painful pinch of the cold in his lungs. 

The hallway is dark, and the shadows seem to writhe in the corner of his eye, stretching long and menacing against the single mounted lamp. It makes a small, tinny squeak as it rocks methodically above Jon’s head, caught in a wind he cannot feel. 

Jon takes another step. The hall seems to lengthen before him. 

He takes another step. He thinks he can hear voices. 

He takes another step. The voices grow stronger. The chill follows suit. 

The path to the kitchen is far longer than it should be, and Jon can barely see through the fog and the dim by the time he finally trades the carpet of the hall for the kitchen’s tile. The cold is almost malicious now, clawing at Jon’s arms and at the insides of his lungs, and his breath comes in ragged, terrified gulps. 

Nan sits at the kitchen table, seemingly unconcerned with the fog and the chill. With her sits a man, young, clad in a dark blue jacket with brilliant gold buttons. His hair is a stark white despite his age, and his thick beard does nothing further to provide color. His entire body appears to be leached of it, drained, empty, like the photo negative of a man rather than a man itself. He’s paler than any man Jon has ever seen. His eyes, too, are such an odd, faint grey that they almost fade into the white of his sclera.

There are tea cups between them, full and unsteaming. It doesn’t look like either of them have had so much as a sip. There is also a book, something thick and old and bound in leather, though Jon can’t quite make out the title from where he stands. There is a strange design on its cover, a maze of embossed gold, one that almost seems to writhe against the dark brown of the leather. 

Nan does not look at Jon, and neither does the man. 

“Do you have any family?” asks the man, and he turns, and he winks at Jon as he says it. “Other than the little one, that is.”

Jon flinches backwards. 

“No, just Jonathan,” says Nan. Her voice is so far away as she says it. It isn’t like her. Nan is firm, and Nan is present, and Nan is sharper than any knife could ever be. Nan had been a mountain in his mind for as long as Jon had memory, and she had all of its unshakeable nature. She shouldn’t be this. “His father was my only child, and my husband passed on years ago. It’s just us.”

“Must be a comfort,” says the man, though the man says it like he doesn’t believe it himself. “Like a little piece of his father, he must be.”

“He’s nothing like his father,” says Nan, immediately. “All his mother, every last bit of him. A carbon copy of her, really.”

“Oh?” The man sounds interested, now. “And did you like her? His mother, that is.”

“No.”

Jon makes a choked, keening noise, something almost animal in the way that it hurts. He takes a stumbling step forward. 

“She was an inconsiderate girl.” (Jon was inconsiderate.) “Far too flighty.” (Jon was flighty.) “She hadn’t an ounce of sense to her. She would run off without thinking and everyone else would be left to deal with the fallout.” (This was Jon, Jon, and people hated him for it.)

“Really?” says the man. “Must be a bit of a relief for you, then, that the little one ran off. Sounds like he was causing problems.”

“No.” Nan frowns. She shifts in her seat, blinking, and confusion and concern crinkles at the corners of her eyes. “He’s my grandson. I have a responsibility to him. I want him safe.” 

Jon says, “Nan,” and his voice is watery and weak. “Nan, I’m here.” 

He reaches out, grabs her by the sleeve, but she doesn’t even glance down at the hand around her wrist. Jon gives it a small shake. He’s crying again. He hadn’t noticed starting.

The man grins at him, and offers him another wink.

“Nan, please,” says Jon, and he edges closer to her side, turning a shoulder to the man and his awful, awful grin. He doesn’t know if he’s trying to shield Nan from him or to shield himself. “Let’s leave.” He gives her wrist another shake, crying harder. “Why won’t you look at me?”

Nan’s frown deepens. Her face adopts a hard look, one Jon is more than a little familiar with. For a moment, he thinks it’s directed at him. 

“Who did you say you were with again?” Nan asks the man. “Was it the police?”

“Oh, goodness no. I’m just helping out a… mutual friend, let’s call him. He has a vested interest in Jonny’s safe retrieval.” 

Jon swipes at his cheeks with the heel of his hand in a futile attempt to clear away the tears and the mess. The man is watching him still, and this close, his pale eyes look like they’re made of glass. Jon shrinks closer against Nan’s shoulder, trying to hide himself in the fabric of her shirt. 

“Nan, please,” he babbles, pulling at her wrist more urgently now. “Please just... wake up and--we can get in the car and we can go away and I want to go away now. I don’t want to do this anymore please please please--”

“Oh Jonny,” says the man, and he sounds genuinely sympathetic as he says it. “It’s far too late for that.”

And the fog eats Nan. 

It bites up her ankles, climbing the length of her legs and wrapping around her torso like snakes, then cycling higher, up, until it covers her head entirely. And then she’s just-- gone. Swallowed. 

She hadn’t even the time to scream.

Jon falls through the space where she sat, slamming her chair with his elbow and sending it crashing sideways against the tile. Jon’s knees hit the floor and Nan isn’t there, she’s gone like poor, dead Tommy Bradstaff, and perhaps she’ll come back too, fog clambering from her mouth and eyes made of glass. Perhaps she’ll want to eat Jon too and Jon will let her, because his biggest mistake was not just getting eaten in the first place and saving everyone else the trouble. 

Or maybe she won’t come back. Maybe she’s dead. Maybe it’s Jon’s fault. 

The man stands from his seat. He rounds the table, fog swirling thickly around him, and the clack of his heels on the tile echo loudly through the house. He stops at Jon’s side. 

“There there now, don’t cry,” he says. “She’ll be back. Or, well, maybe not. Still not a reason to cry.” He eyes Jon with unconcealed interest, like the older boys on the playground do before they drop a lit firecracker in an anthill. “She didn’t even like you, you know.”

“She was my Nan,” says Jon, and he wonders when that stopped being enough to prove love. Perhaps he’s never been the sort where simply being family meant that they would love you. “She was all I had. What did you do?”

“Oh, just… sent her somewhere else, for a bit. Bit of a lonely woman, your Nan. Not much friends, didn’t like her family. Held up well against it, but everyone has their breaking points.”

“Bring her back here!”

“You know, I would, but…” The man feigns thoughtfulness for a moment before shaking his head. “Well, honestly, I just don’t want to.”

Jon lunges for him. 

With a delighted laugh, the man catches him, easily holding him at a distance. Jon squirms, trying to wrench himself free, but the man’s hand on his shoulder is strong and the pressure clamps hard on his collarbone, enough to bruise. 

“Easy now,” says the man, still chuckling. “I’m not the one you have to convince to bring your Nan back.”

“Who then?”  

“Aren’t you supposed to be clever? I hope this wasn’t a wasted trip.”

Jon goes slack in his grip. The fear begins in his gut, percolates, drips outwards. He feels cold. He doesn’t know if it’s the fear or the fog.

 “Mr. Wright.”

“There you are, Jonny,” says the man, encouraging. “You might survive yet. He’s in the next room over, and I suggest you don’t keep him waiting anymore than you already have.” He releases his arm. “Off you pop.”

The man has Nan. Mr. Wright could get her back. 

Jon swallows. He goes to the next room. 

When he enters, the fog does not enter with him. 

Mr. Wright is in the side room, which Nan calls her drawing room and Jon calls the boring room he isn’t allowed inside. Nan keeps her most uncomfortable furniture in this room, the sort that is polished and stiff and only gets sat in if Nan has the ladies from The Book Club over, which is what she calls it when she invites her old friends over, ostensibly to read the Bible, but Jon knows that’s a lie because Nan isn’t even religious, and also he eavesdropped once. 

Mrs. Penstemons is married to some rich old businessman, is all, and so are Mrs. Reaves and Mrs. Blake, and Nan has a good head for numbers and worked in stocks before she retired. They get together once every few weeks and make boring conversation about their husbands’ works and then there’s a lot of boring numbers and trading talk and they move money into accounts that their husbands don’t know about. They’ve never even cracked a Bible. Nan lets Jon select any book he’d like from a bookstore once a month as long as he keeps quiet on that fact, and Jon doesn’t see why anyone would be interested in it anyway. 

Mr. Wright is seated in the chair to the right, where Mrs. Penstemons usually sits when she visits. He smiles icily at Jon when he steps in the room.  

Jon blinks. He glances behind him, then turns fully when he sees the kitchen behind him. There isn’t any fog. 

It’s empty. Nan isn’t there, and neither is the man who took her. 

Swallowing hard, Jon turns back. 

Mr. Wright nods to the seat across from him, and he raises a brow. 

Jon nods, heart hammering in his chest. He crosses the room and sits in the seat which usually belongs to Mrs. Blake. 

Mr. Wright stares at him from across the coffee table. Something else stares at him through the windows at his back. 

Jon says, “Bring Nan back.”

Mr. Wright smiles thinly. “Do you really think you’re in the position to be making requests right now, Jonathan?”

“I--” Jon swallows. He rubs his palms against his pant legs. “I want her back.”

“I told you there would be consequences. Why shouldn’t I just let you live with them?”

“Give her back!”

“Do not raise your voice to me.”

Jon flinches, hard. Mr. Wright presses his lips together and watches him through narrowed eyes. 

“I do not want this to happen again, Jonathan,” he says. “These… dramatics. The running, the trouble with the police, this ridiculousness with coming running to a woman who doesn’t even want you.  It would be best if we could proceed without them, wouldn’t you agree?”

Jon does not reply. 

“I would like to make a deal with you. If you agree, I will have Mr. Lukas return your grandmother to her standard plane of existence. Does that sound nice?”

Jon does not reply. He ducks his head.

“With your words, Jonathan.”

“Yes,” says Jon, softly. 

“Excellent.” Leaning forward, Mr. Wright claps his hands. Jon shrinks back at the noise. “I already have the papers prepared.”

Jon blinks. “Papers?”

“Our agreement,” says Mr. Wright, crisply, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a neatly folded sheet. “Mr. Lukas will return your grandmother, and I promise she will not be touched as long as you do not make any contact with her whatsoever.”

“I can’t talk to her?” asks Jon, alarmed. He jumps in his seat. “But she’s my Nan.”

Mr. Wright gives him a tired look. “I believe it has been very well established that she does not care to maintain contact with you, even if I had left the option open.”

Jon can’t exactly argue that point. He’s known it for quite some time now. 

Mr. Wright unfolds the paper, placing it on the coffee table between them. From his other pocket, he produces a pen, heavy and black with silver etchings, and he sets that beside. 

Jon does not reply. He bites down on his lip, hard.

“Upon your agreement, you will be coming with me, and there will be no more contacting the police, understand? I really would rather you not cause so many deaths, Jonathan. It is getting troublesome to clean up after you.”

Jon can feel his heartbeat hammer in his throat, his chest, his wrists. He stares at the pen, then down at his hands, curled tight against his pant legs. 

“What’s to happen to me? If I go with you.”

“You needn’t worry about that.”

Jon starts to cry, silent and frightened. 

Sighing, Mr. Wright settles back in his seat, an impatient look on his face. He raises an eyebrow and waits. 

“Why are you doing this?” His shoulders shudder as he cries harder. “Why won’t you just let me go?”

Jon does not expect an answer.

It’s the sort of thing he feels he is meant to say, in this sort of scenario. It’s the sort of thing a character in one of his books would say. He says it simply to say something, because if he says something, then that is another moment in which he does not have to pick up that pen, and another moment in which he does not have to sign. He’s putting off the inevitable, but he doesn’t expect it to do much past that. 

But Mr. Wright speaks. His voice is thoughtful. 

“There’s an experiment I’ve been considering for quite some time. I think you’ll do nicely for it.” 

Jon doesn’t understand, but he supposes he was never meant to. 

He sniffles. He thinks of poor, dead Tommy Bradstaff, and of Nan in the fog. He thinks he can do a single good thing for any of them, now, and take away the thing which caused their misfortune. 

“Tommy Bradstaff too,” says Jon, glancing up. “The thing that ate him. I don’t want it to get Nan.”

Mr. Wright gives a slight incline of his head. “It will be handled.”

Jon supposes there is not much left to be done. He picks up the pen. 

His hand trembles as he takes it in his hand, far too heavy, far too cold. The curved, diamond-shaped engraving on its shaft presses against the pads of his fingers. It nearly hurts. He leans over the page, then frowns, pulling back slightly. 

“This is an employment contract,” says Jon. He looks up at Mr. Wright. “I don’t understand.”

“Your understanding is hardly necessary for your signature.”

Jon opens his mouth. The look on Mr. Wright’s face kills his voice before it leaves his throat. He closes it again. 

It’s not like signing the paper would do anything to him. People can quit jobs, and it’s not like anything signed by an eight year old kidnapping victim is going to hold up in a court of law. He lowers the pen to the paper, then pauses. 

“What is it now, Jonathan?”

“I don’t know cursive.”

Mr. Wright’s tone brokers no further delay. “Print will do nicely.”

Flinching, Jon nods once, then lowers the pen to the bold, thick line lurking at the paper’s bottom. In thin, clumsy letters, he writes his name.

Nothing happens.

Blinking, Jon leans back, still clutching the pen in one hand. A part of him had expected something… more. Worse. Something magic. Instead, he just feels tired and empty and trapped. He’s run out of places to hide and is too tired to run. He just wants it to be over. 

There’s a certain numbness to it, being caught. Hope is a vicious, fluttery thing, something that hammers at your rib cage, carves out a home for itself in your chest, pours itself into your pulse until your heart can barely take it. But when it’s gone, and its horrible knocking has ceased, everything feels emptier, and everything feels still. Jon feels like a grave already dug, waiting with all the same inevitability for the corpse to fill it. 

He wants his mum.  

Mr. Wright picks up the paper with a satisfied air. He refolds the paper and sets it in his pocket before standing. 

He holds out a hand to Jon. “Let’s have a word with Mr. Lukas, shall we?”

Jon ignores the hand. Staggering to his feet, he ducks to the side, arranging himself as far from Mr. Wright as he thinks Mr. Wright would allow. Mr. Wright rolls his eyes, but he says nothing. 

The man is sitting at the table again when Jon and Mr. Wright walk through. Nan is not. 

Mr. Lukas holds a cigar in one hand, end red and burning in sharp contrast to the odd dullness of the room. As Jon watches, he exhales, and a large plume of smoke drifts from between his lips, pale and curling. Its breadth reaches far past what a single person could hold in their lungs and goes farther, until the entire room is cast in a clouded haze. Jon thinks Mr. Lukas is empty. He thinks Mr. Lukas is nothing but smoke and echoing, hollow nothingness, and if Jon were to touch him, he’d be nothing but a cloud.

When he finishes exhaling, he puts out the cigar on Nan’s table. Jon watches as the embers burn red before burning out, leaving behind chalky grey ash and a jagged circle of black. Nan hates smoking. She thinks it’s a dirty habit, and doesn’t allow it anywhere near her house. 

“All done then?” says Mr. Lukas, and he stands, stretching his arms high over his head. He frowns down at Jon. “Bit scrawny, isn’t he? Are you sure he’s worth the trouble?”

“Worried, Peter?”

Mr. Lukas shrugs, unbothered. “Not really my concern what you do with your free time.” He looks at Jon like he’s a speck of dust. “Can always turn him over to me if he doesn’t pan out, yeah? Looks like he might stave off hunger for a bit.”

Jon takes a half-step behind Mr. Wright. Mr. Lukas laughs merrily. 

“That’s enough, Peter.” Mr. Wright settles a proprietary hand on Jon’s shoulder, and Jon hates him, and he wishes he could claw his own arm from its socket and leave it dangling from his grip. He’d laugh as the blood dripped on Nan’s clean tile, and he’d run from the house and leave it all behind, the arm and the man who owns it. 

Jon doesn’t think that he could ever take something Mr. Wright owned. He’d rather be without an arm than belong to Mr. Wright. 

The hand on his shoulder squeezes lightly, as if he knew what Jon was thinking. “We’ve come to an accord. Bring her back now.”

Mr. Lukas shrugs again. Nothing much seems important to him, least of all Nan.

It’s like a curtain parting. 

The mouth of the fog-filled place opens itself in Nan’s kitchen, then, and the kitchen wraps itself around it, recoiling, wrenching and twisting itself away from the cold and the hunger. The place of fog is not real and reality can never, ever let itself touch it, and it will rip itself apart to keep the two separate. 

The mouth bites into Nan’s kitchen, and reality lets it. It leaves behind the mist and the cold and a deep, pervasive ache in Jon’s bones. 

When the mouth closes again, Nan is left behind, prone and trembling on the kitchen tile. Her hair glistens, still damp, and she smells of the sea and old, wet air. 

“Nan!”

Mr. Wright stops him. 

The pressure on his shoulder is light. Two fingers pushing harder, no more, just enough to be noticeable. But its meaning is clear, and it is clear that Mr. Wright has no interest in greater exertion when it comes to managing Jon. 

Jon stops, because Tommy Bradstaff is dead, and Oliva is dead, and Nan isn’t dead but could be, and Jon would much rather be gone than have to live with more people dead in his place.

Nan’s voice is a breathy, fragile thing when she speaks. She says Jon’s name. 

“That’s more than enough of that,” says Mr. Wright promptly, and those two fingers apply pressure again, and they direct Jon off towards the door. “Peter, will you tidy up loose ends here? I think it would be best to get Jon in the car. He’s had a long day.”

The two fingers press again. Jon swallows, hard, but his tongue is too thick in his mouth, and his pulse is beating too hard. He can barely breathe. 

When the fingers press again, they hurt. Jon sets off towards the door without a word. 

“That’s my grandson,” says Nan, her voice barely more than a whisper. It’s hoarse. Jon wonders if she had been screaming, wherever she was. “Stop.”

“Easy there,” says Mr. Lukas, and Jon’s head snaps around when he hears his boots cross the tile. He grips Nan by the arm, helping her to her feet and pulling her to the table. “This is going to be nothing but a bad dream soon.”

Nan tugs against his hold. “Stop it,” she says, still hoarse but adopting one of the flintier edges usually reserved for Jon’s worst days. “That’s my grandson, that’s-- you, you let him go--”

Mr. Wright steers Jon to the door, hand still firm on his shoulder. “Eyes forward, Jonathan.”

Jon keeps his eyes on Nan. He half-stumbles forward, Mr. Wright dragging him towards the door at a pace he can hardly match. He almost trips, but Mr. Wright keeps him standing. 

Nan spins on Mr. Lukas. She goes for his eyes.

Sighing, he catches her hand with ease, shoving her roughly into the table. Nan cries out, but Mr. Lukas simply picks the book off the table and flips to a page midway through. 

Jon stops dead. Mr. Wright drags him forward, and his feet skid against the tile. 

“You said you wouldn’t touch her,” says Jon, swatting uselessly at the hand gripping his shoulder. He skids a few more inches forward, and scratches at Mr. Wright’s wrist instead. “Stop it!”

“Here we go, gran,” says Mr. Lukas. He shoves the book directly in her line of sight. “Time to calm down now.”

Nan wrenches her face away. “Jon,” she says, and she doesn’t say anything else, because her eye catches sight of the book. 

Her voice drops away all of a sudden. As if in a trance, she takes the book from Mr. Lukas’s hands, and she sits down on the floor like a child. Her hair falls in her face as she leans over the page, her mouth silently forming words as she reads. 

Mr. Wright pulls him fully into the hall, and the walk to the door isn’t nearly so long as it had been when Jon first entered the house. Soon, the warmth of the mid-morning sun is hot against his skin, and the door is swinging shut behind them. 

Mr. Wright marches Jon to the waiting car. 

“What was that book?” demands Jon, yanking at his arm. “Is it going to hurt her?”

“It will do no lasting damage,” says Mr. Wright, shortly, and he opens the car door. “In you go, Jonathan.” 

Jon’s jaw clenches. He opens his mouth. 

“I really would not argue,” warns Mr. Wright. “We are still in your grandmother’s driveway.”

Jon snaps his mouth shut again. He climbs into the car, and the door shuts behind him. A moment later, Mr. Wright gets into the passenger seat. 

The doors lock pointedly.

The inside of the car is outfitted in rich, dark leather. It still smells new, apart from the faint, lingering scent of salt air.

Only a few minutes pass before Mr. Lukas comes out. When he climbs into the driver’s seat, the smell of salt grows stronger. 

“All taken care of,” says Mr. Lukas, jovial, and he starts the ignition. “You’ll owe me for this one, James.” 

“Your assistance is always appreciated, Peter,” says Mr. Wright, agreeably. “Seatbelt, Jonathan.”

Jon’s eyes burn. He puts his seatbelt on in a single, robotic motion. The car pulls out of the driveway. 

Mr. Wright and Mr. Lukas keep on a running dialogue, but Jon can’t make out a word past the pulse roaring in his ears. 

He’s afraid, he’s--he’s so stupid. He wishes he had turned around and run when he had the chance. He wishes he never opened the door. He wishes he never read the book. It had been easy to decide to be brave when he was in the same position he had been with Tommy Bradstaff, watching the person who was about to be killed in his place from a safe distance. He just hadn’t wanted anyone else to die because of him. But he had never been in Tommy Bradstaff’s place. Not before now. He had never been the one on the verge of dying, or something worse. 

(He doesn’t want to die.)

He begins to cry again. He doesn’t dare try the door. Mr. Wright isn’t the sort of man who makes the same mistake twice. 

~*~

The car stops sooner than Jon thinks it should. 

He expects London. He expects the Magnus Institute, with its awful basement and dark, twisting tunnels. But not even fifteen minutes has passed when Mr. Lukas pulls off to the side of bumpy gravel road which borders the forest. 

Jon’s heart leaps into his throat. A moment later, it calms slightly. Mr. Wright’s car is parked a few meters farther on the same road. Is that it, then? Just a change of cars? 

Jon eyes the trees. He knows how deep the forest goes, and how good it is for hiding things. 

The doors unlock. “Come along, Jonathan.”

Jon supposes that there’s not much more he can do about it. He doesn’t think running will work, and he can’t fight. He gets out of the car. 

“And where are you going?”

Jon stops, midway to Mr. Wright’s car. “I thought…”

Mr. Wright nods to the trees, just once. 

Swallowing, Jon says, “Oh.” 

And he follows. 

Mr. Lukas comes along, though he doesn’t speak. He walks with them parallel through the trees, silent and at a distance. At times, Jon can hear him whistling a slow, haunting tune. 

He starts to cry again partway through the march. They are deep in the trees by the time the first tear falls, and Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever be found. 

Mr. Wright notices and he stops, turning towards him with a sigh. “What is it now?”

“I won’t run again,” Jon mumbles, hiccuping out a sob. “I promise. Can we go back to the car now?”

Mr. Wright pinches the bridge of his nose. “We are not out here to hurt you.”

Jon sniffles. “Do you promise?”

He feels foolish the moment it leaves his lips. Mr Wright’s promise isn’t worth a thing. 

Another heavy sigh. “We are here to fulfill a part of our deal. I did not go to all of this trouble just to dispose of your corpse in the woods. No delays, now.”

Mr. Wright brings them to the tree where Jon hid the book. 

The tree waits in a gnarled patch, brittle and twisted with barely enough space for the book in its crevice. It’s bark, however, seems to roll and twitch as Jon stares, as if it was made of a buzzing, writhing static. When they round to the other side of the tree, Jon at last sees the source. 

The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff sits at the tree’s base, chained and convulsing. From his every orifice crawl spiders, fleeing him as if he were a building half burnt. They scale the tree in a wave, covering almost every inch of its bark, and steadily set about encasing it in web. 

The thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff grins when it sees Jon, and more spiders crawl eagerly from the gap between its teeth. 

“Jon,” it says, and there is hardly anything left of Tommy Bradstaff’s voice. 

It tries to stand, but the shuddering grows worse as it tries to bend Tommy’s knees, and the skin of its joints splits like wet tissue. 

More spiders pour out. 

“Temporary hosts,” says Mr. Wright, distastefully. “Never keep for long.” He turns to Jon, eyebrow raised. “Satisfied?”

Jon takes a trembling, tripping step backwards. He stares at the thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff, and it stares back. 

“I thought you might have had concerns over it,” continues Mr. Wright, unbothered, and he nudges away a particularly large spider with his shoe and a wrinkle of his nose. “It seems I was right. This will fulfill the last part of our bargain.” He casts an impatient glance far off, from where they came. “Peter!” He turns back toward Jon. “Watch carefully now, Jonathan.”

(Fog starts to creep in. It circles around the soles of Jon’s shoes, and the cold bites through the rubber.) 

“It’s alright now, Jon,” says the thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff. It smiles with Tommy Bradstaff’s perfect white teeth, and Jon can see the web and the web and the web behind. “You can still knock.” 

(The fog inches higher. It’s at their ankles now.)

“I don’t want to watch,” whispers Jon, but he doesn’t look away. 

There is a thing at his back. It watches Mr. Wright, and it watches the thing that is not Tommy Bradstaff, and it watches Jon. 

“Mr. Spider’s door is always open to you. You will always be able to find it.” It tilts Tommy’s neck sharply, nearly parallel with the swirling fog beneath, twisting to look at Mr. Wright. “The Web will protect you. It will keep you bundled up so safe, and you will have a million friends to guard you.”

“Please stop,” says Jon. “Please just stop it.”

He doesn’t know who he’s talking to, Mr. Wright or Mr. Lukas or the thing that isn’t Tommy. He thinks it’s all of them. He just wants it to be over. 

He covers his ears, but it isn’t enough to block out Tommy’s voice. It tells him that he knows where the door is, he’ll never not know, and one day he’ll decide to knock and the Web will love him so, so much for it--

The fog rises over them like a wave. It’s brittly cold and too thick to see, and when it lowers, the chains are empty, and Tommy is gone. 

~*~

Jon read a story once. It had been far too old for him, and there had been too many tangled, twisty sentences and names with odd spellings. But the collection had been all Nan had gotten him at the thrift store that day, and Jon had been so terribly bored. He read the entire thing in a day, and spent the days following trying to elevate the sick, unsettled feeling which had nested beneath his skin with each story. 

In the story, there is a man who is not a very good friend, and a man who is not a friend at all. The second man tricks the first into following him down into a basement, and he locks him down there, and seals him up there forever. 

Jon always wondered if it had taken a long time for the man to die. He wondered what the man thought about while it happened. 

The story ends with the knowledge that the man was never found, and Jon always suspected that that was because no one had particularly wanted to look. 

If Jon were asked, he’d likely say that’s what he thinks is going to happen to him when he climbs into Mr. Wright’s car. He thinks of the tunnels, their awful damp, their awful dark, and he thinks that that is where Mr. Wright will make Jon’s tomb. He imagines the cold, slimy wetness of the stones and the frigid sting of the air scraping against the insides of his lungs. 

He doesn’t think he will ever be found. He doesn’t think anyone will ever care to look. 

Mr. Wright does not take him back to the Magnus Institute. 

If Jon were ever to be asked where Mr. Wright took him, he’d say that it was nowhere. It wasn’t really a place. It was an in-between, a waiting place, and it was only ever meant to be as permanent as a chrysalis. He has a lot of time to consider his answer, to set the words in line like dominos set to fall. He was nowhere. He stayed there for a long time. 

~*~

No one ever asks.

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

[FOOTSTEPS. THE SOUND OF TRAFFIC IN THE DISTANCE, MUFFLED, AS THOUGH THE RECORDER IS WRAPPED IN SOMETHING. FABRIC SHIFTS. THE SOUND BECOMES CLEARER]

ARCHIVIST

Oh fuck off. 

[CLICK]

~*~

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

(Annoyed.) Stop leaving tape recorders in my pocket. I refuse to do anything that would be remotely interesting to you. 

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

I am going for a walk. 

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Ich. Fine. 

[ FOOTSTEPS BEGIN TO MOVE BRISKLY AWAY.]

~*~

Jon tells himself that he is not following the Eye’s directions. 

People need balance in life. Hobbies. Breaks. It can’t all be doom-and-gloom, eldritch-gods-and-apocalyptic-rituals and all that. He read about it, once, in an article that was forwarded to him by Margaret, who headed up the Research Department when Jon had a desk there. Jon hadn’t been working in Research at the time, or ever, really. He doesn’t actually know what he had been classified as in the Institute logs then. He simply decided he needed a desk one day and sat in a free one in Research. No one told him to leave, so he stayed. 

Margaret hadn’t been his boss, strictly speaking, but she came over to his desk with a vaguely concerned air from time to time, and once offered him a pack of mints, which Jon had appreciated. Occasionally, she sent him emails, mostly to ask him not to leave cursed objects at his desk but once to forward him an article called Is Your Work-Life Balance Healthy? Take this Quick and Easy Quiz to Find Out! and another article called Work-Life Balance: Tips to Regain Control. 

Jon had fallen into a category that read You are in serious danger of incurring a stress-related illness or injury. You could cause irreversible damage to your health. 

Which was both obvious and a bit too late, really. 

Unfortunately, it recommended either a sabbatical, a new job, setting boundaries, or more support from family and friends, all of which was rather out of the question. He did, however, send a reply to Margaret with the subject line “Re: Work-Life Balance” and a body which read “will consider a hobby when no longer metaphysically bound to a monument of terror. do u have any good book recommendations for such a time. preferable no cursed books — js.” 

She replied with a frowning emoticon, and stopped forwarding self-help articles. 

He also sent an email to HR with the subject line “setting boundaries,” CC’d Elias, and informed them that he has been ordered to set boundaries for the sake of his health, and would like to have one set directly between himself and Elias, not to be crossed under any circumstances. To be safe, there should be a hundred foot distance maintained at all times. 

Elias yelled at him. 

Jon did not get his boundary, or anything else for that matter. He did, however, start taking walks. 

The streets of London had long been dark when he pulled himself from his Archives, this time. The cobblestones shimmer in the dim light of the streetlights flanking the sidewalk’s path, and the air smells crisp and clean. Jon wonders if it rained recently. He hadn’t heard it, but it’s hard to hear much of anything in his Archives. He can’t remember how long he was down there. 

Time can be difficult for Jon. He has a nasty habit of losing it. 

Jon shakes his head. He takes a side street at random, and tells himself the decision had truly been so. 

Things can get… foggy. Loud. His head is often crowded, and lines of thought are so easily lost when there are so many to follow. It’s hard to tell which decisions are spontaneous and which are planned if you’ve already forgotten planning it.

Jon’s path pivots sharply. He takes another back alley, his heel clipping sharply against the pavement as he turns. His step quickens. 

He’s been walking for a while. He thinks. 

Gritting his teeth, he forces himself back down to a walk. He tries to think back, to remember the string, the chain of thought which led him to wander the backstreets of London at--four in the morning?

He had been in his Archives for--a while. But he had been tired. The Eye had been pressed against his shoulders, the small of his back, pressure building and building and building. He had left to--escape? Or to follow it? He can’t remember. 

He’s hungry. 

Jon’s sudden, dragging stop sounds loudly in the empty of the streets. He pulls out his phone. 

He hadn’t thought it was a danger day. He hadn’t thought it was nearly so close. 

As he scrolls through his contacts list, the pressure in his head builds, sudden and sharp and nearly blinding in its intensity. Jon winces. 

He fed, hadn’t he? Recently. He can’t remember when exactly. Statement of Craig Goodall, regarding his explorations of an abandoned chicken and kebab shop. He had a run in with Tom Haan. Jon had had half a mind to go looking for Haan, but the takeaway had long since burned down and he hadn’t any other leads to go on. He had been doing some follow up and… 

He got hungry. And he went for a walk. 

Jon blows a long, slow breath out of his nose. He holds his phone tighter in his grip. 

Slip ups… happen. Sometimes. He hasn’t had one in a bit. The important thing is that he caught himself hunting before he finished the hunt. He just. Needs to be picked up. Go back to his Archives before he does anything stupid. He can’t be wherever... here... is. 

The Eye staunchly refuses to tell him, pain jabbing sharply at the place behind his left eye. Instead, a building flashes through his mind, all glass and marble and bright, glittering lights. There is something inside. Jon aches to know what it is.

It doesn’t matter. Perfectly normal people can figure out where they are without the help of an invasive, malevolent entity tracking their every move. They simply use their cellphones. Jon flicks over to the map function. 

Jon sees the building again, but this time its arching glass edifice is darkened, and its doors are shuttered and locked. 

It takes Jon a moment to realize he’s standing before it. 

When had he started walking again? He thought he had stopped, had decided to wait, to call for help, but--no, he had started walking again. There had been a tugging in his gut. He had been so close. 

There is something inside this building. It’s eldritch, and dreadful, and hidden. Jon needs to know what it is. He hardly notices as his footsteps begin to thud on the vacant, silent street once more. He does notice, however, as he rounds the building, heading to the back entrance he Knows has a faulty alarm. 

He slips his phone back into his pocket. On the screen, the map function remains open, a solitary blue dot slowly rounding the corner of Bow Street, Covent Garden. 

~*~

[CLICK]

[SOUNDS OF LIGHT BREATHING]

ARCHIVIST

There’s a door. Deep under the building. I had to walk down a back staircase in order to find it, and it’s mostly hidden in an alcove. It’s metal and old, and there’s a chain meant to lock its handle to a loop drilled into the adjoining wall. It’s already been cut. 

This is the door to the second Theatre Royal. There is something inside. I--I don’t quite Know what. 

[A LONG PAUSE]

I’m… not going in there.

[FOOTSTEPS BEGIN TO WALK BRISKLY AWAY.]

[FABRIC SHIFTS. THE SOFT TAPPING NOISES OF JON TYPING ON HIS PHONE]

[STATIC SWELLS SHARPLY]

There’s someone inside. 

[FOOTSTEPS STOP ABRUPTLY]

He is not from London. He only came to see the theatre. He cut the chains hours ago, and he opened the doors, and he stepped inside, and he never came out again. 

His name is Daniel. He prefers Danny. 

He isn’t from London. He’s staying with his brother while he’s in town. His brother is waiting for him. 

[A LONG, HEAVY SIGH]

(With feeling) Shit. 

[FOOTSTEPS BEGIN AGAIN]

[THE DOOR CREAKS SOFTLY. A MOMENT LATER, THERE IS THE SOUND OF IT SHUTTING.]

[FAINT SOUNDS OF A BRIGHT, CHEERFUL TUNE BEGIN TO PLAY]

~*~

ROLES

JOSEPH GRIMALDI, the hero

DANIEL STOKER, the pilgrim

ARCHIVIST, the interloper

THE EYE, the villain

ACT ONE

A melody is heard, played by someone who does not exist on an instrument that is not real. It is beautiful. The curtain has long since risen. It had never set. It never would. The show must go on.  

Before us waits the stage of the second Theatre Royal. Its marble shines, as clean and white as the day of the theatre’s first opening. There is no mark of the fire which destroyed this building. 

The stage is bright and ornamented, almost glittering, with dazzling lights and banners in colors that should not be seen by human eyes and the gleam of sticky red blood beneath an ever-roaming spotlight. It is opening night. It has been opening night for a very, very long time. 

In the center of the stage dances JOSEPH GRIMALDI, the hero. Its knees do not bend in the manner most commonly ascribed to humans, which is fitting, because it can no longer be described as such. 

Beneath him lays DANIEL STOKER, the pilgrim, prone before the glory of all that Is Not. 

STOKER: [ weeping ] Please stop.

GRIMALDI: There isn’t such a thing. 

The dance spirals, splatters like paint, and it no longer dances alone. It had never been dancing alone. There is no such thing as never. There is no such thing as time.

STOKER: [ crying harder ] I don’t understand. 

GRIMALDI, in a voice almost identical to that of STOKER’S, though slightly to the left: There isn’t such a thing. 

GRIMALDI smiles through thin red lips, revealing an echoing blackness behind his grin. A line of red dribbles from the corner of its mouth and down its chin. STOKER mimics the action, tears glistening on his cheeks. The music swells, reaching its crescendo.

STOKER: I want to go home. 

GRIMALDI, in a voice recognizable to STOKER, though no one in the audience: There isn’t such a thing. 

Enter ARCHIVIST, the interloper, stage right. He climbs steps which had disappeared moments after STOKER first mounted them, right as the music had first begun to swell, right as the spotlight lit the place on the stage where our hero waited for his newest pilgrim. The steps fluctuate messily, reality flickering like a bulb before all that Is Not. 

ARCHIVIST, softly: Hello, Mr. Grimaldi. I was wondering if I might have a word. 

THE EYE, the villain, opens directly above the stage, bringing with it an awful, oozing reality, dripping over our hero in sticky, dribbling clumps. The music crashes to a halt in a sudden, discordant cacophony. A deathly silence falls over the stage. The colors, the light, the beauty spirals and stutters to a standstill. In the hand of the interloper, a tape recorder softly clicks. 

A great, swelling pressure fills the second Theatre Royal as the power of our hero and the interloper grapple, all that Is Not and all that Is clashing in a violent haze. 

All at once, the pressure disappears. Our hero stands frozen on the stage, pinned beneath the hideous glare of THE EYE. ARCHIVIST takes a step closer. Its eyes are narrowed, and in the dim of the now-darkened stage, they almost shine. 

ARCHIVIST, hungry: Statement of some of the scraps of Joseph Grimaldi, regarding his dismantling and subsequent reassembly by The Circus of the Other. Statement taken directly from subject, 28th of August 2013. Statement begins. 

~*~

Beneath the haze of the statement, Jon is aware of Danny Stoker behind him, collapsed against the filthy, dusty marble of Theatre Royal’s decrepit stage. He is aware of him panting, aware of his sobbing, gulping breaths and aware of the danger he is still in. 

He needs to run, Jon knows, and he Knows. He cannot run until the Archivist has taken his Statement. 

The words fall from a tongue that had not originally belonged to Joseph Grimaldi, one after another, and the Archivist swallows them the moment they touch the air. He had torn this Statement from the mouth of the thing that is not wholly Joseph Grimaldi, but is not wholly Not Joseph Grimaldi. He had ripped it from it like a champagne cork, but once the first word breached its lips, the rest had flowed easily enough.

They always do. People always want to tell their tale to the Archivist, even when they are not, in the strictest sense, people. 

Behind him, Danny Stoker huffs another ragged, painful breath. Jon cannot help him. Jon can only watch, and listen, and consume. 

The last word leaves Grimaldi’s lips, and its mouth closes as if on a hinge. There is an odd weight in the air, an expectation, like the moment before a balloon pops. 

“Statement ends,” says the Archivist. 

The Eye’s glare lifts, settling back over Jon and Jon alone. It wraps around his shoulders like an old, heavy coat, familiar, content. 

Grimaldi contorts its neck, bending it sharply as its head stares at Jon, nearly inverted. Its mouth slides open in a red, hellish grimace. 

“Um,” says Jon. He coughs slightly, and becomes uncomfortably aware of the empty distance between them. “Thank you for your time?”

Without breaking eye contact, Grimaldi bends forward, contorting its midsection unnaturally to keep its head staring outward and up, towards Jon. Its legs swing around in a large, showman’s arc, setting the orientation of its lower body to right with its upper. For a moment, it pauses there, back arched, perched on its hands and feet on a stage rapidly returning to a shining marble white. 

It scuttles directly towards Jon. 

Jon books it. 

“Run!”

Danny Stoker, it seems, needs no further instruction. He catches one glimpse of Grimaldi’s unnaturally fast crawl and rolls to his feet. 

In the distance, the music begins anew. What had once been a beautiful, seamless tune had since shattered, however, and its discordant crashing slices painful through Jon’s ears. There is a violence to the tune, the clatter, the awful, shrieking song. 

Overhead, the spotlight flickers back to life. It sweeps haphazardly over the stage, spiraling, erratic. 

Danny slams to a stop at the stage’s edge. “Where are the stairs?”

Jon very nearly rams into his back. “I don’t think they exist anymore.”

Nodding once, Danny says, “Lovely,” and he jumps. 

Jon hazards a glance behind him. A porcelain white face stares angrily back, only a few scant meters away. 

Without a moment’s hesitation more, he jumps. 

The wind knocks out of him slightly as he lands into the waiting arms of Danny Stoker, already on his feet and turned to the stage. With an assured ease, Danny sets him on his feet. 

“Thanks,” says Jon, surprised.

“Don’t mention it,” says Danny, slightly breathless.

They look towards the stage. Grimaldi perches at its edge, watching them. 

“He can’t get down without stairs, can he?” asks Danny. 

Grimaldi immediately begins to scurry down the stage’s edge like a spider. 

“Oh, of course he fucking can,” Danny groans, and he grabs Jon’s arm in one hand before yanking them both down the center aisle. 

Danny Stoker is… much faster than Jonathan Sims. He nearly pulls Jon’s arm out of his socket as he drags them along, but he doesn't slow, and he doesn’t let go. 

Behind them, Jon can hear the odd, uneven thudding of Grimaldi’s pursuit.

Danny pulls them down a row of seats, keeping a tight grip on Jon’s arm until they’ve spilled out onto the left side aisle. Licking his lips, he glances to the back left, wincing against the awful shine of the house lights.

“I think the door is this way,” he says, uncertain, before glancing towards the right. “Or maybe…?”

“Door doesn’t exist anymore,” says Jon, gasping for breath. 

“What?”

Reality shudders apart around them, falling into the Stranger’s domain once more. Jon knows there isn’t much longer before more and more of what is Known and Understood is lost to that which Is Not, before they lose more stubborn fictions like distance and time. 

If they don’t find a way out before then, then Grimaldi will catch them. Jon would rather not experience what comes after that. 

His jaw set tightly, Danny glances about, desperate and searching. He looks back towards Jon, then slightly past him, back towards where they came. 

His eyes widen. “Look out!”

Jon dives forward. He isn’t fast enough. 

Grimaldi’s hand catches him by the exposed part of his ankle.

And Jon’s skin rips. 

With a scream, he pitches forward, skin tearing like a tissue in Grimaldi’s grip. Pain lances up his leg like fire, and Jon falls, slamming into the theatre floor shoulder-first. 

“Shit!” screams Danny.

He rushes forward, and for a moment, Jon thinks that he’s coming to Jon. He isn’t. He gears up like a soccer player, swinging his leg around in a smooth, controlled arc. 

Then, he kicks Grimaldi square in the face. 

There is a sound not unlike an egg cracking, if the egg were evil and sentient and also trying to rip the skin from Jon’s body. 

Grimaldi falls backwards, a surprised look on its face. Danny snatches up Jon with all the ease of a parent grabbing their errant child before making a break down the side aisle. 

“Shit shit shit shit shit,” chants Danny. Behind them, Grimaldi lets out a roar, furious and shrill.  “Where is the exit?”

Jon stumbles at his side, arm draped over Danny’s shoulders, with his good foot barely managing to touch the ground from the height difference. He tries to blink away the tears, the pain, and he tries to See a way out. 

It’s… difficult, when he’s actually in other Entities. Jon tries to avoid it as best he can. The Eye is more distant when he’s in another seat of power. Insulated. If there’s something the Eye wants, then there’s a good chance of breaking through. 

When the Eye has already gotten what it wanted to know, however… 

At his waist, Danny’s hand tightens. His step picks up. 

“There’s a door,” he says, relieved. He drags Jon along quicker, staring at a wall at the other end of the auditorium.

Jon follows his gaze. 

The door in question is settled into the wall’s face much in the same way a bear trap is settled onto a forest floor. It is a bright, cheerful yellow. 

Jon jerks backwards. It doesn’t so much as slow Danny. 

“Stop.” 

“Why on earth would we stop?”

“That door doesn’t exist!”

“Stop saying things don’t exist!”

More insistently, Jon tugs backwards. Danny slows but does not stop, glancing warily behind them both. 

Jon can feel Grimaldi gaining. Like an itch in his mind. 

“That door could eat us,” insists Jon, desperately casting about for another way out. “It’s not the clown, but it’s not very nice.”

“Okay,” says Danny, in the patient tone of someone rapidly losing their shit. “So the clown doesn’t want to eat us?”

“Um,” says Jon, reassuringly. 

Danny groans. “So both will eat us?”

“It’s more potential eating,” admits Jon. “They could do other things too.”

They reach the door. Behind them, Grimaldi draws nearer still. 

“Right,” says Danny, half words, half hysterical laugh. He glances at the door, then back behind him. “I don’t have a fucking clue anymore. Is this a better the devil we know thing or…?”

“Uh,” says Jon. He glances behind them. They have maybe fifteen, twenty seconds before Grimaldi catches up, and that’s only if time and  space hold together for that long. “Excellent question.”

(Twelve seconds.)

“Are you serious right now?”

“I know both of these devils,” hisses Jon, “and neither of them like me very much.” 

(Seven seconds. Jon can see the white of Grimaldi’s sharp, sharp teeth.)

“Shit,” says Jon. “Take the door, take the door!”

Danny lunges forward. The door handle turns easily beneath his hand, and he drags them both through. 

And they fall into darkness. 

Chapter Text

Jon knows that Michael hasn’t decided to kill him yet simply because he lives long enough to land. 

The surface beneath him gives the moment it takes their weight, creaking and bouncing under them both, and Jon lands on something hard and warm. Pain stabs upwards, lancing through his heel and up his calf like a poker jabbed firm and deep, and for a moment, all Jon can see are spots. 

The something-hard, something-warm beneath him spasms violently. 

Oh. That’s a person. That’s very much a person. Jon rolls off of him, groaning. 

The person does not seem to appreciate this enough to not whack at him forcibly. He swears with almost the same amount of violence as he uses to thrash at them before swinging wildly at Jon, the hit landing somewhere south of his hip. 

The pain nearly sends him crashing into unconsciousness all over again. 

“Who the fu--Danny?” The person shoots upright. “Danny, what the fuck?”  

In the back of Jon’s mind, a wave hammers at a door with hinges nearly burst. The ocean seeps through, always eager, always rising, higher and higher and higher.

Timothy Stoker, it tells him, sultry and thick and so very, very pleased. Daniel Stoker’s older brother. 

It also tells him: 

Corporate job, publishing, halfway up the corporate ladder and good at climbing but not entirely certain he wants to. Tells himself he likes the work, is good at the work, but is never happier than when he’s far, far away from the office, deep in the woods or halfway up a mountain. Proud of his appearance, takes care of it, almost as much of his brother, and Grimaldi will be more than happy to skin him too--

(Jon can still hear the music, not at all faint, not at all gone.)

He bolts upright. “Door,” he chokes out. “Danny, door--”

Above the bed of Timothy Stoker, there waits an open yellow door, faintly illuminated by the barest tendrils of the breaking dawn. Through it, Jon can see Grimaldi, running, getting closer, lunging--

“Shit!” screeches Danny, and he wrenches himself on the bed, catching the door with the corner of his foot and kicking it shut. 

It bounces off Grimaldi’s forehead. 

“Shit shit shit,” says Danny, quite appropriately. He surges forward, catching the door right as swings open again, and he slams towards the wall with all his weight. 

It does not close. Instead, it hovers dangerously open, an inch-and-a-half of space and growing. At the door’s edge, a brittle white hand creeps through the door’s mouth, grabbing it at its corner and digging into its surface with sharp, black nails. 

Danny’s feet scrabble for purchase against the sheets. “Tim!”

“Oh fuck,” says Tim, and he lunges forward. 

He comes up by his brother, scrabbling for purchase against the whorled yellow of the door’s face. Together, they manage to force it an inch closed.

A massive thud rocks the door violently open again, two inches and growing. Tim slips on the bed covers, nearly losing his grip entirely and giving another quarter of an inch to Grimaldi’s onslaught. 

Another hand grips the wall beneath the door. It digs into the plaster, splintering it beneath the weight of its fingertips.

Jon says, “I See you.”

His voice is soft, barely there, more breath than voice. But as the words breach his lips, a pressure builds in the room, like the cabin in an airplane, like a deep, deep ocean, like the moment before a cork is popped. 

The Eye opens. It Looks at Grimaldi, at his face in the door gap, at his hands and his claws. 

Its voice box belonged to a man named Alexander Simpson. Its skin belonged to a woman named Sarah Baldwin, and a man named Joseph Grimaldi, and a man named Andrew Hastings, and a woman named Whitney Shellstein. 

Whitney had been a baker. She preferred numbers, and wanted to study them in school, but she hadn’t the funds for tuition and hadn’t the time to study besides, not with how long her hours were. She had a backache the night that the Anglerfish took her. She had spent so long kneading dough, so long on her feet, so long dragging around tray after tray of fresh, toasty bread that she couldn’t have given less of a shit about. She hated the hours that were both early and long, and she hated the way she always had flour beneath her fingers, and she hated that she would have to be back in less than nine hours to do it all again. All she could think about was how her feet hurt, and how much she wanted her bad, and how very badly she needed a cigarette--

The sound that Grimaldi makes could not be described as human by any stretch of the world. It screeches shrill and loud and angry, too inhuman, too wrong to possibly be the voice that once belonged to Alexander Simpson. 

Grimaldi wrenches itself back, out of the doorway, out of the room, out of the Eye’s terrible glare. Its hands disappear through the gap, back into the safety of its own realm. 

The door slams shut beneath the Stoker brothers’ weight. 

Not a moment later, the wall smoothens, the yellow frame melting away into the pale blue of the wall’s surface. 

For a moment, Danny flattens his hands against the wall, blinking. He pulls back slightly. 

“It’s… just a wall.”

Tim pants at his side, hair still mussed from sleep. “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t--there was a door here.” Danny starts to tremble. “Wasn’t there?”

“Was that a-- clown?” demands Tim, glancing wildly between Danny and the place where the door once was. “Danny, what just happened?”

“I think--” Danny settles back on his heels, staring at the wall. He turns a startling white. “I think it wanted to eat me.”

“What?”

Jon glances to the door. Not locked, could probably make it in two, three strides. The bed is well made, quality, not the kind that squeals much. He could make it out the door before they remembered he was ever here. 

People… don’t react well. As a general rule. To the supernatural, and to challenges to their worldview, and to things trying to eat them. Sometimes, they’ll lash out at whatever’s closest and Jon, well. Jon tends to have an unfortunate habit of standing too close. 

He doesn’t have any interest in sitting around and answering questions, besides. None of his answers are ones he particularly likes, and they wouldn’t do the Stokers any good.

“It was… going to eat me,” says Danny Stoker, slow and thoughtful, like he’s only now realizing it himself. “It-- really wanted to. I could… feel it. I stepped up on that stage and I knew I had fucked up somehow. But the music had started before I could make it back to the stairs, and then there weren’t any stairs, and then I was in center stage and that-- thing was there and it was so hungry.” His voice picks up, unraveling like a thread, and his breath quickens in time. “It wanted me, all of me, every little bit as a prop in that fucking show, and it would show me every step of the dance that I would step myself were it not for--”

Danny stops. His voice sharpens back into focus, back into now. 

“--were it not for you.”

Jon rapidly remembers that both of these brothers were faster than him, and also stronger, and also taller, and also he might be missing a foot, he forgot to check if he still had that. 

He glances down. Still there. A bloody mess, but still there. Wonderful. He loves it when he still has those important little bits. 

“Um,” says Jon, with exactly the amount of confidence he feels could be expected from him. 

Tim shifts on the bed, pale and drawn, and his eyes dart from Jon to his brother and back again. 

“Who’s this?” He looks back at his brother. “Danny?” 

“I don’t know,” says Danny. His hands come up to drag down his face, to cover his mouth. “I don’t--” 

He hiccups, once, then again, then again. All at once, he begins to laugh, ragged, broken. He laughs and he laughs and he laughs, like everything is funny, or like nothing is. Tim reaches a hand out. He grabs him by the shoulder, steadying him with a face of open worry. 

Danny’s laugh morphs into horrible, gulping sobs. “I don’t know what just happened,” he says, shaking, and he tugs at his hair with one hand. “I really fucking don’t.” 

“Danny--” Tim wraps his arms around Danny’s shoulders, pulling him tightly to his chest. “It’s alright, I--I’m here now, understand? Nothing’s--nothing’s going to eat you.”

“Except for the clown,” gasps Danny, half-laughing again. “And the door, and-- fuck knows what’s else, at this point.” 

Tim holds him tighter. “That’s not--I won’t let it, I won’t--I--Danny, what was that?”

Well. Now Jon feels awkward. 

It’s well, it’s a very touching sibling moment. An intimate moment. Full of. Emotions. And the sort. And he’s just there. Sitting. On the bed.

Jon pats the exposed bit of Danny’s knee, because, well, it rather feels like the thing he’s supposed to do in this sort of situation. With comfort. And the like. 

He really prefers the situations where he can just leave the victims at the nearest McDonald’s and call it a day. 

Jon clears his throat. “That’s uh--I wouldn’t uh. Worry. Too much. These things do happen. It’s probably best not to dwell on it.”

Danny stops crying. He pulls back from Tim’s embrace, just slightly. Both of them turn to stare at Jon. 

That was probably the wrong thing to say, come to think of it. 

Danny says, “He tried to eat me.”

“But he didn’t,” says Jon, helpfully. 

“He tried to eat me.” 

“Yes, well.” Jon coughs slightly. “Nothing to be done for it now. Avoid the architecture of Robert Smirke, alright? And clowns. And it would be best if you never went to another circus again. And, uh, if you start to hear, uh, odd music, like a calliope organ, I would recommend moving to another, well, continent.” He nods, once, to himself. “That should be it.”

“Move to another continent?” parrots Danny, faintly. 

He looks a bit pale, and a bit like he’s going to collapse, which are both normal, healthy reactions to this sort of thing, Jon finds. 

“America, if possible. Wonderful place. Almost absolute anarchy there. You can buy a gun in a grocery store. Does wonders to help the life expectancy in these sorts of things.” He nods, again, not because he thinks it adds anything to the situation, but rather because he has no idea what to do with his extremities in general. With a pained wince, he swings his legs from the bed and lets them dangle over the edge. “Right then. I’ll be off.”

“I--are you leaving?” asks Tim, incredulous. He half-turns to face him. 

Jon frowns. “Was there something else?”

“Something just tried to eat my brother!” The bed rocks beneath them as Tim leans forward, gesturing wildly toward the wall above his headboard. “A-- magic door spat you both out on my bed, which, last time I checked, super fucking wasn’t Covent Garden.”

“Yes, well, that’s rather passed,” says Jon, a bit frustrated. “Not much to be done now. Be careful, trust your instincts, don’t go near any taxidermists or wax museums. Invest in a weapon. It’s remarkably easy to buy an axe in Central London. Hopefully Grimaldi will forget you were there, or I’ll have sufficiently annoyed him to the point where he doesn’t care anymore. I’ll be dealing with them soon.” 

He scowls down at his leg, a bit hazy, a bit frazzled. Blood drips down the side of his foot, splattering on Tim’s carpet below. He bought it on sale, in a shop on the east side of London, which went out of business three years ago from a sudden dip in funds. One of the employees had been draining the coffers, so to speak, but the owner had never realized, not even when he took out the key to the front door and locked it for the last time, hands shaking as he did. The key had dangled from a yellow fob. He had bought it from a gas station for thirty-five cents. 

Another sharp burst of pain wrenches its way through him. 

Jon sighs. He’s so tired. He can’t remember when he last slept. He can’t remember a lot, nowadays, and it scares him so damn much. It’s hard to bring himself to care much about what happens next for the Stoker brothers, and that scares him more than the forgetting. 

He’s tired. He wants to rest. 

It’s not that he’s not sympathetic. Or, at least, he doesn’t think it’s that. It’s just that, relatively speaking, they’re getting off rather light. There’s some trauma, granted, but Danny kept his skin. Tim didn’t get much past a rude awakening and a stained carpet. Neither of them died, and neither of them suffered worse. 

Answers won’t help them. Getting involved in this world won’t help them. What they need to do is to move on and forget, and be grateful that that’s an option to them. 

“Look, I--” he sighs again, heavier this time. “There’s not much to be done, alright? It’s already past. You’re too much effort to go after now that you’ve left their hunting grounds, and they’re far more likely to come after me than you. That’s liable to change if you do something stupid like ask questions which, I assure you, you do not want the answers to. The best thing you can do is just turn around and keep walking. Don’t go looking for answers, don’t ask questions, and do not get the authorities involved. I know it may be a bit uncomfortable for some to just pretend it never happened, but it gives you your best chances. The people who make it out of these things are the people who run.”

“You didn’t run,” Danny points out.

“I actually did a great deal of running just now, and you were there for all of it,” says Jon, pointed, and he gingerly tests some weight on his foot. 

He nearly throws up on Tim’s lovely white carpeting. A bit of blood seeps out from beneath it, clotting the threads. 

Tim drags a hand through his hair. “Look, how about we just call you an ambulance, get some help--”

“Nope,” says Jon, immediately, wrenching himself off the comforter and staggering a step towards the door, half turning to the bed as he speaks. “Absolutely not. I’m not bothering with any waste of time hospital--”

He doesn’t say anything more, nor does he move any closer to the door, but that is not from a lack of desire to do either. Rather, it is more due to the way the world lurches suddenly around him, and the way all the blood drains from his face, and the way pain lances upwards and through him, white and blinding and altogether too much. 

“Ah,” he says, and he faints dead away. 

~*~

Danny catches the man before he lands. 

Danny had always been quick, even as a child. He had made his way through a revolving carousel of sports growing up, from gymnastics to martial arts to rugby, and he had excelled at all of them. Danny is strong, and fast, and shines so goddamn bright that it aches to look at sometimes, and he manages to wrench himself off the bed quickly enough that the man never lands. 

Tim’s quilts are soaked in blood. So is his carpet, and so is the man’s pant leg, and so is his foot. 

Tim very nearly vomits when he catches sight of it. 

“Shit,” says Danny, immediately settling him back on Tim’s bed. He doesn’t so much as stir. “That doesn’t look good.” 

Tim scrambles off his mattress, moving around to where his foot lies. “First aid kit,” he says. “Bathroom.” 

Danny nods once, his face wane. He leaves the room without a word. 

Tim leans over, flicking on the bedside lamp. The room is dimly lit, the first light of daybreak easing its way through the half-cracked blinds, and he feels he’s going to need proper light before dealing with this. 

Tim sucks in a sharp breath when he sees it. 

Tim did time on a search and rescue team. A while back, during a winter break in uni. He got a place on a team in a nice mountain range, and he saw all manner of gory fuck ups in his sort tenure. Bones through skin, torn up limbs, blood-and-gore, the whole shebang. 

Part of the skin on Jon’s leg looks like it’s just been… pulled off. Like a torn wrapper. 

Beneath the man’s foot, Tim’s comforter stains a dark, pooling red. 

“Got it,” says Danny, rushing back in. He shoves the kit at Tim. A moment later, he yanks a few of Tim’s water bottles out of his pockets. “Also some fresh water.” 

Tim accepts them without looking, setting to work about treating the injury. “Did you call 999?”

Danny doesn’t answer. 

Tim frowns. He glances at Danny out of the corner of his eye. “Danny?”

“He said not to.”

(Danny’s shaking. He won’t meet his eyes.)

“Yeah, well, he also fainted from pain a second later,” says Tim, more than a little testy. “He needs a hospital.” 

“You weren’t there,” says Danny. He doesn’t take his eyes off the man. “He knew what he was doing.”

“It doesn’t matter what he knows, Danny,” says Tim, pursing his lips. “He needs a doctor.”

“He knew everything,” insists Danny. “About the clown, about the stairs, even about that weird door. I still don’t understand most of it. What if there’s a reason he doesn’t want to go to the hospital?”

“That reason isn’t going to give him a blood transfusion.” 

“What if there’s a reason he doesn’t want the authorities involved?” Danny looks at him with wide, haunted eyes. “What if that lets them… find us… somehow?”

“An evil, spooky clown isn’t going to be watching the hospitals.”

“You don’t know that.” Danny’s hands shake. He looks down at the man, at the blood. “I can’t explain this. I can’t explain any of this.”

“We’ll tell them he got injured urban exploring, and you stumbled on him,” soothes Tim. He shifts his grip on the man’s foot to better staunch the blood. “No more, no less. He’ll probably back you up when he wakes up.”

“That’s not a normal wound,” Danny insists, jabbing a finger at the man’s foot. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”

Tim hasn’t. They both know it. 

“They’re going to take one look at that thing and know something is weird. They’ll call the police. And then… what? I don’t know! Because I don’t know why he doesn’t want us to go to the authorities.  What if it’s something bad?” 

Tim presses his lips into a thin white line. “He could go into shock.” 

“He got me out of there alive,” says Danny, and he stares at the man’s face with a haunted, vacant look. “I don’t know how. He did-- something-- to do it. Something weird. I don’t know how to explain it.” He looks back at Tim, wane and frightened. “He might have a reason for not wanting us to go to the police. I don’t want to risk that unless we have to.”

Danny casts a single pale glance to the space above the bed, where the door opened, where they fell out. Tim follows his gaze. 

The wall is smooth, and plain, and there isn’t a door to be found. There isn’t a clown. 

Tim looks back at Danny, 

(There is very, very little that Tim Stoker wouldn’t do for his brother.)

“Help me patch him up,” says Tim, sighing. “The second that he takes a turn for the worst, we call an ambulance.”

~*~

The man’s name is Jonathan Sims.

He finds ID in his pocket, in a wallet with a single credit card and three different types of currency, all crumpled and in negligible amounts. It’s not an official ID, but rather the cheap laminate sort you get for work, chipped and flaking at the edges. 

He works for the Magnus Institute, it reads. London. 

“Have you ever heard of that?” asks Tim, frowning. “The Magnus Institute?”

Danny glances up. He had been pacing the distance of Tim’s bedroom, from the dresser to the headboard and back again, casting worried glances towards Jonathan Sims every few feet. His brow furrows, incredulous. “There’s no way that he’s from the Magnus Institute.”

“So you’ve heard of it?”

“Do you remember my haunted house phase?”

Tim stares at him. 

Danny shrugs. “Didn’t last long, but got pretty deep in the community. You know--famous hauntings, the supernatural, cryptids, all that. Went through all the leaderboards and discord channels. Every little fringe group I could find. There was only one thing they ever agreed on, and that was that the Magnus Institute was a total joke.”

Tim frowns down at the ID. “It says it’s a research center for the paranormal.”

“Their records got leaked or something.” Danny shrugs. “Couldn’t find many of those--they got taken down a while back, for the violation of something or other. Most of them were stoner claims or pretty obvious crank statements. Nothing real.”

Tim stares back down at the man on the bed. 

He never went into shock. 

He had been expecting it. Anticipating it. Waiting on pins and needles, phone in hand, for the moment where he needed to call it, to get him help before this strange man died on his bed. A single signal of distress that meant he was going south. 

His heart rate stabilized before Tim even thought to check it. His breathing evened out not long after they decided to let him rest. The blood flow even slowed, though it did not stop entirely. 

Tim has seen bad injuries. He’s seen what they do to people. Something as painful as his foot must be should have sent him into a discernible amount of stress. He shouldn’t just be… asleep. 

“Maybe they found something real,” says Tim, eventually, and he sets the ID back in the wallet, and he sets it back to the side. 

Danny doesn’t answer. He goes back to pacing. 

He pulls out a phone next, locked and without any notifications. A model from a few years back, too, so no fingerprint option. He sets that to the side as well. 

A pack of cigarettes comes out next, Royals, half-smoked. The cigarettes rattle and shift in the box softly as he turns the packaging over between his hands, frowning. The box was thin and shitty and tattooed with warnings on how smoking killed, and Tim could tell just by looking at them that they were the cheapest thing on the shelf. 

Huh. You’d think some sort of… magic… man… would be able to afford a better brand. 

After a few moments more of fishing around, he pulls out a gold lighter, engraved with an intricate web pattern. The design is finely etched in the heavy, cold edifice, with thin, branching arcs that Tim had trouble following with his eyes. He sets it aside.

The last thing he removes is a tape recorder. 

Tim blinks, surprised, because most people don’t carry tape recorders around in their pocket, and also his pocket hadn’t actually seemed large enough to keep a tape recorder in it. He can’t remember seeing one of these since he was very small, and he’s never seen one be lugged around on one’s person before. 

The red light is on. It’s still recording. 

Tim clicks it off. 

Something prickles at the back of his neck. Eyes, watching him, staring at him, hungry and unwavering, from the place behind his back. 

Tim snaps its head around. There is nothing there. 

He turns back to the man. The feeling of the eyes grows stronger. 

“He had that in there with him,” says Danny. “In the other place, that is.”

“In Covent Garden?”

“No,” says Danny. “It wasn’t Covent Garden.”

Tim sets it to the side. He turns fully to face his brother, dragging a hand through his hair. The eyes watch him do it. “You should get some sleep.”

Danny scoffs, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. His hands are shaking. Tim doesn’t think they ever stopped. “I’m not sleeping.”

“You need to rest. I’ll wake you if anything happens.”

Danny looks at the space above Tim’s headboard again. He swallows, hard. 

“I see that thing,” he confesses, “every time I close my eyes.” 

Tim remembers that hand, white as bone, carving into the surface of that impossible door. Every time he has a moment where he flinches, considers it wasn’t real, he thinks about that hand.

“It’s gone now,” he tells him, trying for reassurance but coming out considerably weaker. 

“It could come back though.” He jabs a single hand to Jonathan Sims, still unmoving, still asleep. “You heard him. That thing could still get me.” 

“I won’t let it.” 

Danny looks at him, something sad and frightened and helpless. It takes Tim a moment to realize what exactly has taken home in his face. 

Tim is the older brother. Not just in age. In understanding. He was the fix-it brother, the brother who understood how things were done, the brother that helped when he didn’t understand paperwork or how to set up utilities in his first place or when he got in trouble again, sorry, Tim, but could you help me straighten things out? He can go to Tim because Tim had already done it before, and because Tim would help him, and because Tim always, always knew how to fix things. 

Danny doesn’t believe him. For the first time ever, he’s found a problem that his brother cannot solve. 

And the horrible thing is, Tim isn’t sure that he’s wrong. 

~*~

[CLICK]

[A DOOR OPENS, THEN CLOSES AGAIN. MUFFLED FOOTSTEPS GROW CLOSER. FURNITURE CREAKS SOFTLY.]

TIMOTHY STOKER

Finally got him down. Not that I think he’s going to stay down for long.  He’s pretty worked up about all this. 

[A LONG PAUSE]

Right. Not like you’re going to answer.

[ANOTHER PAUSE, SHORTER. FURNITURE CREAKS AGAIN.]

What… are you?

You can’t be normal. I’m not dumb. You don’t get an injury like that and just not react past needing a nap. 

What was that you said? I see you? What does that even mean? 

[SILENCE STRETCHES OUT FOR SEVERAL MINUTES] 

I’m frightened.

This is--fucking weird, mate. I don’t even fully believe it happened, and it happened above my bed. I keep thinking about that weird hand, and about Danny--and--and--

(Petrified.) I only saw its face for a second. It couldn’t have been real. 

Danny’s afraid. That it’s coming back. I’m afraid that it’s coming back. I don’t know how to stop something like that. I-- can I stop something like that? Is it even possible? 

Can you?

[A HEAVY SIGH.]. 

I... don’t know why I’m even telling you all this. I guess I just need someone to talk to? 

[FABRIC SHIFTS. FURNITURE CREAKS.]

I… thought I turned that off. 

[FUMBLING, THE SOUND OF AIR MOVING.]

(Thoughtful.) Danny said you had this on you during it all, didn’t he?

[CLICK]

~*~

Tim sits in silence, listening to the hollow click of the recorder. 

Its tape has long since run out. It hadn’t been particularly long--a few minutes of footsteps, an odd span of him fighting with the tape recorder, and then the event itself. The music. The footsteps. 

The statement. 

Tim shudders thinking about it. He had wanted to turn it off, when he heard it. He had tried, even. It was too horrible, to strange, and he had wanted to click the recorder off, to throw it against the wall, to get that awful, grating tone to stop talking--

His hand had remained in his lap, and he hadn’t been able to move it for the life of him. The fear, it had been… paralyzing. 

(They taught him to dance, the ringmaster and his men, they taught that shambling little man to stitch himself apart with music and step as his needle and thread. Not together, Archivist, apart, you could never understand, not as you are, pinned beneath that wretched Watcher like a moth mounted, chained like a dog to falsehoods like reality and truth. That sad little clown had been holding himself together for months before he found his home in the Circus, covering the holes of his pitiful self with patches of drink and sorrow and empty, meaningless things, until he was nothing but a sack of sick and skin and yawning nothingness, and they, we, we showed him how to spin until he splattered, how skin was a cage best ripped off. 

He danced straight beneath the costumier’s knife, Archivist, and he made such lovely screams and sobs and mewling pleas until the pieces of him that cared had been carved away. 

He understood then, they did, he did, it did, and he-they-it learned the lesson so very well that it was taught anew to the ringmaster and the costumier and all those bags of flesh, and all their wet, messy parts were stitched into different shapes, and those shapes danced, and they danced, and they danced.)

“You almost didn’t go in.”

The silence breaks like a promise. 

“You only went in because you knew Danny was in there. That means something, doesn’t it? That. That’ll you’ll help. Him. Me. Keep him safe.” 

Jonathan Sims does not answer. He does not even move.

Tim drags a hand down his face. He feels very, very tired, and very very old. 

(He doesn’t think to wonder who he was arguing with, before he went into the theatre.)

~*~

TIMOTHY STOKER

(Firm.) You’re going to help him. You have to. 

[CLICK]

~*~

Breekon & Hope Deliveries

Package Pick-up & Delivery Request Form--Express Service

Requested By: An old friend ;)

Date Requested: now

Pick-Up Location: space is a fiction you should know better than to entertain, but we have a nice scrap of skin for you to taste, and things like that have a way of finding their way home. You’ll find him. 

Delivery Location: The Circus of the Other

Package Description: A very, very naughty Archivist who interrupted some lovely fun, and the bit of fun himself--you’ll know its him, he has such pretty skin, good enough to e a t .

Chapter Text

Jon wouldn’t say he sleeps anymore. Along that same vein, he wouldn’t say he wakes up anymore. 

Jon walks. 

The street beneath his feet is cobblestone, Jon can’t look down but he can hear the clack clack clack of the woman’s thudding footfalls as she flees--no, it changes, blurs, it’s grass, teeming with insects and filth and crawling rot--no, tile--no--no--

Jon keeps walking. It’s not an unfamiliar pilgrimage.

He traverses the nightmares with all the constancy of a museum path oft-walked, the exhibits never changing, never leaving, only ever becoming longer. He steps and he steps and he steps, and he never blinks, not a single one of his eyes. 

Jon steps, and he hears a scream. 

Jon steps, and he smells smoke. 

Jon steps, and he looks and he looks and he looks, and the Eye looks from behind him, through him, and the awful, ravenous sink of its feeding drags through him with slow, meticulous gulps. 

Jon steps, and he smells blood.

Above him, a fan turns slowly overhead, futility churning against the cloying, iron stench of old blood in an unventilated room. The light is grey and fading, and Jon can see the line of its retreat casting a blurred axis across the ceiling’s face. 

Jon blinks, because it’s an option to him once more. He tries to sit up. 

Pain spikes through him with a blistering immediacy. 

He groans despite himself, collapsing back to the pillows beneath. His foot throbs with heat and blood and sharp, persistent ache. 

(The Eye regards it with blind, mindless intrigue.)

“I wouldn’t do that.” 

Jon’s eyes snap to meet those of Timothy Stoker. He does not blink. 

Tim doesn’t seem to mind, entering the room calmly and closing the door behind. He crosses the room in a few strides, settling a glass of water on the bedside table. Next to it, he places three small, round pills, pale brown and slightly chalky. 

“Pain killers,” he says, and he glances back at Jon’s foot with an undisguised skepticism. “No idea if they’ll do anything, but they can’t hurt.”

Jon abruptly realizes his mouth is hanging open. He snaps it shut again. “No,” he agrees, after a beat. “No, I suppose not.” 

Tim looks back at him, his brow furrowed. “I’m Tim,” he says. “Danny’s older brother.”

“I know” seems to be the wrong thing to say in this situation, so of course it’s exactly what Jon says. He regrets it immediately. 

Tim frowns. 

“I heard Danny say it,” says Jon, after a moment. “Last night.” He frowns. “Was it last night?”

“It was,” confirms Tim. “How did you know Danny was down there?”

“I was, uh, monitoring the situation.” Jon darts a glance towards the door, forcing himself back up on his elbows. “Is he alright?” 

Tim follows his gaze. “Shook up. After last night.”

Jon clears his throat forcefully. “Yes. I suppose he would be.”

Jon hazards another glance to the door. Tim hadn’t locked it after him, though that hardly matters. He wouldn’t be able to outrun him even if his foot had been functional, and as it is now, Jon doubts he’d manage a step. Tim could stop him without trying, if he wanted to. 

So the question is whether he wants to. 

Tim settles into a chair pulled up at the bedside, propping his knees on his elbows and leaning forward with interest. “So, how were you monitoring it?”

“Pardon?”

“How do you monitor spooky clowns?” 

“Oh. Uh. There are, uh. Programs. And the like. Technology. Very secretive.”

Tim’s eyebrows rocket to his hairline. “Programs? Like, software?”

And Jon says, “Yes.”

It sounds more like a wince than a word. 

“Really? Huh. Can you run those on a tape recorder?”

Jon says, “Um.”

Tim pulls a tape recorder out of his pocket. Jon’s tape recorder. 

“That’s mine,” says Jon, immediately. He holds out his hand for it.  

It is in that moment that the Eye informs Jon that Tim has already listened to it, the entire statement, and that Danny listened to it after him, and they both have already decided that Jon knew about the situation in the theatre through less than natural means. It tells him all of this, every bit, in the moment after Jon attempts an admittedly terrible lie, because apparently you can be an eldritch being of incomprehensible breadth and knowledge and still not have a sense of timing. 

Sometimes, the only convenient bit about Jon’s life is that he doesn’t have to waste time wondering if there’s a cosmic being out there personally ruining his life, because he already knows.

Tim looks at it thoughtfully. After a moment, he hands it over. 

Jon lets out a breath. He tucks it into his pocket, and something inside him settles when he feels its weight. 

“So,” says Tim. “How did you really know about Danny in there?”

“That is an excellent question.”

A beat passes. Tim raises his eyebrows with open expectation. 

“I’m not going to answer it,” says Jon. 

“Something tried to eat my brother.”

“That did happen,” agrees Jon. 

“And?”

 Something in Tim’s voice snaps. 

Jon winces. They’re getting to the bit where voices get raised, and things get thrown, and Jon makes a hasty exit via window. He glances back down at his foot. He doesn’t think it could manage a hasty exit via window. 

Tim doesn’t seem to notice, which is good, because it means he won’t be guarding his windows. People never expect the window. “You’re just going to leave it at that?”

“That. Uh. Was the plan?”

“How do I stop it from happening again?” demands Tim. “The... clown. Thing.”

“Don’t go in spooky theatres anymore?” Jon shrugs. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“How to keep him safe!” Tim huffs a breath, settling back in his chair. All of the fight seems to go out of him all at once. He drags a hand through his hair, looking very, very tired, and very, very afraid. “Look, I’m-- beyond grateful for you coming to help last night. Have I said that yet?”

“You haven’t.”

“Well, I am. Thank you.”

“Ah. Um.” Jon shifts in place. He wonders if now is the time for the window bit. “Any time.”

“Really?” Tim blinks at him, his face slack with exhaustion. “Because it feels like there’s going to be a time where the clown is going to be here and you’re not, and I’m not going to have the foggiest fucking clue how to handle that.”

That... is a genuine possibility, Jon admits. It’s just not one that Jon can do much about. 

He’s not some sort of… spooky bodyguard, or anything. He can’t exactly stave off a full-scale assault on his own, and quite frankly, he doesn’t know someone who could. He can’t stay just in case Grimaldi comes back, either--that would put them in more danger than if he left. 

Grimaldi won’t be a problem forever. If the Circus makes good on those rumors of an attempt on the Unknowing, then. Well. Either Jon will handle it and Grimaldi will be dead or the entire world will immediately have much larger problems. As to whether they’re likely to make another attempt on Stoker in the meantime...

It’s hard to tell. The Stranger doesn’t really operate on a pattern, or, at least, not one that Jon can predict. Its denizens are as unlikely as not to go after survivors. They’re opportunists, granted, and if an avatar notices an unfinished meal wandering in its reach, they’re doubtlessly going to snatch it up. But if Danny doesn’t do anything dumb, then Grimaldi might just… forget. 

It’s a matter of luck. Jon has precious little of it, but Danny might have enough to keep him safe. 

“That’s not going to happen,” says Jon, eventually. “Just, uh, avoid old buildings. And circuses. Places clowns might be. You’ll be fine.”

Tim stares at him in disbelief. 

Jon looks back to the window. 

At the opposite end of the room, the door swings open, fast and sudden, bouncing off the wall slightly when it impacts. Jon starts in place, sending another wave of pain stabbing upwards. 

“You’re awake!” Danny leaves the door open behind him, crossing to the bed in two long, quick steps. “You slept all day. Never even moved. Tim thought it was weird, but he always rolls in his sleep. We had a bunk bed growing up. He rolled right off the top once, and had to sleep on the lower bunk after.” 

“You don’t need to tell him that,” grouses Tim. 

Danny doesn’t even look at him. “It provides color to the story.”

“It is a rather colorful story now,” agrees Jon. 

“See? He gets it. How’s your foot?”

“Better.” 

His foot throbs sharply in time. Jon lets a breath out his nose, long and slow. 

He’s going to need to Feed again if it’s to heal. An old Statement won’t be enough, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to survive going after an avatar for a live statement. 

A pain starts to build behind his eyes. He tries not to think about it. 

“I’m glad to hear it.” 

Danny stares down at him, an earnest, intent look on his face. 

Jon flicks his eyes to the wall and to the bedspread and back to his face, wondering if he’s supposed to say something now. 

Danny surges forward. Jon flinches back, but isn’t fast enough to avoid him entirely. His arms wrap around Jon’s shoulders, grappling him--

His arms settle there lightly, pulling him close. 

Oh. Hugging him. This is a hug. That he is a participant in. 

Jon does not move his arms. He’s certain they’re meant to go somewhere, he just isn’t fairly confident in the exact logistics. 

 “Thank you,” says Danny, firm and earnest, and his arms tighten slightly. Not enough to hurt--it’s… gentle, if Jon had to put it in a word. Warm. Meaningful.

Jon thinks he mistimed the window bit. 

“You saved my life,” says Danny, and he pulls back, looking Jon in the face. “I won’t forget that.”

“Oh. Uh. It’s, uh. Quite alright. You could forget it,” says Jon. He clears his throat. “If you wanted. No need to remember on my end.”

It occurs to Jon that this, also, was not the proper thing to say. 

Danny doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, it doesn’t show. He sets down at the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle Jon’s foot. “So? What was that clown thing?”

“That is an excellent question,” says Jon, agreeably. 

He makes no move to say anything else. 

Tim huffs a breath. “Really?”

Danny darts a glance between them. After a moment, he stands. 

“I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

~*~

Jonathan hadn’t fussed when Tim helped him over to the kitchen table. He hadn’t said a word, truth be told, and had settled in the first chair on the right end, watching Danny bustle about with unblinking eyes. 

Tim suppresses a shiver. 

He’s seen Jonathan blink before. He’s certain of it. Jonathan blinks just… not with the same frequency as most people. 

“So, you’re Jonathan, right?” says Danny. 

He’s ignoring the tension in the air purposefully, Tim knows. Danny had always been good at that. When things got heated, he never defused, he just pretended to not notice the atmosphere and continued as if nothing were the matter. It would be frustrating had it not always worked. 

Jonathan does not blink. “Oh, uh, no. I don’t like being called Jonathan. Just Jon is fine.”

“Just Jon it is then.” Danny pulls out three mugs from Tim’s cupboard. “Color?”

Jon tilts his head. He looks at Danny as if he were acting out some play and had lost his script.

“Green?” 

Danny plops the green mug in front of him. “Do you take cream? Sugar?”

Jon’s brows furrow. “Sure?”

Danny brings over the cream and sugar. Tim had bought the novelty frog cream and sugar receptacles at a yard sale years ago, and proceeded to use them for absolutely every occasion. They wore little straw hats. 

Sitting into the chair across from Jon’s, Danny slides Tim his cup, then takes a sip of his own. 

Jon clears his throat. “Is this, a, uh, kidnapping?”

He says it like he’s asking for the time. 

“What?” Danny frowns. “No. Does it feel like a kidnapping?”

Jon shrugs. “I just like to keep a finger on the pulse of this sort of thing.” 

Danny sets down his mug. His brow creases. “Does it, uh, come up often enough to warrant that?”

Jon shrugs again. 

Tim takes a long drag of his coffee. 

Jon casts a meaningful glance at the door. “So can I leave? Since you’re not kidnapping me.”

Tim and Danny exchange a look. 

“We still have questions,” says Tim. 

“I’m still not answering them,” says Jon. He takes his mug between his hands, though he makes no move to drink. He cocks his head. “So. Kidnapping?”

“No,” says Danny. He sighs. “You’re really not going to answer them?”

“Nope,” says Jon. He picks up the sugar container and tilts his head, looking at it intently. “They’re wearing little hats.”

Tim has the sense that he is rapidly losing control of this situation, if there was ever control to be had. 

“What we’re worried about,” interrupts Tim, leaning forward, “is that the clown is going to come back, and, well. You know.”

“Skin me,” says Danny.

Jon sets the frog container back on the table with an obvious reluctance. “Well,” he says, after a beat. “I don’t see how me telling you what Grimaldi is will help with that.”

There’s a pause. Tim and Danny exchange another look. 

“It could help ,” says Tim, eventually. “I don’t see how it could hurt.”

“It really, really could. Look, I’ve already told you everything that could help.”

“What-- flee the continent?” says Tim, incredulous. “That’s it?”

“There are some actions you have to really commit to,” says Jon. He takes a sip of his coffee, then frowns. “What happened to my things?”

“We have them,” says Tim. 

At the same time, Danny says, “I can get them for you.”

“That would be lovely,” says Jon. He takes another sip before setting the mug back on the table. 

Danny stands, leaving the table and heading towards the main room, where Tim had left his things this morning, right after the entire mess first went down. 

Tim stares at him. His jaw sets tightly. 

He can’t just keep him here. Not if he doesn’t want to stay. Not unless he wants to actually consider the kidnapping bit, which, well. A step far, Tim admits. 

His voice adopts an edge of frustration, of desperation. “I need to keep my brother safe,” he says.

“Knowing isn’t going to make him any safer.”

“How is he safer when he’s flying blind like this?”

Jon’s lips flatten. “Some things are better off not known.”

“I--I’ll help you leave if you explain to me what’s going on.”

Jon snorts. “Ah. So we’re back to kidnapping then.”

“It’s not kidnapping,” says Tim. “You came here freely. It’s not my fault if you’re too injured to walk out again.”

“Are you going to stop me from leaving?”

Time does not reply. The skin on the back of his neck prickles with watching eyes.

“Right.” Jon huffs a breath. “Let me know if you figure it out then.” 

Danny comes back in a moment later, juggling Jon’s belongings between his hands. His eyes narrow briefly, flicking over the scene with obvious calculation. Tim can see the exact moment he realizes it’s going poorly, and the exact moment he decides to barrel past that fact with all the subtlety of a semi truck. 

“Here we are,” he says, purposefully bright, and he sets Jon’s things on the table. “Are you sure we can’t convince you to stay for a bit longer? You really shouldn’t be out on that foot.”

He immediately snatches up his phone. “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

“Last night, you mentioned dealing with Grimaldi,” says Danny, leaning forward. “How do you mean?” 

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Look, I know that you’ve got secrets to keep and a reason to keep them. I get that. And I’m not asking you to violate whatever reason you have for that. But could you tell us just a little? We--” Danny glances at Tim “--don’t even know if that thing can leave Covent Garden. Does it know where my brother lives now? Could it come after him? How did that door know where to drop us?”

“Don’t open any weird doors,” says Jon, immediately. He winces, then continues. “That door… has different rules than Grimaldi. Don’t worry about it too much. Just don’t open any doors that aren’t supposed to be there. As long as you don’t open it, it can’t hurt you.”

Danny’s eyes widen slightly, a spark of interest dancing in them, but he hardly shows it. “And Grimaldi? Does he know where Tim lives?”

“Probably not?” Jon frowns. “It doesn’t have any… special knowledge, and there’s nothing that should be tying you to them. Did you drop anything last night? Important things, not like a flashlight. Things you’d be… tied to, so to speak.”

Danny shakes his head. 

Shrugging, Jon says, “Then it shouldn’t have anything it can follow you with. I doubt it could figure out where your house is based on a glance.

“But it can leave? It’s not trapped in that theatre?”  

Jon’s lips flatten slightly. He inclines his head. 

“What about allies? Are there other things like it? Something else we should be on guard for?”

Jon shakes his head. “Stop asking questions,” he says. “The more you know, the worse off you’ll be.”

Danny holds up his hands. “Alright. You’d know, I suppose.”

“I do know,” says Jon. There’s something brittle in his voice, something on the verge of snapping. “You’re better off not.”

“Could we get a phone number at least? If something happens?”

“No.” Jon’s eyes flicker down to his phone. “I should go.” 

“I--we know where you work,” tries Tim. 

Danny shoots him a glare. Tim kicks him beneath the table. 

“Wonderful,” says Jon, not looking up from his phone. “So do I.”

“We can just come around and ask more questions there,” says Tim. “More than once if need be.”

“I’ll ask about installing some sort of loyalty card.” 

Danny kicks him. “What Tim means to say is, we’re a bit worried? About how to handle it if that thing comes back. You’re sort of our only link to all this. Could we drop by? Only if it’s an emergency.”

Jon stiffens. “Do not come to the Magnus Institute.”

Tim and Danny exchange another glance. 

“I can’t promise we won’t try to find you if this thing comes after us,” says Danny. “Is there a better way to contact you?” He looks back at Jon’s phone. 

“Just--” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Leave a message at the front desk for me. Don’t linger. Don’t come if it’s not an emergency. I’ll find you.”

He looks back at the phone with a sense of finality. A moment later, his brow creases. He swears. 

“Something wrong?” asks Danny. 

Jon smacks the phone’s face with an open palm. “Taking it to the theatre made it a bit frazzled, it seems.”

“It can’t be that bad. Let me take a look at it.” 

Jon hands the phone to Danny. Danny immediately nods. “No, okay, it is that bad.”

Tim glances over his shoulder. The normal passcode numbers had been replaced with shapes, and also had been scattered haphazardly over the screen, at times overlapping with one another. 

Danny hands it back to Jon. Jon casts an annoyed glance towards it. 

There’s a zap. 

Hissing out a breath, Jon drops it, and it falls to the table beneath. It lands in his coffee mug, sending out a splatter of coffee around it. 

There’s another zap. 

For a moment, they all stare at the phone. A beat passes. 

Jon looks up. “May I borrow a phone?”

“Will you answer a question first?” Tim folds his arms. “And no, this is still not a kidnapping.”

Jon groans. He looks at the ceiling, then back at the door. He moves to stand. 

Danny leaps in his seat. “You cannot walk on that foot.” 

“I can probably hop though,” says Jon, half to himself. “Do you have close neighbors?”

“Are you serious?” says Tim, with an open disbelief. “You’d rather hobble out of here than help us even a little?”

A bit of genuine frustration leaks into his tone, the furrow of his brow. “I am helping you,” hisses Jon. “Any explanations I give you will make things worse. They’re not going to help you stop Grimaldi if he decides to come back. Just--run fast, come get me if he shows up again. You-- apparently-- know where to find me.” He jerks a nod towards Danny. “If he starts acting weird, tie him up to something sturdy and, once again, come find me. But until this becomes an actual problem, leave well enough alone and get on with your lives. Not everyone gets to.”

Tim opens his mouth. Danny cuts him off with a look. “Tim has a phone,” he says, firmly. “I can get it. Do you have someone you can call to help you home?”

“Yes.” 

“Good. I’ll get it then.” 

He leaves the table, casting another hard look at Tim before he goes. 

Tim’s shoulders slump. “Is he going to be okay?” he asks, his voice low. “Just. Tell me he’ll be okay. I’ll leave it all alone if I know that.” 

 “I… hope so,” says Jon, after a moment. “I really do.” 

“That’s not an answer.”

“I wish I had a better one.” He doesn’t meet Tim’s eyes. “Don’t go looking for trouble, Tim.”

Tim swallows. 

He’ll have to get an axe, he supposes. A bat at least. Anything he can get his hands on. He’ll look into immigration requirements as well. He doubts they could claim asylum from a spooky clown, but he could always look into starting the processes or getting some kind of dual citizenship for them both. He’ll have to fix up the guest room as well. He’s not keen on letting Danny leave before he’s confident that no clown is coming after him, and if it does, well. 

Then he’ll go to the Magnus Institute. Maybe nothing will happen. But Tim will be damned if he lets the worst happen. 

“Tim, why don’t you keep your phone charged?” complains Danny, stepping back in from Tim’s bedroom. “It’s got a bit of power. More than enough for a call or two.” 

“I should only need the one.”

There’s a knock on the front door. Twice and measured. 

Danny frowns. “Bit late for a visitor.” 

“Probably someone lost,” says Tim. “I’ll get it.”

Jon’s hand wraps around Tim’s wrist, clenching tightly. He looks at Tim, and he does not blink. 

“Don’t answer that.”

Tim and Danny exchange a look. 

“Why not?” says Tim. 

“I can’t see who it is.” 

“There’s a door in the way,” says Danny, helpfully. 

“No, I can’t see who it is. It’s fuzzy. Only the outlines.” Jon forces himself up from the table. “Right then. Ignore everything I just said. Grimaldi’s hunting you.” 

Tim starts upwards. “What?” 

Danny takes a stumbling step away from the door. “What do we do?” 

“It’s time for the window bit,” says Jon. He lurches back towards Tim’s bedroom, nearly dropping on his face as he goes. “Hurry now.”

Tim grabs him by the elbow, tugging him upwards. Jon grimaces, then leans on him. Danny comes about his opposite side, slinging one of Jon’s arms over his shoulders. 

“The window bit?” says Danny. 

From the front of the building, the knock sounds again, once, louder. A moment passes. 

There’s a crash, and a splintering noise. Slow, heavy footfalls begin to make their way inside.

Tim locks the door to his bedroom behind him, then crosses over to the window on the farside, leaving Jon to lean on his brother. He shoulders it open, hands shaking as the footsteps grow nearer. 

“We’ll have to run,” says Jon. He looks down at his foot. “Shit.”

Danny casts a worried glance to the door behind. “Yeah, no, executive decision time. Sorry ‘bout this.”

“What are you-- augh! ”

Danny bends down, hooking a hand beneath his knees and tossing him over one shoulder. He crosses the room to stand next to Tim. “Ready when you are.”

On the bedroom door, there is a knock. Twice and measured. 

They jump out the window just as door splinters inwards, and two hulking figures step over its remains. 

~*~

In the driveway, there waits a van, idling. 

On its side reads Breekon & Hope. 

Chapter Text

Jon waits until he sees the Institute’s stop on the tube before letting them finally go above ground. 

They had to ride for no small amount of time, and change lines three times--though that had been, in part, to lose any pursuers they might have had. It had been close enough as it was. Were it not for the closeness to the tube station, the Stokers’ willingness to cut through neighbors’ backyards, and Danny’s… improvisation… they would have been caught. 

Breekon & Hope is not a tracker. They’re an ambush hunter. They deal in deliveries, in locations where they can collect their packages or deliver if need be. They won’t give chase, Jon is nearly certain of it. 

They’ll just find another place to collect their order. And they’ll wait. 

Jon nods to Danny and Tim when the announcer declares their stop. Danny had sat next to Jon, sinking into the hard plastic of the seat and burying his head in his hands. Tim hadn’t sat. Instead, he had set to pacing the length of the car, casting harried glances at his brother with every turn as if to reassure himself he was still there. 

They struck an odd picture. 

Tim had never changed out of his pajamas from the night before. Granted, his sleepwear didn’t look too out of place--a loose grey shirt, grey sweatpants, nothing gaudy but unmistakably pajamas if one bothered to look--but the bloodstains running along the hem of his shirt did, as did the general look of panic and murder on his face. 

Danny, meanwhile, had changed out of the clothes from the previous night--into pajamas. Tim’s pajamas, by the shortness of the pant legs, and novelty pajamas at that. 

There were little pineapples on them. They were smoking substances that were likely not legal in most countries. 

There was not a single pair of shoes among them. The only one of them who had any shoes was Jon, who had one, which had been left on his uninjured foot. His injured foot, meanwhile, was swaddled in bandages and slowly beginning to drip blood. 

Jon is grateful for the late hour. There was hardly anyone in the train when they entered, and the few occupants there had taken one look at them and cleared out after a single stop. 

Danny’s eyes widen slightly. He stands just as Jon begins to wrench himself up from his seat, then, after a moment, reaches out to help him up. 

Jon shakes his head.

He, ah, appreciates Danny’s quick thinking. But he does not need a repeat performance of the potato sack incident. 

Tim hooks a hand beneath Jon’s shoulders before he can make it to the doors. “Right then, boss,” he mutters, low enough so that only Jon can hear. “Now what?”

“Up,” he replies, keeping his eyes fixed on the sealed doors. “There’s a place we can sit. Safe enough.”

Tim nods tiredly. When the doors open, he steps out first, pulling Jon along with him. 

Jon hisses a breath after the first few steps up, stumbling as his foot catches on the step, sending another sharp wave of white pain through him. He pulls back, slowing them both to a stop, and grits his teeth against the pain. 

Danny stretches out his arms uncertainly. “I could, uh…”

Jon closes his eyes. “No thank you, Danny.”

“Doesn’t have to be fireman. Can do the, uh--” He makes a vague cradling motion. 

“I’m quite alright, Danny.”

He starts to hop again before anyone gets any ideas about lifting him. He has a shred of dignity left, he likes to think. By the time they reach the top of the stairs, Tim is half-lugging him, dragging him up by the arm around his side with a liberal abandon. 

Jon pants as they reach the final step. The room doesn’t spin, exactly, but there is an undeniable wobbliness to it. 

“Alright?” asks Tim, eyeing him with an unconcealed worry. 

Jon nods shortly. He begins the slow trudge to the tunnel exit before he can think anymore on it. 

At the tunnel’s exit, Jon falters, and he braces. 

“What is it?” says Danny, immediately, taking half a step forward. “Your foot? Or--” He casts a hesitant look to the exit. “Something else?”

“No,” says Jon, sucking in a breath. “Nothing of the sort.” He steps forward before he can stop himself. 

The Eye sweeps around them like a tide rising. 

London has been a stronghold of the Eye for centuries. Since Jonah Magnus first laid his covetous, callous grasp on London’s soil, since the first moment he decided to erect fear factories, to churn out human agony as if it were profit. How could the city be anything but a lightning rod for the Eye’s gaze, after that? What better place for it to feed? 

In London proper, however, there is one place where the Eye’s presence is more keenly felt than anywhere else. The Eye hangs about the Institute like smoke to a forest fire, and it is every bit as suffocating. Jon feels it grow stronger with each step. 

Against a door in his mind, the ocean rises, knocking, knocking, knocking. 

The Eye wants Jon-- loves Jon, as much a thing like it is able. He is of it and from it and wrought by it, whittled and carved and shaved down until the edges are more comfortable, more suitable for it to fill, and its Archivist had done so very, very well in gaining a new Statement for his Archives. He needs to return now, fall back into the arms of the thing which loves him, occupies him, is him, come back to his Archives, come back to the Eye, and Feed and Feed and Feed and Feed and Feed and Feed and--

Jon grits his teeth. Coming back is always the hardest part. The effect lessens whenever he finally succumbs, sinks back into the Archives and stays for a bit. It’s less… aggressive, then. Insistent.

It would be easier if it were painful. It would be easier if it hurt. 

“Everything alright?” says Tim. His voice is worried, tight, and the line of his shoulders is taunt beneath Jon’s arms. It takes Jon a moment to realize they’ve stopped. 

Jon glances at him. “Hm?”

“You’re sort of… wincing? And your hand, it went really tense.”

“Oh.” Jon relaxes his hand, grimacing at the white half-moons pressed against the skin of Tim’s neck. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” says Tim, looking at him up and down. He exchanges a glance with Danny. “If it’s your foot, we could do a piggy-back, or--”

Jon sighs. “No, it’s… fine. We’re almost there.”

Tim looks at the Magnus Institute, perched at the street’s end like a fat spider on a well-spun web. “Can we get in this late?”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Jon, tugging Tim to the opposite side of the street. “Not going there.” 

The Institute’s street could not be considered a busy one by any stretch of the imagination. There are a few shops with limited hours, a flower shop and a café, and a few empty storefronts with rental signs in the windows, dimmed with sun and age. While the Eye’s presence was not felt nearly as sharply by the average passerby, those who walked beneath it could never help the unsettling sensation that they were being watched, could never help but hunch their shoulders, quicken their step, rush and rush and rush down the path until the prickling on their neck finally ceased. 

The Eye’s gaze was easy enough to ignore in daylight, but any business that relied on a nightlife quickly found that their businesses were avoided like they were covered in thorns and dipped in shit.

A few pubs had tried in Jon’s memories. Rental prices had been driven low enough for the area that someone always attempted it every half a decade or so. He had never actually seen anyone go in them. Once, he had found the barkeep out back, his shoulders hunched and his hands over his head, sobbing inconsolably. 

Jon had tried to talk to him. It had not helped. 

Out of all of the businesses Jon had seen over the years, there had only been one that had managed to survive with hours after dark. 

“What,” says Tim, stopping dead away. 

Jon nods firmly to the door of the McDonald’s. “We can talk here.”

Tim shuts his eyes. He breathes in, and he breathes out, and he breathes in again. He opens his eyes. “Yeah, fine.”

He pulls open the door, cramming his foot against it and angling awkwardly to help Jon in.

“Danny,” prompts Jon, soft but firm. 

Danny stands half in the street, staring at the Institute. There is a distant look on his face. “Can’t we go there?”

“No,” says Jon. “Come on.”

“I just think--” He takes half a step forward “--I’d like to go in, is all.”

“That isn’t real.” Jon limps closer to him. “It’ll pass. Come on.”

Danny blinks. He takes a step back, then nods, just once. With one last wistful glance back at the Institute, he turns to join them. “Not much is real with you, is it?”

“The McDonald’s is real,” says Jon, flatly. “Get inside.”

The man at the counter deflates when he sees them. Jon winces. 

His name is Bertram Adams, which Jon knows because he has an eldritch being of invasive knowledge inside his head, and also because Bertram Adams had come to the Institute once to give a Statement. It had, unfortunately, been a statement regarding a repeat customer to his workplace, who never blinked and occasionally brought in sobbing, disheveled people who looked like they had toured through hell and been forced to have a prolonged discussion with the devil, and also he looked like he had never slept a day in his life, which was a detail Jon felt he could have left out. 

Bertram Adams had stepped into the Archives, taken one look at Jon, and immediately burst into tears. 

Silently, Jon places a five pound note on the counter. 

Bertram makes no move to take it. “I can’t let you in without shoes.”

Jon slides the five pound note marginally closer. 

“Please stop coming here.”

Jon slides the five pound note closer. 

With a groan, Bertram takes it, jabbing a finger on the cash register release and shoving it in the tray. Then, he fills a single styrofoam cup with black coffee and places it on the counter before walking into the kitchen, where he immediately sits on an overturned crate and buries his face in his hands.   

He does not give Jon change. 

“This is a different experience than I usually have at McDonald’s,” says Danny. 

Jon picks up the coffee then, thinking better of it, hands it to Danny. Danny immediately takes a sip.

He leads them to a booth in the back corner, far enough away that Bertram and whoever else is on shift won’t notice. He sinks into the vinyl seating with a grunt. 

“So, uh, why are we here?” asks Tim.

“Grimaldi won’t dare come this close to the Institute, and neither will anything like him,” explains Jon. “At least, they won’t risk a confrontation here, even if they try to follow us. It’s a good place to catch our breath, at least. Figure out what to do next.”

“Uh-huh. And why didn’t we go to the Institute itself?”

Jon winces. “The Institute has… other problems. You’re safer here.”

There’s a beat. 

Tim leans forward. “Would you say we’re as safe as we were when we were at my place? ”

Jon pauses. He nods. “You’re not safe.”

“You said it wouldn’t come after us.”

“I said it probably wouldn’t come after you. There was a margin of error.”

Tim grits his teeth. His hands clench into tight white fists. “Why are they after my brother?”

“I don’t, uh, exactly, uh . Know.”

“Seriously?” 

“They usually have very short attention spans,” says Jon, defensively. “Things change for them too quickly for them to get hung up on things. They usually only waste time on the ones who really piss them off, or the ones that interest them enough for them to try more than once, and I didn’t think Danny would be either.”

“Would they be there for you then?” asks Danny, frowning. “You didn’t exactly get on.”

“I thought of that,” says Jon, and he drags a hand through his hair. “They must have found me through my skin--they have, uh, a bit of an affinity for it, it doesn’t follow normal rules for them--but that doesn’t make sense. It’s not like they don’t know where to find me already. They wouldn’t have wasted good skin on it when I’m not exactly hidden.” 

There’s a stretch of silence. 

“So they were there for my brother then,” says Tim, grim. 

After a moment, Jon nods. He looks at Danny, pale against the harsh burn of the fluorescents, his mouth drawn tightly. 

The Eye Tells him something. Something he hadn’t realized before. 

“Oh God,” groans Jon. “Your skin is phenomenal.” 

Danny blinks. “Okay?”

“Maintained skin is much easier to, well, skin. That’s why Grimaldi’s after you.”

“An evil clown is after my brother because of his skin care routine?” hisses Tim, his jaw tightly clenched. “Do you have any idea how mad that sounds?”

“I’m not happy about it either!” Jon sighs. “If his skin was drier, we’d at least have a few days buffer to figure something out if worst comes to worst. His skin is moisturized enough as is that we won’t have that.”

Tim buries his face in his hands. He takes several long, bracing breaths before looking up, his shoulders square and his face slack. 

“Okay,” he says, extremely calm, in the sort of way that suggests he is approximately one microsecond away from committing homicide, “this is weird. This is all really, really weird, but at least we know now that this is going to be a lasting sort of weird, so you can cut the cryptic bullshit and explain what is going on.” 

There’s a beat. 

And Jon says, “No.”

“ What?”

“I know it seems like it couldn’t get much worse but it really, really can,” insists Jon. “While Grimaldi complicates matters, this is still something you can come back from. Once you know everything, you can’t. I just… need to find a place to stash you. Just for a few days. While I figure something out.”  

“Right. And I’m supposed to just trust that?” He jabs a finger at Jon. “This is my brother we’re talking about. I need to keep him safe!”

“Knowing won’t help that.”

“Well ignorance isn’t doing shit either!” He leans back in the booth, breathing hard. “I… don’t know if we should keep going with you.” 

Jon’s stomach sinks. “You wouldn’t stand a chance against the Circus on your own.”

“I don’t know if we stand a chance with you,” says Tim, reluctantly. “All I know is that it’s getting really hard to believe that we can find a way out of this when we’re flying blind.” 

Jon looks to Danny. “It’s your skin,” he says. “What do you want?”

Danny swallows. “I’m… really grateful for your help. You literally saved my skin. But put yourself in our shoes: We don’t know you. Like, at all. There’s something impossible after us. And you’re asking us to sit back and do nothing when it's our lives on the line. We can’t even decide if that’s a good decision because we don’t even know what’s going on. Can’t you understand how that feels? Even a little?”

Jon stares at his hands. His wrist flicks to the side, just barely, before he can stop it. “That isn’t fair.”

There’s a crawling under his skin. A discomfort. Like a spider scurrying. He sighs. 

“Fine,” he says, his shoulders slumping down. “I’ll explain. But only a little.”

~*~

There are scars around Jon’s wrist, twin pale tan rings against dark wrists. Danny hadn’t noticed them before. They’re old, he thinks, and mostly faded back into skin. 

Now that Danny looks at him properly, there are quite a few scars he hadn’t noticed. His fingertips are mottled, burn scars licking up their sides and down his palms. There’s a jagged line at the edge of his throat which jerks sharply down, and a half dozen smaller, unidentifiable scars speckled elsewhere where Danny can see. 

His foot is going to be a scar too, he thinks. He feels vaguely guilty about that. 

He wonders if all of them are from these… fear… things.

“So there are weird lovecraftian horrors that literally eat people, and one of them has noticed my brother,” says Tim, his voice tight and flat. 

Jon ducks his head. He coughs slightly. “For lack of a better explanation? Yes.”

Tim makes a strangled noise, deep in his throat. “And uh. How many of these do we have to worry about?”

“Uh. Some?” Jon tilts his head back, frowning. “You’re thinking of this the wrong way. They’re not separate things, exactly.”

Danny frowns. “You just said--”

“That’s-- human terms. We like to break things down into categories so we can understand them. Doesn’t mean it’s accurate.” Something odd flickers in Jon’s face before he calms again, though it doesn’t disappear fully. “It’s like colors. They sort of bleed together? You can describe the shades, give them names, but it doesn’t change the fact that there can be quite a bit of yellow in green. They’re still useful names, they help us understand and identify what’s going on, but to consign them to strict categories? Try and quantify them completely? It doesn’t work like that.”

“Right.” Tim nods once, then nods a second time. “Fuck. And Danny met the… clown horror?”

“It would be more accurate to say that he was pulled into the horror than met the horror.” 

“What--” Tim frowns. “The theatre?”

“That wasn’t the theatre,” Jon and Danny say, together. 

They exchange a glance. 

“Grimaldi isn’t the horror,” continues Jon. “He’s just a part of it that’s sort of… broken through? Like someone poking their finger through a paper screen. You only see the finger. Doesn’t mean there’s not something a lot bigger behind it.”

“So if Grimaldi’s the finger--” says Tim. 

Danny leans forward. “Then what about the rest of the body?”

Jon winces. “It’s not quite so bad as that. These fears don’t think. Not the way you or I do. They just attach themselves to things that can. There are things like Grimaldi out there, things that serve the same entity, and if you ever run into one of them… I would suggest running. Very quickly. But it’s not like the fear itself is coming after you. Just its ensign.”

Something like hope churns in Danny’s chest, hammering against his ribs. “So if we take care of the clown, it ends?”

“The clown and its allies,” corrects Jon. “But maybe.”

“Right.” Danny nods once, hurriedly. “How does this normally go?”

Jon shifts in his chair, an uncomfortable look on his face. “If I had to quantify it? I’d say three things typically happen if you survive the first encounter. One, they come after you a second time. You die.”

“Not gunning for that one,” cuts in Tim, tensing in his place next to Danny. 

Jon nods harriedly. “The second thing that might happen is that you just sort of… go on with your life. The thing you met loses interest, and it isn’t your problem anymore.” He shoots them a dry look. “Going on with your life is much easier when you don’t know the wider story.”

“And the third option?” says Tim. 

“That’s… not one I would recommend.” Jon stares down at the table, picking at the skin at the edges of his fingers. He swallows. “I’ve only seen it done once or twice, but it does work. It’s incredibly unpleasant though, and it costs far more than it's worth. You could become.”

Danny frowns. “Become what? Like the clown?”

“Or something else,” says Jon. “You wouldn’t have to serve the Stranger. There are other fears. Other entities. Wouldn’t require quite as much, ah, dismemberment. I can’t guarantee that any of the entities would take you, but if they did, you’d likely be safe.” Jon’s face pinches slightly. “There’s an, ah, etiquette amongst avatars, for lack of a better term. Most keep to themselves, unless there’s a grudge, or a, a thing the other is doing that they’d like to stop. But without a good reason? For the most part avatars don’t feed on one another, but even if Grimaldi tried, it likely couldn’t succeed. You’d have your own power to defend yourself with.” 

“And for the power, I’d have to… do to other people what Grimaldi did to me.”

“Feed your god,” says Jon, grimly. “Or it Feeds on you.” 

Danny sucks in a bracing breath. He feels a bit light headed, and a bit like he’d like to throw up. “Right. And where does the magic come in?”

Jon’s face scrunches in confusion. He stares at Danny. 

“The what,” he says.

Danny feels a bit silly now, which is ridiculous, because they were both there, they both saw it. 

“The magic,” he insists, waving a hand vaguely. “Or whatever you want to call it. The thing you did to stop Grimaldi. You can’t say that was normal.”

Jon looks deeply uncomfortable. He picks the coffee cup up from the table and takes a swig. 

“He told us all the options already, Danny,” says Tim, and his voice is soft, and low, and he looks at Jon. “You’re option three, aren’t you?”

Jon’s jaw clenches. After a moment, he gives a quick jerk of his head. 

A sudden, cloying pressure descends over the table. No one seems to quite know what to say. 

“If these avatars feed on people,” says Tim, still soft, still low. He shifts, slightly, his hand pressing against Danny’s leg. “Do we need to worry?” 

Danny shoots him a surprised look.

Jon starts. “No--uh, no. I. Don’t do that. Not to normal people.” 

“You just said--”

“That most avatars don’t feed on one another. Not all.” Jon offers them a wane smile. He looks very, very tired. “There are a few exceptions.”

“Oh, that makes sense then,” says Danny, a bit relieved. “So you can use it for good?”

Jon stares at him. “No.”

“You did use it for good though,” he insists. “You saved me with it.” 

“I used it for bad against a bad person,” says Jon, slow and frowning. “It had a good effect.”

“But you don’t use it to hurt people.”

“I assure you, Grimaldi was having a terrible go of it last night.”

Danny’s lips pinch downwards. 

“This isn’t the point,” says Jon, a bit impatient, and he leans forward. “I told you as much as I’m ever going to. Are you staying with me or taking your chances on your own?” He nods to the door. “I won’t stop you if you try to leave.”

Danny opens his mouth. Beside him, Tim tenses, grabbing his elbow and squeezing. Danny shuts his mouth again. 

He’s probably caught up on the “eating people” thing. 

Which, don’t get him wrong, it’s freaky to think about, but Danny doesn’t really care. This isn’t his wheelhouse in the slightest, and Jon would know better than him, but the idea that the man who saved him is some kind of literal incarnation of evil? Doesn’t sit right with him. 

Danny’s never really been one to believe in absolutes. Absolute good, absolute bad, absolute anything-- he just doesn’t think they’re real, or if they are, it’s not because of some… innate thing. People are simply made up of the parts of themselves they decide to keep, and he’s met plenty of right arseholes in his day who claim to be good when really they were just born lucky. 

Jon? Jon seems rather unlucky to him. 

Danny likes to think himself as someone good enough with people, or at least he’s not bad with them. He picks things up, takes notes of things to smooth the conversation. People don’t like having their gaffes pointed out, even in an innocent way, and if you stumble on something they’re touchy about, it pretty much kills any chance you have at getting them to talk. 

Jon had stiffened like he was shot when Danny hugged him. He was confused when Danny asked him questions, but never the questions about empirical things. He dodged questions like a dream when they were about what was going on. But cup preference? How he takes his coffee? Barely seemed like he was able to figure it out, or figure out why Danny cared. And he had been--not afraid, exactly, but anxious around them. Like he was scared they would turn on them. 

He got majorly fucked up somewhere down the line, that much is clear. But he isn’t evil, and he isn’t going to eat them, Danny is sure of it. Tim might need some convincing, but he had always been overprotective. He’ll come around, and it’s not like they have any better options. 

So. Stick with Jon, don’t get skinned, maybe buy an axe and kill a clown with it, also get shoes at some point because he thinks he stepped on a rock when they were coming over. Try and convince Jon to give him his phone number at some point during the clown killing, or at least an email, because honestly, Danny would trade his left arm to figure out what the fuck was going on in his life. 

Except maybe not. It seems there’s an actual market for his left arm, now that a circus wants his body parts. 

Besides, he likes Jon. He’s an absolute riot, and also Danny wants him to narrate his life. So maybe he could convince Jon to let him buy him coffee every once in a while once this was all over. Jon gets a normal friend and figures out how he takes his coffee; Danny gets a spooky friend who never blinks and probably has some wild stories.

Easy, manageable goals. Now to get Tim on board with it. 

Honestly, with Tim it’s always best to let him get himself comfortable rather than to try to make him comfortable with something. He always gets to the right place in the end, but he likes to take his own path there. He’ll agree that Jon is their best bet, even if it takes him some time. 

Danny purses his lips. He may have to nudge the conversation some again. His questions tend to make Jon shut down rather than speak, and that’s the last thing they need. 

Beside him, Tim lets out a breath. “Why do you do it?”

Jon blinks. “Pardon?”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to… follow etiquette? I doubt the others like you feeding on them.”

“I’m not winning any popularity contests, no.”

“Right.” Tim leans forward. “You look like shit, mate, no offense. You nearly lost a foot helping my brother. So why do it? Why not eat us instead? It’d be easier.”

“Oh, uh.” Jon tilts his head thoughtfully. “Bitterness, mostly.”

Danny will literally die if he does not convince this man to sit down with him for a minimum of an hour each week and continue to say shit like this. 

“I’m not particularly happy with how this all turned out,” continues Jon, with a shrug. “This world doesn’t ask nicely before it keeps you, and it doesn’t let go easy. I’m not particularly happy about being a part of it, and I don’t particularly care to make it easier on everyone else that I am. The effects of, well, me, aren’t pleasant. I’d rather things like Grimaldi bear them rather than people like Danny.” He frowns at Tim. “You know I don’t actually eat people, right? It’s more--” He waves a hand “--metaphysical.”

There’s a beat. 

Tim takes in a breath. “My brother. He’ll be safe with you?”

“Both of us,” corrects Danny. He jabs an elbow in Tim’s side. 

“I’ll do my best,” says Jon. “But if the option you want is option three, then this is where we part ways. I won’t help. Not with that.”

“Right.” Tim nods once. “Good enough for me. What do you got?” 

“Oh.” Jon looks slightly surprised. “Right then. Well, uh, we have to sort of shoehorn Danny into option two.”

“Are they likely to just lose interest?” asks Danny, furrowing his brow. “It already sent goons after us. Tim needs new doors.”

“Well, no, but my, uh, predecessor had a bit of a philosophy about this,” says Jon. “It can’t be interested in you if it’s too busy exploding.”

Danny leans forward, his heart kicking up a notch in his chest. “We’re going to blow them up?”

Jon grimaces. “I had a bit of a falling out with my explosives guy. We’ll have to workshop it a bit. But that’s the idea.” 

Danny will die if this man does not agree to be his friend.

“But that’s not a matter for you,” says Jon.

Danny’s face falls. “What?”

Tim kicks him beneath the table. Danny kicks him back. 

“If I start dragging you around after Grimaldi, you’re going to get skinned. I just… need a safe place to stash you until the matter is resolved.” 

“We can’t stay with you?”

“Absolutely not,” says Jon. His wrist flicks, just slightly. Danny files it away with interest. “Besides, the entire point of this is that I won’t be around to keep you safe. I’ll be finding a solution for Grimaldi. I need someone who can hold up to Breekon and Hope in the meantime if they come after you.” He frowns. “I have a friend who could handle them, but I’ll likely need help with the clown.” 

Tim’s eyebrow shoots up. “You have friends?”

Danny kicks him beneath the table. Hard. 

“I have friends,” says Jon, defensive. “I--some friends. A friend. It’s not the point. We need someone else.”

“Are there any more nice avatars?” asks Danny. Jon opens his mouth, but Danny is already waving him off. “Right, right, all of them are bad, but you get my point. Someone who doesn’t eat normal people.”

“In London?”  He drags a hand through his hair. “Best we can hope for is someone I can make a deal with.”

He stares at the table thoughtfully. A moment passes.

“What’s the stranger?” asks Danny. 

“Danny,” complains Tim. 

“I’m just asking.”

“What?” Jon glances up. “Oh. It’s what you met. It’s… the feeling that something’s not quite right. That the person you’re talking to is only pretending to be human. The uncanny. The Stranger.”

“Oh.” Danny nods once. “So, what are you?”

“Danny.”

“He doesn’t have to answer if he doesn’t want to.”

“No, it’s. It’s alright. I suppose you should know, if you’re to be around me for quite a while.” He clears his throat. “Do you know that feeling? That prickling at the back of your neck. You quicken your step but the certainty doesn’t leave you. Something is watching you. It’s cold. Apart. It doesn’t care if you’re hurt. Prefers it. It wants to hurt you. And it… it knows how to do that. It knows everything about you. Every single little secret you ever tried to hide, everything you’d die to keep quiet… it already knows it. And it will watch you suffer and struggle and drink in every last moment.”

A shiver crawls slowly down Danny’s spine.

There is something through the window, Danny realizes. Watching them. 

It is not a new sensation. It followed them from the theatre, through the yellow doorway and roosted in Tim’s window. It followed them out and followed them down the road, followed them here, and now it hangs in the window pane at their backs, and Danny can feel its ice-cold burn against his neck. 

He had thought it was just paranoia. From the clown. 

Tim cranes around to look behind them, out the windows, into the dim of the lamp-lit street. Danny follows his gaze. 

Nothing. Just the Magnus Institute, brickface old and darkened, with the creep of the streetlamps barely grazing against the elevated rise of the steps. 

If Danny squints, he can make out the door, and the alabaster grey of its stained glass. An eye sits in its center, squat, unblinking, intent. Danny thinks it’s looking at him. 

(He wants to go inside. It aches somewhere deep in his chest.)

He looks back at Jon, and Jon looks back at him. He does not blink. 

Tim shivers next to him. There’s a beat. 

Danny swallows, then says, “Does it get a fun name like the stranger?” 

Tim lets loose an exasperated laugh from beneath his breath. 

“The Eye,” says Jon, and he does not blink. “Beholding.” 

Danny nods. His heart begins to beat faster, and a mix of excitement and fear begins to churn in his gut. 

He’s… scared shitless, if he’s being entirely frank with himself, and he’ll never be able to so much as think about a clown again. He wants to get out of this with his skin preferably attached and his brother still alive despite his mess. But he’d be lying if he claimed that he didn’t want to know absolutely everything about this. 

He’s always liked in-betweens, if he had to put a name to them. Points where you couldn’t stay. Unsustainable things. He likes the moment before you pull the chord on a parachute, with the ground rushing up and the air rushing past, and knowing that if you don’t bail out you’ll meet the ground all the same. There’s a rush to it, that second. You’re falling and you’re falling, and you know that you can’t let it go on forever. You have to put a stop to it or it would put a stop to you, and the longer you fall, the closer you get to the point of no return, the point where it’s too late--

It was one of the things that attracted him to urban exploring, if he were being perfectly honest. Don’t get him wrong--he got into it for the beauty of it, the oddity, the strange liminality of a place where people could no longer go. But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t attracted to the time limit. Get in. Get out again. Do it before the police figure out you’re there. 

The best part about limits is seeing how close you can stand to them. 

He’s never dumb about it. Safety regulations are practically a religion to him, and he’s never had a major upset if you don’t count this one. He’s always been curious, and he can only explore his next fascination if he survives the current one.

But this? This is a whole new kind of edge. And Danny can’t help but want to glance over its side and take a peak at below. 

Tim knows. He’s been glancing at him for half the conversation with increasingly sharper looks, like he’s warning him off of everything Jon’s saying. He thinks Danny is too reckless, always has, and he’s made it clear more than once. 

Danny always knows when to pull the chord, though, and he’s not about to… sell his soul, or anything. But he’s also not about to pass up a chance to make literally the wildest person he has ever met a permanent fixture in his life. 

Jon stares at the coffee cup between him. In a sudden rush of motion, he stands, hanging onto the table for support. 

“Come on,” he says, nodding to them both. “We have to hurry before the trains stop for tonight.”

Tim starts upwards. “Are those things back?”

“No. I know where I’m taking you, and if we show up on his doorstep too late, he might kill us.”

~*~

The door swings open to reveal a disheveled Mike Crew in wrinkled grey pajamas, a lightning scar creeping up from the neck of the shirt and wrapping up his profile like a vine. 

He takes one look at Jon and says, “Absolutely not.”

Then, he shuts the door. 

Jon knocks, hard. “I will stand here all night, Mike.”

“I’ll kill you and you know it.”

“We both know you can’t.” He knocks again. “I want to make a deal.”

There’s a moment’s pause. 

The door swings open again. Mike sighs. “It better be worth it.” He jerks his head towards the inside of his flat. “Before you drip blood all over my hall.”

Jon nods to Tim, holding him up at the side, and Danny beside him. Tim stares back, his face tight with worry. Danny nods, then follows Mike inside.

Swallowing, Jon begins to move forward, Tim keeping pace beside. 

Shit, Jon really, really hopes Mike thinks his deal is worth it. If it isn’t, he isn’t certain he can get Danny and Tim out of this apartment alive. 

He steps over the threshold. 

Behind him, the door swings shut. 

Chapter Text

“Is that all?”

Gertrude is exactly as impressed with James’s successor as she was with James himself. She had told him as much, to his face, the first time she met him properly. 

She hadn’t known him before his promotion and James’s untimely end. She had vague recollections of passing him in the library once, shirt untucked, hair disheveled, and reeking vaguely of marijuana. He looked nothing like that now. It rankled at her. 

His suit--grey, adorned gold, eye-embossed cufflinks with an emerald green pupil staring from their center--is pressed and his hair is immaculately groomed, and the only thing he smells of is sharp, sterile soap. He had ascended to his place in the main office with nary a misstep, and he bore his place beneath the Eye as if it were hardly any weight at all. 

Elias smiles at her from behind his desk. That rankles her too. “There is actually one more thing, Gertrude. Are you up to date on the news of the office?”

“I have better things to do than listen to idle gossip, Elias.”

She has a standing lunch date with Agatha from Accounting to stay abreast of Institute news. Agatha is a terrible gossip, matched by no one save perhaps that new secretary of Elias’s. Agatha told her that she had a mouth like an engine that had never been given an off-switch. 

Even without Agatha, it’s unlikely that Gertrude would have been able to avoid the news. The Institute had been trading it like cheap cigars for months now, and even the lowest of murmurs get around if you say them often enough. 

“Of course, Gertrude, it was silly of me to ask.” Elias looks at her like he knows she knows, the prick. “I like to think of the Institute as a little family of its own, particularly our, well, branch of it. I’m pleased to inform you that we have a new member joining us.”

Gertrude raises an eyebrow. “You think this is a suitable place for your… nephew, was it?”

The rumors varied based on who told them, though Gertrude doubted the accuracy of any. There is a boy, they say, nine or ten or eleven or some such, and Elias has been in an utterly heroic battle for his custody for months now. His sister’s son, or a childhood friend’s boy, or some such. Orphaned young but still doted on by his dear Uncle Elias, who had been the one to discover his mistreatment at his grandmother’s hands. 

“He’s been fighting for custody since before the promotion, poor dear,” Agatha had told her, leaning across the café table with a vicious gleam in her eyes, “and he hardly let it show when he took over for Mr. Wright. And he’s working so hard to make the boy comfortable.  I hear the poor little thing is traumatized from the awful wretch who had him before.” She took a dignified sip of her tea before settling it back in its saucer. “Some people just shouldn’t be allowed near children.”

Elias folds his hands before him. The light catches on the gold of his cufflinks, glinting slightly in the sun. “Jonathan,” says Elias. “I was thinking he would do well in the Archives, actually.”

Gertrude straightens in her seat. “I wasn’t aware that we were replacing the Archives with a nursery.”

“You’ll hardly be expected to babysit. He’s a very quiet boy. Behaved.” 

“It’s out of the question.”

Elias leans forward in his chair. “We should cut the fiction, I suppose,” he says, and he watches her with all the weight of his patron behind him. “We both know this is not my nephew.”

Gertrude levels him with a flat stare. “Shocking.” 

“He’s… an inheritance, I suppose you would say. One last relic from James Wright.”

Gertrude does not move. She does not react. She does not so much as blink. Her pulse does not quicken, but she suspects a beat was missed somewhere in the span of the last few. 

She had missed something, she realizes. She made a misstep somewhere along the way, a lapse. James had always been a snake, but never one she had felt the need to pay constant mind to. He was useful, and there were more pressing dangers to monitor. 

James Wright was not the sort of man who should have ever been given access to a child. Gertrude had never seen it as a cause of concern, because he was also not the sort of man who would ever want to be near one. 

A child. Gertrude shudders to think of why he would even want one. 

“What did James do, Elias?” 

“I’m afraid that’s quite before my time,” says Elias, and he smiles, thin-lipped and calm. “The important thing is that he be kept in a place suitable for him. He’s developed quite a taste for Statements.”

There are burn scars on the palm of her hands. She’s had them for years, but they’ve hardly faded since the day she won them. It had been her first attempt at stopping the rituals. It had cost her the most of any. 

Gertrude would say that it’s been a long time since she’s thought of Agnes, but only to those that dared ask. But she’d never been in a habit of lying to herself.

“The Eye doesn’t like children,” says Gertrude, and her voice turns flinty, dangerous. “He couldn’t have.”

“The Eye likes this one,” says Elias. “I feel that we’ve struck a sort of balance, Gertrude. A mutually beneficial partnership. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“What did James do?” 

“You’re a force in your own right. I’m not shy of admitting it. But I feel we should take this moment to remember that you benefit from our alliance just as much as I do.” He looks at her levelly. “You will not harm Jonathan. You will do nothing to interfere with his development. If you do, I’m afraid you’ll find that all of your resources have dried up.”

Gertrude leans back in her chair, cocking an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”

A small piece of his facade fractures. His eyes flicker away. 

Elias settles back in his seat. “It need not come to that, I’m certain.” 

“Where is the child?” Gertrude glances back to the office door. “Did you bring him with you?”

“Rosie is giving him a tour. To welcome him.” He glances at his watch. “They should be quite done by now.” 

He stands easily, a smug, satisfied air about him. He crosses over to the door and opens it, holding it open for Gertrude. 

Gertrude shoulder checks him as she exits.

Elias follows her out with a grimace. He scans the hall, and when his gaze alights upon the hall’s end, he smiles. “Did you enjoy your tour, Jonathan?”

Gertrude follows his gaze. 

There is a little boy at the end of the hall--small, and thin, and scrunched in on himself like he isn’t certain where to put his limbs. His dark hair is cut short and carefully combed, and his buttoned shirt is tucked in immaculately pressed pants. 

He isn’t looking at them. He stares at the portraits lining the hall, unmoving, still, and he does not blink. 

The portraits are of the Institute heads. Every one from Jonah Magnus, all the way to Elias himself. The newest portrait was still fresh, barely a few weeks old. Jonathan stops at it, and he does not move his stare. 

Elias crosses over the hall, taking a place at Jonathan’s side. He settles a hand on his shoulder. 

“This is Gertrude,” prompts Elias, squeezing slightly. “You’ll be spending quite some time with her.” 

Jonathan shifts his gaze to her. The Eye shifts its gaze along with it. 

Gertrude does not flinch as it bores down on her, drilling down with mindless interest. The pressure is a familiar one but the intensity of it isn’t, and she feels its weight in her every bone. 

Her palms burn, right beneath the scars.

Jonathan shifts his gaze back to the line of portraits--no, a bit farther down the line. To the empty place on the wall’s face, reserved for future portraits, future heads of the institute. His breathing quickens, just enough to be visible. 

“Gertrude will show you the Archives,” says Elias. “I trust you’ll be on your best behavior.”

There’s a pause, a moment where he keeps his stare fixed on the wall’s face, blank and unmoving. His head is tilted slightly, as if he is listening to something only he can hear. 

He nods. Just barely. 

Elias smiles, staring at him with something that could be mistaken for adoration if Gertrude were one of the fools in the office pool. 

“Good boy, Jonathan.” His hand squeezes on his shoulder. “And don’t forget to blink.”

~*~

“Well, you certainly come up like a bad penny,” says Mike, and he places a dark red kettle on a burner and flips it on. “Tea?”

“Uh, no, thank you--” starts Tim.

“Yes,” says Jon, firmly. “Thank you, Mike, we all appreciate it.” 

He limps forward, pulling free of Tim’s grasp and grabbing hold of a chair at the kitchen table. He eases himself into it with a wince. 

“Your manners have improved,” says Mike, half smiling to himself. He pulls four tea cups from the shelf above, setting them in a line. 

Jon levels him with a look. 

Mike turns to Tim and Danny. “Do you take cream? Sugar?” 

Danny glances at Jon. Jon nods. 

“Yes, thank you,” says Danny. “Do you need any help?”

“I’d love some, thank you.” Mike nods to the fridge. “Cream is on the third shelf.”

“Got it,” says Danny.

“Such polite guests you’ve brought me, Archivist,” says Mike. “Can’t help but wonder why.” 

“They need a place to stay. For a little bit.” 

Mike casts a critical look at Tim, at the blood on his shirt. “Am I right to assume we have some mutual acquaintances who would much rather host them?”

Jon inclines his head. Mike turns fully, leaning against the counter with an expectant raise of his brow. 

“The Circus,” says Jon. 

Mike leans his head back and barks a laugh. “Oh, you’ve really lost it this time.” 

“Let me worry about that.”

“I will,” replies Mike, snorting, and he turns, busying himself with filling the sugar container. “I’ll do just that, in fact. You can fuck right off after tea.” 

“I need you to watch them, Mike,” says Jon, pleading. “Just for a little while. I can’t keep an eye on them if I’m busy with the Circus.” 

“Oh yeah, yeah, I gathered that much. I just don’t know why you think I’m at all interested in acting as stupid as you.” He glances at Tim, then at Danny. “Do you take lemon in your tea? I’m partial to it myself, but it’s not for everyone.” 

Tim stares back at him, eyes darting to Jon and then back to Mike. “No. Thank you.”

Mike shrugs. “Suit yourself.” 

Tim settles into the chair next to Jon. He and his brother exchange a glance. 

“I’m not asking you to stick your neck out for me. All I need is a spare room, and for you to stay with them for a bit. And if someone comes knocking--” He inclines his head slightly “--a long fall meets a short stop.”

“I’m not a babysitter,” says Mike. “And I’m not an idiot either. I didn’t stay alive all these years by picking fights with things like fucking Orsinov.” 

“Orsinov will have bigger things to worry about,” replies Jon. “Worst you’ll have to deal with is a few unpleasant callers, and I’m well aware of how you like to deal with them.”

“Are you? I was worried you’d already forgotten.” He casts a glance back at Jon. “I can always refresh your memory.” 

The smell of ozone builds, fuzzing at the edges of Jon’s mind. Jon grips the bottom of the table. 

“Do you remember how that went last time, Mike?” 

“Yes.” 

Mike’s hand slams down on the counter. All of a sudden, the ozone spikes sharply, before it dissipates entirely. He does not turn, but he does still. Jon can see the tension in his jaw, the clench to his teeth, even from behind. 

“Next question you ask, there will be one less for tea,” Mike grits out. “Yes, I fucking remember. Not likely I forget, is it? That goddamn Eye never blinks.” 

He jerks a serving tray free of the cabinet, setting it down viciously and beginning to arrange the cups. 

Tim’s hand wraps around Jon’s beneath the table, gripping tight. Jon squeezes it once. 

It’s not south yet. This isn’t even close to south. If Mike weren’t interested in his deal, he would have sent one of them falling the second they crossed the threshold. 

He’ll hear him out. Jon is sure of it. 

“I’m not asking for your charity,” says Jon. “I want to make a deal.” 

“Oh? And what could you possibly have that would interest me?”

“The Statement of Herbert Knox, regarding a repeat customer to his bookstop in Chichester.” 

Mike’s motions stutter. He covers for it less than a moment later, but the damage is done, and they both know it.

“And why would I care about that?” asks Mike, his voice carefully casual. 

“You visited his bookshop. Lion Street Books. It’s where you found--”

“-- Ex Altiora, I know.” He turns fully to face Jon. “Remember its owner too. Nasty piece of work. Thought about paying him a visit for a while. Why would I care about what he thought of me?”

“He followed you to the bell tower,” says Jon. “He was there when you fell.”

Mike goes still. His eyes lock on Jon’s face, unblinking, and Jon knows he has him. 

“You forgot the two most important nights of your life,” Jon presses, leaning forward. “Wouldn’t you like to remember one?”

Behind Mike, the kettle screams out its sharp whistle, high and insistent. Mike makes no move towards it.  

“You get your payment as soon as Danny and Tim leave your apartment. Alive.” Jon tilts his head. “Do we have a deal?”

There’s a beat. 

“No,” says Mike, after a moment. “If it were anyone else, sure. But Orsinov is a lunatic, and I think it would rather like my skin as a bag.” 

Jon’s gut clenches. 

Before he can say anything, Mike pushes on. “I want something else. In addition to the Statement.” 

“Oh? And what would that be?”

“Immunity,” says Mike, immediately. “From you.” 

“I can’t stop the dreams.” 

“Oh, I know that. I’m not asking for that. But I don’t want you coming around if you get desperate to feed. Go annoy Jude if you want someone in London, but I’m off the menu. Permanently.” 

Jon doesn’t reply. 

A lot of incidents take place in London, but the number of avatars who permanently occupy it are on the lower end of the spectrum. Mike only moved recently himself, and Jude tends to bounce between London and Oxford with little predictability. The Lukases only pass through sometimes, and things get… touchy, when he makes a pass at them. Most of the Fairchilds are migratory, and the avatars who operate on a smaller scale usually either try to avoid Jon’s radar or steer clear of London entirely. There are plenty of hunters in the police, but even Jon isn’t stupid enough to try them. 

And honestly, he feels bad every time he visits Angela. She’s oddly nice for a woman who takes people apart for organized crime, and she always bakes him lemon squares. She calls him a strapping young man and tells him he’s too thin, and Jon’s fairly certain she doesn’t want to carve him up into little pieces. Jon just sat and puzzled the entire last time he went. She sent him off with a canister of tea and a box of lavender cookies. 

Mike isn’t his exclusive source to Feed from, but Jon has so few that losing even one could result in… slip ups. Accidents. 

But Tim’s hand is still on Jon’s. He is tense, and tight, and very, very afraid, and Jon remembers that. Being afraid. 

“Deal,” he says. 

Mike breaks into a grin. “For once, Archivist, it is a genuine pleasure to be doing business with you.”

He takes the kettle off the burner, and the whistle’s scream sweeps downwards in a sharp, pitched drop. 

~*~

Jonathan takes in the Archives with wide, unblinking eyes and a flat face.

Gertrude watches him carefully, and wonders if there is anything to watch. She wonders if there’s still a person in there to watch, or if there’s nothing left of whomever he was before. “Have you ever been in an archive before?”

Jon does not look at her. He stares at the shelves. “Yes.”

“Then I trust you know that it is not a place to play,” says Gertrude, sharply. “You have to be careful.” 

Jon shifts his gaze to her office. He does not blink.

“I know.” 

~*~

“Guest room’s set up,” says Mike. “You’ll have to share. He asleep?”

Jon had passed out on the couch not long after tea. Tim had watched him from the corner of his eyes throughout the entire affair, and Jon’s face had grown increasingly pinched, and his movements had grown increasingly stiff. He’d barely been holding it together under the pain, and Tim was grateful when he finally passed out. 

They need a doctor. On top of everything else.

“Yeah,” says Tim. “We’re fine sharing. Thanks for having us.” 

Mike shrugs. “No skin off my nose. Unless it is skin off my nose. The Archivist better take care of Orsinov.”

“Who’s Orsinov?” asks Danny. 

“The clown.” Mike rolls his shoulders, cracking his back before settling in next to them at the table. “Never met it myself, but the community’s small. Word gets around.”

“I thought its name was Grimaldi.”

“Eh, identities are flimsy for Stranger types,” says Mike. “Names are things that can be worn.”

Tim and Danny exchange a glance. 

“Do you mind if we ask some questions?” says Tim. “This is all new to us.” 

Mike grins. “Archivist giving you the run around, is he? I’m feeling generous. Shoot.”

Tim opens his mouth. Danny is faster.

“Why do you call him the Archivist instead of Jon?”

“Because that’s what he is?” Mike shrugs. “Some of us are more whats than whos. And the Archivist? Different than most you meet. Bound tighter to his god. Dunno why. But if I had to put money on it, I’d say he’s closer to the Archivist than whoever used to live in his body.” 

Danny frowns, and there’s a tightness to it, a defensiveness. “How do you know him?”

That’s a problem. Tim can spot it from a mile off. 

Tim loves Danny. People in general love Danny. Danny is a lovable guy. And Danny? Danny loves people right back.

Really, he loves most things. Animals. Hobbies. The world in general. He loved things and he never let them go, or if he ever did, they came back so quickly that no one ever noticed them gone. He was still penpals with a guy he met at camp when he was eleven, for fucksake. 

Danny gets attached quickly. That never mattered when it was random schoolmates and strangers on buses or stray dogs. It does matter his skin is on the line. 

Tim is grateful for Jon, don’t get him wrong. Likes him, even. He can be pretty funny when he isn’t spouting cryptic nonsense, and in another life, Tim thinks they’d get on. But in this life, the supernatural is trying to kill his brother, and Jon and that seem to go hand in hand. 

He doesn’t even know if Danny’s going to be able to survive the clown. He doesn’t want to risk him being killed by something worse because he decided to adopt the spooky eye man. He definitely doesn’t need him getting killed by their host because he got defensive over the spooky eye man.

Mike doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t care.

“Oh, everyone meets the Archivist sooner or later. He’s been around a long time. Big pain in the ass, truth be told. Showed up in one of his Statements a couple years back and he came calling.” Mike shrugs again. “He’d be a bigger problem if he didn’t keep himself half-starved all the time. Small mercies.”

“Can he do what he says?” asks Tim. “Can he take down the clown?”

“Orsinov?” Mike blinks, then shakes his head. “No fucking clue. Hate to be present at that fight, if I’m being honest.”

TIm’s stomach clenches. “If you had to put a number to it,” he asks, “what would it be?”

“To him taking down Orsinov?” Mike tilts his head. “Pretty decent, I suppose. One of them is going to kill the other sooner or later, unless something else gets them first. Eye and Stranger are opposites, you know? Don’t mix at all. And Orsinov’s been making the sort of waves that means the Archivist would have shown up sooner or later. 

“Wouldn’t make any bets on either though. The Archivist’s tie to his god is different, but Orsinov actually keeps itself Fed, and its got a Circus at its disposal. Whatever happens, it’ll be a hell of a show. Now the chances of this all happening in time to save your brother?” Mike purses his lips. “Ah, seven percent?”

“What?”

“I think what Tim is trying to say is, um--” Danny falters “--that’s, uh, not a very high number.”

“You asked.”

“How do we get it higher?” demands Tim. “His odds. How do we improve them?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “You don’t seem to understand that these are much , much better odds than most people ever live to see.”

“What sort of odds are those?” asks Danny. 

“Do you know the odds of being struck by lightning?”  An odd smile plays on his lips. “Somewhere south of that.”

A chill drags down Tim’s spine. 

“‘Course, you actually know what’s going on,” continues Mike, unbothered. “Heightens your chances a bit, though not by much. Doesn’t actually help you, but at least you don’t waste time trying to figure out what’s chasing you. That’s fatal to most. The few that figure out what they’re dealing with in time are usually dead before they can find a way out. The ones that make it out?” Mike shrugs. “Don’t have specific numbers, but they’re not high. Not many in the span of human history. Unfathomable god meets fragile human is a hell of a match-up, isn’t it?”

He glances at Tim. “You want to improve the odds? Get some power of your own. The people who make it out of this are the people willing to pay the price.” 

Tim’s fists tighten beneath the table, where Mike and Danny cannot see.

Jon said he’d stop helping if they tried, and Tim doesn’t it’s a good decision to go it alone now that he knows more about what’s going on. Shit, he doesn’t know anything about navigating this world, let alone combating it, but Jon at least seems to know the people in it, and they at least seem--afraid of him? 

No, that’s not quite right, but cautious at least. Mike doesn’t seem to want to fight him head on, and that has to mean something. 

Danny’s odds are better with Jon as an ally--if he’s actually going to stay an ally. Tim isn’t fully certain of that yet. He’s interceded on their behalf so far, but people have points where costs become too much, especially considering they aren’t actually offering him anything in return. 

Altruism only stretches so far. Tim needs to start thinking of next steps if they find the end of Jon’s. 

But becoming one of these… things? His brother becoming one of these things? That isn’t a step Tim wants to take.

He thinks of that hand, black nails and brittle white skin. He thinks of Jon, never blinking, and the odd air that seems to hang about him like an omen. 

He thinks of Mike, and how something just seems missing from him. He can’t quite put his finger on it. It’s something about his stare, something about the inflection of his voice, something that triggers a deep, primal part of Tim’s brain and tells him to run. It puts his teeth on edge.

He feels like he’s talking to a human, but a human with a part ripped out. And Mike doesn’t seem to particularly miss the part that’s gone. 

Tim tries to imagine his brother like that. Offering tea, smiling politely, taking all the steps that a person should, but it’s all just skin. It’s just the outsides. That part of Danny that’s just so unquestionably Danny just… isn’t there. 

Not Danny. Not if it comes down to it. 

Tim will do what he has to. For now, that means keeping Jon on their side and tipping the scales anyway that he can. If Jon doesn’t pan out, then…

Tim will do what he has to. 

At his side, Danny leans forward. His focus stays on Mike. 

“Do you know many people who tried?” he asks. “Escaping these things. No offense, but I didn’t get the sense you do this very often.”

“No need. Lived experience is a hell of a thing.” Mike cocks his head. “The Archivist didn’t tell you much about me, did he?”

Option three, Tim thinks. He can taste ozone. There. Right on the tip of his tongue. 

“I did what I had to, and I haven’t regretted it for a moment. We all make our own decisions. Make sure yours is one you’ll survive to live with.”

~*~

Jonathan finds a place deep within the Archives, between the shelves, in a place hidden from the door’s sight. He wanders off without a word, head tilted, inclined, thoughtful and distant and very far away, as if he is listening to instructions as he walks. He follows the turns of the shelves with purpose, until he stops, all of a sudden, and pulls a file from the shelves. 

Gertrude follows him, and she watches.

She’s spent years waging a meticulous war on the Archives’ order. The files are disorganized, cluttered, misleading, and couldn’t be navigated even if you had a personal guide and a map to do it. 

She’s going to die one day, Gertrude knows. The End comes for everyone, except for those it doesn’t. She has no interest in making the sort of deals that stave off the natural culmination of things. When she finally dies, there will be some fool to replace her. 

Best they have difficulty finding anything real during those vital first few months. Best they have nothing to record. It may stave off the change long enough for them to take their own precautions. 

Gertrude watches as Jonathan sits in the center of the aisle, legs folded beneath him and file open on his lap, and she realizes all of her precautions were meaningless. 

She has an odd feeling looking at the thing meant to replace her. Like looking at her own tombstone. 

With a rapt attention, Jonathan gazes down at the file in his lap, eyes sharp and focused. He turns over the pages with short, thin fingers, a child’s hand attached to a child’s arm attached to a child’s body, and he speaks with a child’s mouth. 

“Statement of Staff Sgt. Clarence Berry,” he reads, and his voice is soft, and high, just as child’s might be, “regarding his time serving with Wilfred Owen in the Great War. Statement given the 6th of November, 1922.” 

Gertrude turns sharply on her heel, maneuvering through the stacks with a determined stride. She marches to the front, to the office, and the sound of Jonathan’s voice nips at her step like a hound.

She’s made a mistake. One she will not be able to recover from. 

Her assistants desks are situated at the mouth of her office, at the forefront of the Archives, close enough to call out when needed. As she passes, she casts a glance to the desks, and the one that is occupied. 

“Emma,” she says, pausing at her office door. “A word please.”

Emma Harvey looks up, and as she stands, she smiles. 

~*~

Jon falls as he wakes. 

His eyes fly open, arms reaching out to brace against the couch beneath him. Air rushes past him (it’s a couch, he’s on a couch) and vertigo twists in his gut (he can feel the cushions beneath his palm) and he can nearly see the blue, blue of the sky all around. 

He stops. He is on a couch.

Jon gasps, then groans. “Mike.”

“Wakey wakey, Archivist,” says Mike, cheerfully. “You’ve got a busy day ahead of you. Clowns to kill, people to traumatize.” 

Jon groans again, louder this time. He drags his hands down his face. 

His foot gives the hot, sharp ache of a coming infection. He doesn’t dare so much as glance at it. 

Dreaming had barely done anything for it. He’s hungry. 

Mike stops at the side of the couch, a steaming mug in hand. He hands it to Jon with a grin. 

“Can’t blame me for having a nibble,” says Mike, as Jon takes a sip. “You got in your own last night.”

Jon doesn’t reply. He takes another sip. 

Mike claps once, loud and decisive. Jon sort of hates him. 

“Well,” he says, bright, and he looks down at Jon’s foot. “That looks terrible. I have an investment to protect, and you have a deal to live long enough to fulfill. Go off and find yourself some breakfast, alright? Don’t care what it is, as long as it’s not me.”

“Right.” Jon nods tiredly. He closes his eyes. “Right.” 

He’s tired. He’s… just tired. It’s hard to think from it. His brain is foggy. Loud. The Eye’s hunger clouds it. 

He needs to go back to the Institute.

~*~

Danny looks up as Tim opens the door to the guest room. He sits at the edge of the bed, left hand rubbing absently against his pant leg. He does it when he’s nervous, ever since he was a kid. Tim used to find him doing it before tests, and their mother always used to threaten to skin him if he ruined his good pants doing it. 

Tim wishes that had always been an empty threat. 

Danny takes one look at him and tenses. “Something wrong?”

“Jon’s leaving,” says Tim. He waits a moment, then adds, “I’m going with him.”

Danny frowns. “Does Jon know that?”

“Not yet. But he’s not going to make it far on that foot, and I don’t think we’re going to make it far without him.” 

The fact of Mike hangs in the air between them, unspoken and oppressive. Tim doesn’t know what happens to them if Jon doesn’t live long enough to fulfill his end of the bargain. Tim doesn’t think it ends with them alive, though. 

“Right,” says Danny. “When do we leave?”

“You’re not coming.” 

Danny gets that look on his face. The look Tim hates. That look could give Tim ulcers. 

“I’m not just going to sit here on my arse while you literally risk your skin,” says Danny, slowly, in the tone that Tim also hates. “So it follows that I’m bloody well coming too.”

“They don’t want my skin; they want yours. It’s out of the question.” Tim sighs. “Look, I’m just going to take him to a hospital or something. Do something about the foot. Then we can both sit on our arse.”

“Or we could both go, have strength in numbers, and since you aren’t the boss of me, it follows that I’m bloody well coming too.” 

“How about neither of you come and we end the conversation?” shouts Jon, through the wall.

Danny and Tim stare at each other. After a moment, they shuffle out to the living room. Tim has the haunting sensation of being called to the headmaster’s office. 

Jon sits on the couch, eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. Mike sits on the armchair across, sipping at a cup of tea.  

“Neither of you are coming,” says Jon, immediately. He doesn’t open his eyes, or remove his hand from his face. “I didn’t go to all of this trouble arranging a place for you to stay just for you to come with me anyway.”

“We just think we can be of some help,” says Danny. “Those weirdos from before are still out there, and you can’t exactly run on your own.”

“I’ll be fine,” says Jon, unconvincingly. 

Tim folds his arms across his chest. “Stand up on your own and I’ll cede the point.”

Bracing himself against the cushions, Jon stands, and does not remain standing, because his foot immediately gives out beneath him and he immediately falls back to the couch. 

He takes one, two, three breaths, and then he says, “Tim can come. Danny stay here.”

Danny pouts. 

“You do exactly as I say,” says Jon, warningly. “Just until I handle--” He gestures to his foot. 

Tim raises his right hand. “Scout’s honor.” 

“You were never a Scout.” 

Tim deeply hates that he knows that.

Right. Now to keep him alive long enough to see a doctor, or a, a, witch doctor, or some spooky third solution that Tim can’t think of. And also there may be clowns involved. 

“Mike, can I borrow things from your kitchen?”

“Fine by me.”  

Tim darts into the kitchen. He opens a few drawers, casting a quick, critical eye over the contents before pulling out a meat tenderizer. 

He tucks it in the waistband of his pants before covering it with his shirt. He reminds himself to not get arrested, and to bring back the tenderizer, or Mike might kill him. 

When he walks back in, he finds Danny on the couch next to Jon, his arms wrapped around him and his chin tucked over Jon’s head. Jon’s a good deal smaller than Danny, and Danny always goes all in for hugs. He’s nearly disappeared against his chest.

Danny pulls back. Jon has an embarrassed look on his face. 

“Everything alright?” asks Tim, suspicious. 

“We’ve been having some very emotional talks in here,” says Mike. “It’s extremely touching.”

Jon buries his face in his hands. Ten seconds pass. 

“I was just saying goodbye to Jon,” says Danny, unbothered. “That’s all.” 

He’s absolutely lying. Tim will kill him over it later. 

Jon ushers him out of the apartment before much more can be said, resolutely avoiding eye contact. He has Tim help him down the street and onto the tube, and they settle into a seat right by the door. 

A woman in a pink hat stares at them from across the aisle. She immediately gets up and walks away. 

Tim winces. 

They look different in the morning light. Worse. Tim has a solid foot on Mike, and Danny has a foot and change. He hadn’t been able to lend either of them clothes, and so Tim is left in bloodied pajamas. Jon has the haggard look of someone who just looked God in the face and asked whose idea taxes were. 

At least Mike had shoes for them. 

“Don’t make eye contact,” says Jon, under his breath. “Don’t act like you know you’re suspicious either. Act like you’re going to work.”

“Will that stop people from calling the police on us?” whispers Tim. 

“Oh, they’ve already been called,” says Jon. “But it will stop us from getting tackled.”

Tim hates most of the words that come out of Jon’s mouth. Just as a general rule. 

Jon stands at a stop Tim doesn’t recognize, and Tim moves to stand with him, slipping under his arm and helping him to the door. When it opens, they walk out of the station and down the street faster than they should, given Jon’s foot. 

Jon leads them to an alley, stopping at a rusted metal door almost hidden against the brickface. Jon tugs at a blackened handle nearly pressed flat into the door’s surface. 

It opens with a low, aching screech. The morning light creeps in past the threshold, and Tim peers in after it, taking in the dim, dusty space beyond. It hits his nose a moment later, and Tim smells wet, old earth and dead, uncirculated air. 

An ironcast, spiraling staircase, rusted and ancient, stretches into solid dark beneath. Tim can’t see the bottom, and for a moment, he has the awful, creeping thought that there isn’t a bottom to be had. 

Jon picks up a large torch tucked behind the corner of the door. He flicks it on, and the dusty beam trails off into the dark. It dies before it reaches the bottom. 

Danny would love this place, if Grimaldi hasn’t put him off exploring entirely. Tim makes a mental note not to mention it to him. 

Tim steps on the staircase, eyeing it with undisguised skepticism. Grabbing at the railing to support himself, Jon follows, wincing as he turns to the door. He pulls it closed behind them.

The darkness nearly swallows them. 

Tim can feel Jon shift at his side, his breathing soft in the odd silence of the room. If Tim strains his ears, he can still hear the distant whine of traffic. 

“Ready?”

Tim stares into the darkness below. “This place safe?”

“No,” says Jon. “But the police have already been called about two bloody men on the tube, and we’ll be arrested the moment they find what’s under your shirt. Besides, the Institute’s front entrance has its own problems. Best we go in from beneath.”

“How far does this go?”

“Miles, at least. Covers a decent chunk of London, Institute included.”

Jon braces himself on Tim’s shoulder and makes a quick, stumbling hop down the first step. The staircase shudders dangerously beneath them, swaying from side to side. 

Tim snatches Jon by the waist, yanking him back against his side, and grabs the railing with the other hand to steady himself. They stand like that for a moment, metal creaking like a ship in a storm, and they wait for it to still. 

Tim can feel his heart ramming against his rib cage. His hand grips Jon’s side like a vice. 

The staircase stops shaking. Tim does not. 

“Usually I buy the guy a drink first,” says Tim, just to fill the silence. Slowly, he relaxes his grip on Jon’s side, not releasing entirely.

Jon coughs, but Tim is certain he can hear a laugh beneath. “I won’t hold it against you. Ready for the next step?” 

Tim pulls in a breath. “Lay on, Macduff.”

Jon takes the next step slower, more carefully, and Tim pulls more of his weight onto his side. The staircase still shakes, but it doesn’t feel like it might collapse beneath them. 

The torch light continues down, down, into the empty dark beneath. 

~*~

“I don’t know if it’s a child still.” 

The words enter the air with an undeniable heaviness. 

Gertrude walks the space behind the desk, back and forth, occasionally pausing to cast a glance at Emma. Her mind spirals with possibility, with avenues, with the velocity of her own mistakes. 

Elias would have never brought the child if she had a chance of stopping this. 

Children are different. They’re still in development. A constant state of flux. There shouldn’t be enough of a formed personality to trigger anything as extreme as a Becoming. Adults are clumsy messes of anxieties and stresses and maladaptive behaviors, and they still go into the change with enough difficulty, but a child? 

A child should have never had cause to reach out for such things. Such things should have never had cause to notice a child, particularly Beholding. Their brains were never developed enough to draw its notice. Their fears were too simplistic. Direct. The Eye should never have even glanced at Jonathan Sims. 

But if it had? The effects would be… disastrous. There wouldn’t have been enough of a concrete identity to push back against the change, and the Eye would have filled the space of whatever pieces it ate. 

Emma frowns thoughtfully, glancing back at the door with open curiosity. “How did Wright do it, do you think?”

Gertrude turns with a particularly vicious snap of her heel. “I don’t know.” 

He hadn’t been different in his final months. He had hardly done anything of notice at all, past the usual trivialities. He was the same conniving little man as always, and he hadn’t given so much as a hint to a project on the side. 

A project. A child. Where would he have even gotten a child?

She’d dig through records. Adoption was unlikely--the processes involved might have caught the sort of distress required to force a child through such a change and James was unlikely to risk it--but it paid to be thorough. 

She doubts she’d find any record of Jonathan Sims. If she does, it isn’t as if she could do anything with it. 

She doesn’t know if there was still a child in there. 

She stops pacing. “There’s too much of the Eye in him. I don’t like it.”

“It’s not like the Eye,” agrees Emma, her glasses flashing beneath the overhead lights. Her eyes flicker back to the door. “It’s odd. Is it that interested in him?”

“More than it was ever interested in James. Or Elias. Or me.” 

Emma hums to herself. 

“I can’t reverse it,” admits Gertrude. The words taste sour on her tongue. She hates to say them. It reeks of failure and her own mistakes. “And I don’t think he’s done Becoming either.”

The question isn’t whether or not Jonathan Sims could be saved. Elias would have kept him far from her if there was still a chance for it. No, he was too far gone to be saved, and Gertrude wouldn’t waste her time trying. 

The question is damage control. How to manage it, and how much damage is already done. 

She fears the Eye is wearing that boy. That there isn’t a consciousness left to be dealt with. It would be almost better if that were the case. Easier. Less messy. 

If there’s still shreds of the child in there, it… wouldn’t change things. It wouldn’t change what needed to be done. 

She can’t damn the world. Not for a single child who is already damned himself. 

“Help me keep an eye on him,” she tells Emma. 

“Of course, Gertrude.” She stands, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear “I’d be more than happy to lend a hand.”

Then, she turns, crossing to the door's threshold and over, back into the Archives. 

As the door swings shut, Gertrude catches the soft, gentle cadence of the thing that might not be Jonathan Sims. 

~*~

Tim shines the flash light up the rusted hand ladder bolted to the tunnel wall. He whistles, low and long. 

He’s sweating slightly, despite the biting cold of the tunnel. They’d walked for more than a mile beneath London’s streets, and he’d been carrying most of Jon’s weight throughout it all. He’s far from a lightweight, but even he starts to struggle after so long.

The tunnels are odd. Full of dead ends and warped doorways and ceilings that squeeze down towards the floor. Like a fun house at a fair, but far more sprawling and not at all fun.  

“Can you make it up that?” asks Tim, casting a skeptical glance at Jon’s foot. 

He might be able to make it up with Jon on his back, but the narrowness of the trapdoor would make the logistics difficult. But Jon looks like he’d barely be able to stand, let alone scurry up a ladder. 

“I have plenty of experience.” Jon nods to him. There’s an odd look on his face as he does it. A glint to his eyes in the torchlight. He glances back up at the trapdoor with an eagerness on his face. “After you.” 

Tim hands him the flashlight and takes to the ladder. 

The trapdoor opens with ease, and he pulls himself up into an office that might be considered posh were it not for all the clutter. Its desk is quality, antique even, but it is scarred with gouges and stacked in files. There are file boxes stacked all about, all in various stages of disorganization, and a cot shoved into the far corner with a blanket strewn haphazardly over. 

Jon tosses him up the flashlight. Tim shines it down on the ladder’s rungs as Jon climbs the bottom few feet, gasping audibly against the pain. A moment later, he reaches down a hand and pulls Jon the final inches up, yanking him onto the frayed carpeting at the doors edge. 

“So, we broke into some poor sod’s office,” says Tim, glancing about with interest. “Now what?”

“I’m the poor sod,” says Jon, panting slightly, and he tries to force himself to his feet. “We need to fix my foot if we’re to handle Grimaldi.” 

Tim wraps an arm beneath his shoulders to hoist him up. “We’re going to need a lot more than a first aid kit.” 

Jon grimaces, then nods. “Help me to the shelves?”

Tim doesn’t ask. He’ll see it for himself soon enough. 

They barely make it out of the office before Tim decides that enough is enough. He drags Jon to the nearest chair and eases him into it. 

The walk had taken its toll on him, and in the light of the office, it’s clear that he’s barely holding on. There’s a disturbing greyness to his face, a sheen to his brow and a pinch to the corner of his eyes with every step. He’s going to collapse entirely if he tries to go any further, and Tim honestly has no idea what to do if worst comes to worst. 

“Sit here,” he orders. “Tell me what we’re looking for and I’ll get it.”

Jon opens his mouth, looks at his foot, then closes it again. He nods. “Right. Um. Go to the shelves and get a file box. Try to pick a full one.”

“Does it matter which one I grab?”

“Yes, but I won’t know until I can see it. It’s… hard to explain. Grab any one you can find.”

Good enough for him. Tim walks to the nearest bookcase and grabs the most cluttered box he can see, heaving it off the shelf before dropping it at the foot of the desk. 

Jon immediately picks up the first file. He spares it barely a glance before discarding it and picking up the next one. His hands tremble with exhaustion and pain. 

Tim casts another worried glance at his foot. “First aid kit?”

“Oh. Uh. Office.”

Tim darts into the office, eyes casting about in the mess. He doesn’t have to look far. The first aid kit is tucked at the foot of the door, and Tim nearly trips on it as he enters. After a moment’s consideration, he ducks into what seems to be an employee break room and fills up the only mug in the cabinet with water before grabbing a rag from the sink counter. 

By the time he’s come back, the stack on the desk has grown, and Jon’s nearly discarded half of the box.

Tim drops to his knees. “I need to change your bandages.” 

Jon hums distractedly, giving a nod but no more. It’s good enough for Tim. He sets to work. 

Jon hadn’t exactly taken to the injury with a rest and elevation approach. He had been dragged halfway across London and back again, trudged through miles of underground tunnels, and scaled ladders. The bandages were filthy and caked in blood both old and new, and Tim winces as it unravels. Even beneath the grime, he can spot infection setting in. 

He needs a hospital. Or he could lose the foot entirely. 

Tim casts him a glance. ‘This is going to hurt,” he warns. 

Jon hums again. Tim grimaces, then sets about cleaning the wound. 

When he’s finally done, Jon’s startling grey pallor has worsened, but the foot at least looks slightly better. Not dirty, at least. 

“I’ll just need to bandage it,” says Tim. “Then it’s done, and we can figure out what to do next.”

“That might not be necessary.” Jon holds a folder in his hands, yellowed with age, crinkled at the edges from Jon’s tight grip. “”This might be enough.” 

Tim settles back on his heels. “What is it?”

Jon flips it open with a far away look on his face. “Statement of Irina Smirnova,” he reads, and then his jaw goes taunt, “regarding a family trip to… a circus. Original statement given the 11th of April, 1953. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist. Statement begins.

“My family had always been poor. I say had been, because they’re dead now, and they can’t be much of anything after what those things did to them. 

“They had charged us five roubles a head for entry to the circus tent. The woman at the gate said it exactly like that too, five roubles a head, and I remember it because of the look on her face when she did. She had such an odd smile to her, like she was laughing at a joke only she knew. 

“My father hadn’t been smiling. We weren’t a large family, only myself and my brother and our parents, but that was still an expense that was difficult to bear. I remember wondering if he would turn around and take us home, in that moment. I wish he had. But my father was a proud man, and the entire town had lined up to see the Circus’s show. He never liked to admit that we couldn’t afford what the rest plainly could, so he paid the woman and led us into the tent, red and gold and sparkling beneath the glow of gas lanterns. 

“I lied earlier. I don’t remember that she said 'five roubles a head' because of the expression on her face as she did it. I remember it because, later, my family lost theirs, and I finally understood the joke.”

Tim is in an office. He is on the ground, leaned back on his haunches, and he can stand up at any moment. He can move at any moment. He can leave at any moment. It is so, so important that Tim can leave at any moment, because here isn't a place he particularly wants to be.  

Tim does not move. He does not speak. He isn’t able. 

He listens to Jon, to the tale of a circus and its show, and he knows, he knows he is in an office. He knows that. But he has the oddest sensation as he listens to the cadence of Jon’s voice rise and fall. Not of being at the Circus’s show, not seeing it, but… experiencing it?

He feels the spiraling, rising climb of terror in his throat, and the plummeting drop of grief in his gut. He feels it rush through him, out of him, and he does not move, and he does not speak, and he does not scream, and he thinks he’d rather like to do all of them. 

Jon lets out a shaky breath. “Statement ends.” 

Beneath the chair, a tape recorder clicks off. 

Tim blinks at it. He’s certain it wasn’t there earlier. He’s certain he never turned it on. 

“Are you… alright?” asks Jon. He doesn’t look Tim in the eyes. “I hadn’t planned to do that with you in hearing distance but it… got away from me. I understand that the experience can be unsettling.” 

Tim does not reply. He stares at the tape recorder, unblinking. 

“That’s the thing after my brother?” he asks, eventually. 

“Not in the same iteration, but… yes. To be frank.”

“I didn’t know it was in the box,” Tim hears himself say. He feels odd, unstuck from his body, shaky and far away. “The story, I didn’t know when I grabbed it. Do you have a lot?”

“Of the Circus?” Jon’s mouth tightens. “No. No, we don’t.” 

“That thing can’t get my brother.” 

Tim thinks he wants to throw up. He thinks he wants to hit something. 

Jon doesn’t reply. He sets the file on the desk, separate from the discarded folders. 

Tims needs that… fucking freakshow to not get within spitting distance of his family. He needs a way to kill them. All of them, or to at least make it so they can’t get near Danny. 

“Your foot,” he says, jerking his head down to look. “Is it…?”

Jon gives him a wane smile. “A bit better.”

Tim’s heart drops when he sees it. 

It’s better, undeniably so. The inflammation has receded and he thinks he sees the pink of new skin, right at the edges. But it’s far from healed over completely, and it’s barely any improved from when it was first injured. 

“Another file, or…?”

Jon shakes his head. “It won’t help. It was a long shot anyway. The Eye wants a live Statement.” He lets out a long, slow breath, his shoulders slumping downwards. He looks beat down, and small, and very, very tired. “I’ll figure something out.”

Tim sucks in a breath. “And your foot, it will be healed afterwards?”

“For the most part.”

“Can you do it to anyone?”

“Anyone who’s encountered the supernatural, but--” Jon shakes his head. “I’ll figure something out. It’s… complicated.”

His hands fist in the legs of his pants. His muscles tense, and his heart rate kicks faster. 

“I’ve seen some spooky things in the last couple of days,” he says, not hesitating for a moment. After a moment, he adds, “Do you have to like, drink my blood, or…?”

“What? N-no.” Jon shakes his head, more hesitantly this time. “No. I’ll figure something else out.”

“It’s fine,” Tim insists. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad--”

“It can be.” 

“I don’t care. I’ll do it. My brother--”

“--is someone you’d pay any price to save. That doesn’t mean it’s fair for me to ask it.” Jon drags a hand down his face. “I have… options . I haven’t exhausted them all yet. I just need to rest and I’ll… I just need to rest.”

Tim opens his mouth, then closes it again. 

“I just need to sleep. Just… for a bit. Then we can try the next avenue.” Jon glances towards his office. “Will you…?”

There’s a beat. 

“Yeah. Sure.” 

Tim pulls him from the chair, carefully maneuvering him past the clutter and back into the office. He helps him to the cot in the back room, easing him on it with a wince. 

Jon practically collapses onto the fabric. Tim turns to leave. 

“Tim?”

“Yeah?”

Jon props himself on his elbows, looking after Tim with an expression he can’t quite place. He glances at the door, then back at Tim. 

“Don’t leave the Archives.”

“I won’t go wandering.” Tim gestures to himself. “Not really dressed for it.” 

“I mean it.” He casts another worried glance to the door. “If someone comes in, you wake me.”

Tim frowns. “Am I going to get in some kind of trouble for being here?”

There’s a glint in Jon’s eyes. A flicker. And Tim realizes that Jon is worried. No--afraid. More afraid than he’s ever seen him. 

“There are worse monsters than me in the Institute,” Jon tells him. “Wake me if anything happens.”

~*~

“Gertrude?”

Jonathan does not pass the doorway. He stands just beyond the threshold, clutching at the frame of the door with one hand. He stares at her with intense, focused eyes, and from beyond him, the Eye does the same. 

Gertrude raises a brow. “Yes, Jonathan, what is it?”

Jonathan swallows. His hand tightens on the frame.

“He’s afraid of you.” 

“Oh? Who?” She waits a beat, then prompts, “Elias?”

Jonathan does not reply. He takes a small step forward. 

“There’s a cot in the Archives,” he says, and a splinter of emotion enters his voice. “In your office.”

He’s Knowing already then. She expected as much, but the confirmation still helps. She’ll need to discover the extent of his abilities if she’s to decide how to manage him. 

“I could stay here,” he presses. “I wouldn’t be any trouble.” 

“I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question.”

“You could lock the door,” he insists. “If you were worried about the Archives. I won’t leave the room, I swear.”

“This isn’t a place for children,” says Gertrude. “And I am not the one deciding the details of your care.”

Jonathan watches her, silent. Gertrude returns his gaze with a steady evenness. She wonders if it’s a desire to stay in the Eye’s temple driving him. 

Or, she considers, it could be a desire to stay in a place where Elias is not. 

Whatever the cause, she cannot allow it either way. Permitting Jonathan to stay permanently in the Archives would be disastrous to his Becoming. There are far too many Statements, and the Eye’s presence is far too prominent. 

It’s too early in the game to cross Elias, besides. If she does decide to make a play against him, it needs to be one calculated to actually do something. Trying to intervene now will just leave Jonathan in the exact same position and Gertrude in a worse one. 

The Archives’ door opens. Jonathan’s eyes widen at the sound. 

From the place over Jonathan’s shoulder, Gertrude sees Elias, standing in the doorway with a smile on his face. His eyes meet hers, and they do not leave. 

He smiles. 

“Come along, Jonathan. It’s time to go home.”

Jonathan does not move. He stares at Gertrude. 

His hand is trembling, she notices. So the problem is Elias. 

“Jonathan,” says Elias, firmer. “Come.” 

Gertrude watches as Jonathan’s shoulders slump forward, and he turns, crossing the breadth of the Archives and falling into place next to Elias. His hands thrust deep into his pockets. 

With a smile, Elias looks down at him, draping an arm over his shoulder and tugging him into his side. Jon stumbles slightly, tripping on the threshold, and then the door closes behind them both. 

As she watches them disappear, a strange disquiet flutters in her chest, dangerously close to regret. She squashes it back down. 

Gertrude has never made it a habit of lying to herself. There is nothing she could do for old mistakes, and only a fool wastes their time grieving them. 

In the case of Jonathan Sims, she’d do what she had to. And whatever it led to, whatever the cost… 

She’d live with it. As she always did. 

~*~

The Archives feels like a magnifying glass. Tim thinks that makes him the bug. 

He has the feeling of a museum as he moves amongst the shelves, looking curiously in boxes and glancing around corners, but a museum long abandoned. There’s a distinct vacantness to the space, a palpable, aching emptiness that grips Tim by the shoulders and does not let go. 

The feeling of the eyes is worse here. 

It had been strong since the moment he met Jon, no question, but there was an odd concentration to it here. A building pressure of it all. Tim breathes deep and forces himself to not glance over his shoulder. 

They’re never going to be able to save Danny if they don’t take care of that foot. 

The fear buries into the base of his spine, grows roots, twists. Jon is his best chance. Only chance that isn’t bloody terrible, anyway. Jon doesn’t stand much of a chance if he’s a second from collapse. They don’t stand much of a chance if Jon doesn’t stand much of a chance. 

There’s a time limit to this all, ticking down, down, and when it reaches zero, Tim isn’t certain Danny will still be alive. 

If Jon wasn’t so bloody stubborn they’d already be on the next step. 

Tim drags a hand through his hair. The eyes follow the movement. 

He’ll try again when Jon wakes up. Or if whatever other idea he has doesn’t pan out. He can’t go on like this forever, and Tim has an easy solution on hand. It… probably won’t be as bad as what happened to Danny. Probably. 

Tim tries not to think about it. It won’t change whatever comes next. 

The sound of a lock unlatching breaks the Archives’ silence like a gunshot. 

Tim turns on his heel immediately, angling towards the office and keeping behind the shelves as best he can. He’s already halfway to Jon by the time the door pulls fully open. 

“I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Stoker. Or do you prefer Tim?”

The man at the door looks ordinary. Middling height, trimmed hair, pressed suit. If he had walked into his work, Tim’d have him pegged as one of the more annoying higher ups, the sort that had gotten the job from a family friend twenty years earlier but still insisted that the problem with people was that they were never willing to buckle down and work. 

He doesn’t look like a monster. Not the supernatural sort, at least. 

Tim hazards a glance back at the office. The man follows his gaze. 

“You can get Jonathan if you’d like,” he says, nodding towards the door. “I’ll stand here and wait. I won’t do anything to stop you. But it will likely render my offer void, and I assure you, it is in your best interests to hear me out.” 

Tim pauses, half turned to the door. “Offer?”

“With respect to your… interesting position. And your brother’s,” the man says. “Forgive me, where are my manners? My name is Elias Bouchard. Head of the Magnus Institute, and also Jonathan’s direct supervisor.” He pulls the door wider, stepping to the side in open invitation. “If you’d like to talk in my office?”

“Jon said not to leave the Archives.” Tim takes a step closer to the office door. “I could get him for you.”

Elias smiles indulgently. “Yes, that sounds rather like Jonathan. He’s quite something, isn’t he?”

Tim doesn’t reply. 

“I’ve known him for quite some time. One thing I’ve noticed of him is a worrying tendency to bite off more than he can chew. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Tim purses his lips. 

“I think Jonathan needs his rest,” presses Elias. “And you need an option to save your brother’s life. You don’t have to accept. Simply hear me out.” 

Tim risks one glance back at the closed door of Jon’s office. He wouldn’t even have to cross the office to get him. He could shout and Jon would hear. 

He has options. Two that he can bear considering. See if Jon can manage it, see if he can stop the Circus while Danny still has his skin. Or… option three. If needs must. 

Tim doesn’t know if the first will pan out. And he really, really doesn’t want to try for the second. 

He takes a step from the office, towards Elias and the open door. The eyes track his step. 

“Yeah, alright,” he says, and he steps over the threshold. “I’ll hear you out.” 

Elias’s face splits into a pleased grin. “Excellent, Mr. Stoker. Follow me, if you will.”

He heads up the stairs with a quick, determined step, expensive shoes clicking solidly against the tile. He does not turn to see if Tim follows. 

Tim takes a bracing breath. He lets his hand trail to his side, where the meat tenderizer hides beneath his shirt. 

He follows him up the stairs. 

Chapter Text

This is the point where Jon makes his mistake:

Danny darts to space next to Jon on the couch the second his brother disappears into the kitchen. Jon’s foot aches, and he is so, so hungry, and the Eye hangs over it all, staring and staring and staring. He’s tired. He’s hungry. He wants to rest. 

Danny leans in, ducking his head towards Jon. “Can I talk to you real quick?”

“You’re not coming,” says Jon, immediately. 

The last thing he needs is to lose him to Grimaldi. If worst comes to worst, he’ll be dead before they can do much of anything. Grimaldi will rip it off like a tablecloth and the entire matter will end then and there. Jon’s skin, meanwhile, is a mess. He’ll have months to figure out Plan B if things go south. 

“That’s not what I want to talk to you about.” Before Jon can say anything, Danny presses on. “Tim thinks I’m the reckless one, but it’s really him.”

Jon tilts his head. “Okay… ?” 

“It’s true,” Danny insists. “I do dangerous things more often, but I always take precautions. Tim doesn’t, especially if you bring his family into it. Can’t tell you how many times he nearly got expelled growing up because he thought someone was messing with me.” 

Three times. One became a slap on the wrist, one a suspension, and one would have been an expulsion had Danny not convinced the assistant headmaster to lessen the punishment. Danny had just joined his brother in secondary school. He had been too loud and too excitable and missed one too many social cue, and puberty was a mile off still. A group of older boys had taken to tormenting him, and one of them had made the mistake of doing it in front of Tim.

Tim clobbered him with a lunch tray. Nearly broke a tooth. 

“He’s still the better option to come along,” says Jon, half-apologetic. “He isn’t Marked. You are. Worst case scenario, he can disappear in a crowd.”

“I know, just. Don’t let him do anything too dumb?”

“I’ll… do my best,” Jon says, reluctantly. And then--and this is the important part, the part where he makes his mistake--he adds, “I’ll bring him back safely. I promise.”

Danny smiles at him, relieved. “Thank you, Jon. I really, really appreciate all you’re doing for us.” 

And then he holds open his arms. 

Jon stares at him. 

Danny does not lower them. “I’m a hugger,” he tells him, seriously. “But I understand not everyone’s comfortable with it. I won’t do it if you’re not alright with it.” 

“Oh.” Jon coughs slightly. “I, uh. Suppose that’s alright?”

Danny immediately envelops him in a hug. It’s… nice, Jon thinks. Pleasant. Still isn’t quite sure about where to put his arms, though. 

He remembers Mike is sitting across from them when he hears him snickering to himself. 

Jon really sort of hates Mike. 

~*~

Elias’s office has the odd balance of pristine tidiness and showman’s eccentricity typically reserved to a historical house preserved for display. It’s posh, no doubt, all wood paneling and uncomfortable velvet chairs on the visitor’s end of the desk, but there are slight ornamental blips that give the faint impression that the reason the house was preserved was because its owner went mad in an extremely public fashion. 

There are jars of mismatched shapes and sizes on a mahogany table lining the wall, filled with dull, viscous-looking fluids of all colors. Tim can spot an odd, stringy plant floating in one, and something that might be mistaken for a hand in another, if it were three sizes too small and had nails like daggers. Thick, leather-bound tomes lined the bookshelves bracketing the walls, and there are general, mismatched paraphernalia scattered about that Tim has only seen before in alternative spirituality stores.

There is a framed photo on the wall. Elias stands in frame, smiling against a light stone wall for backdrop. His left hand grips a shoulder, and at the end of that shoulder is Jon. 

He’s in a graduation gown--Oxford, Tim recognizes the design--and holding a diploma limply in hand. He is not smiling.  

“Please, take a seat,” says Elias, warmly. “Now, I understand you’re in publishing.”

Tim blinks, off step. He sits in the chair before the desk. It is exactly as uncomfortable as it looks. 

“You have a spotless track record, are well liked by your coworkers, and show an excellent work ethic. Would you say your skills transfer well?”

“You said you had an offer,” says Tim, pointedly. “About helping my brother.”

“Ah. Straight to the point.” Elias folds his hands before him. “It would be more accurate to say that I had a job offer. Consider your brother’s life a hiring bonus.” 

Tim stares at him. “You… want to hire me.”

“Yes.” 

“For your ghost hunting place.”

“For the Archives,” corrects Elias. “As Jonathan’s assistant, to be specific.”

“Right.” Tim nods, then nods again, because it seems to be right for this situation. “Just, uh, quick question. Uh. What the fuck are you going on about?”

Elias grimaces. “Not quite how I would put it, but I understand you’re under a great deal of stress. My offer to you is simple: You will sign an employment contract with the Magnus Institute. You will come to work as an assistant to the Archivist. You will help Jonathan in his duties and you will keep him alive as best you are able. In exchange, I will devote my not inconsiderable resources towards keeping the Circus from skinning your brother.” He raises an eyebrow. “Do you have any questions?”

Tim feels his pulse quicken. “What resources do you mean, exactly?”

“Jonathan has filled you in on our benefactor?”

Tim stares at him, stone-faced.

“Like Jonathan, I am… blessed, in a manner of speaking. Different abilities, granted, but effective nonetheless. Unlike Jonathan, I don’t need to show up on enemies’ doorsteps and wheedle favors with every scrap of leverage I have. I have allies. People in positions of significant power who would be more than happy to lend me aid. Were I to ask for their help on a matter involving, say, a valued employee’s brother, they would give it.” He gives Tim a critical look. “Favors are not cheap things, Mr. Stoker. Not in our world. I won’t waste mine unless I am receiving something of equal value in return.”

“Why would you even want me as Jon’s assistant?” asks Tim, bewildered. “I don’t know a thing about archiving. Or. Whatever it is Jon does.”

“Admittedly your brother was my preference for the position--”

Tim immediately pulls out the meat tenderizer. 

“--but I feel you are suited well for the role. You seem to get on with Jonathan well enough, and you’re resourceful and determined. That will serve you well.” He eyes the tenderizer. “Put that away, Mr. Stoker.”

Tim sets in in his lap, keeping one hand on the handle. He eyes Elias with an undisguised mistrust. 

“Jonathan has blocked my every attempt to place an assistant in the Archives with him,” explains Elias. “He has rather bad associations with them from his predecessor’s time. It’s far too large of a responsibility to manage on his own, but he insists, and without his signature my hands are tied. You, however, are not in a position which lends easily to rejection. He’ll sign.” 

“Uh-huh. And I’d be doing… what exactly?”

“Oh, it varies from Archivist to Archivist. They really bring their own goals to the position. I’ll let Jonathan explain his priorities to you himself. But as to my expectations for the position…” Elias leans back in his chair. “I am extremely pleased with Jonathan. He’s truly come into his own. However, if I had a lasting grievance against his work, it would be how recklessly he takes to it. He--well, you’ve seen his most recent injury. He goes into situations unprepared, hurts himself, and then doesn’t give himself the proper care afterwards. If you were to accept my offer, I’d like to think you’d help curb some of his more maladaptive behaviors. Be an ally of his. A friend. He desperately needs one.”

“Jon said he had friends already.”

“Jonathan does not have friends. He has people who use him, and who he uses in return. They won’t keep him in one piece.” 

“Yeah, well he seems to be willing to help my brother, no strings attached. Why shouldn’t I just go back down and take my chances with him?” Tim eyes him bluntly. “Your big spooky eyeball doesn’t really seem to be watching you the way it does him.”

Something in Elias’s face splinters. 

The release in pressure had been palpable. It’s the difference between deep sea diving and the shallow end of the swimming pool. Whenever Tim had been near Jon, the Eye had been there with it, squeezing down with a relentless, ponderous insistency. It was nearly suffocating in its weight, and it never, ever blinked. 

Tim still feels the eyes around Elias, no doubt about it, but not nearly to the same degree. It’s more of a glance than a stare, an attention whose intensity had diminished the farther from the Archives they went. 

“Jonathan is rather treasured by our mutual benefactor. Gifted.” A note of bitterness creeps into his tone. “Not that he appreciates it, but that’s beside the point. 

“Jonathan has certain… advantages, you might call them. Blessings to a degree rarely seen. But they’ll do you little good when he cripples himself at every turn. Do you really think you’ll fair better with Jonathan, isolated and injured?” Elias casts a critical eye over Tim. “Make no mistake, I won’t stop you from taking your chances with him. But you’d have to be blind to miss his tendency to step on toes. No one will help him, and, by extension, no one will help you. You’ll be lucky if Orsinov is the only fight he starts, even. I, meanwhile, am in good standing with members of our community. I have resources that Jonathan could never access, and that’s not something to be dismissed out of hand.”

Tim doesn’t reply.

It’d be mad to take a job in this. He’d be mad to consider one. He has a job, a good one, one that doesn’t involve spooky clowns or weird voyeurs. But it’s an option. One that doesn’t involve risking his brother’s life on a negligible chance. One that doesn’t involve becoming a monster.

From his desk drawer, Elias removes a single sheet of paper and places it on the table between them. Next to it, he sets a pen, heavy and black and cracked with a silver diamond pattern. 

“Well, Mr. Stoker? What say you?”

A beat. Then, “How do I know you’re going to do as you say?”

“Oh, you’ll find that contracts here are rather binding. It protects us both.” Elias offers him a bland smile. “I’ll keep my word, and you will have to do the same. There is a… facet of the position that some have found less than pleasant. Once you accept the position, you will be unable to leave it. You won’t be able to quit or be fired, and if you simply do not show up… Well, Jonathan can fill you in on the details. Consider it job security.” 

Tim glances back to the door. 

It’d be better to wait. To take his chances on Jon and see if it works out, and if it doesn’t, come back to Elias’s creepy office with CV in hand. 

Elias tracks his gaze. “You are, of course, free to turn down my offer, but let me be clear that it will not be raised again. If you decide to take your chances and discover that they weren’t quite good enough, the only offer I have will be for your brother.” Leaning forward, he adds, in a low tone, “Danny does seem to get along well with Jonathan. Honestly, I think he’d rather enjoy the position. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Tim swallows. He picks up the pen. 

“He said you were a monster,” says Tim, looking at Elias with a grim set to his jaw. “Worse than him. That true?”

“Jonathan has a bit of a flare for the dramatics. Surely you’ve noticed?” He scans Tim’s face, then sighs. “Have you wondered yet how we Become the way we are? Or, well, I’m certain you have. You’ve been considering it for yourself since Jonathan said it was a way of saving your brother. Am I correct?”

Tim doesn’t reply. He grips the pen tighter. 

“You have to choose this life, and Jonathan did. Of his own free will. I was present for part of his change. He resents me for it.” Elias gives Tim a careful look. “I’d like to be clear about something: I did nothing to prevent his Becoming. I am nothing if not pleased with how he developed. But everything he is today is the product of his own choice, not mine.”

He nods to the paper between them. “Choice is important in our world. You’ll learn that soon enough. What’s yours?”

(There is so very, very little that Tim Stoker would not do for his brother.)

He slashes his name at the bottom with clenched teeth, then tosses the pen back on the desk. It rolls in an arc, nearly violent, and passes to Elias’s side. 

He brings his hand down over it without so much as a glance, tucking it into his blazer pocket. His eyes remain locked on the employment contract, and he picks it up eagerly, glancing over it with a delighted look on his face. 

Tim feels like he just signed his own death certificate. 

“I look forward to working with you, Mr. Stoker,” he says, pleased. 

“Fuck off,” spits Tim. 

“Oh, you and Jonathan will get on.” Elias stands, crossing to the door and holding it open for them both. “Let’s go tell him the good news.”

Tim gets an odd look from the secretary as he exits, though she quickly looks back at her own work and does not look up again. He passes another employee in the stairwell, clean and pressed and dressed in business casual, and they cast a surprised glance at the blood on his shirt and the hammer in his hand before moving out of his way. 

Elias pulls open the door to the Archives, holding it open for Tim. 

Tim shoulder checks him on the way in. 

The eyes feel different now. 

They track him with interest, hunger… possession. Before, they had been alien, the sort of stare that makes you close the blinds late at night. Now, Tim has the creeping, insidious impression that the thing that watches him stands not on the street corner but in his closet, staring from the crack in the door. Tim’s stomach clenches. Panic starts clawing at his throat, but he swallows it back down. 

Elias crosses the Archives with a quick, eager step, barely pausing as he pulls open the door to Jon’s office. 

Jon’s still asleep when they enter, and he doesn’t so much as stir as the door closes. He sleeps on his side, face to the wall, back to the door, knees pulled up and one hand tucked close to his chest. 

Tim catches a glance of Elias’s face as he crouches at Jon’s side. An odd sensation comes to him as he watches the two of them. It crawls beneath his skin and into his skull, roots at its base and digs its way in. He doesn’t like it. It… he just doesn’t like it. 

There’s an odd gleam in Elias’s eyes, a satisfaction. Smug and pleased and something Tim can’t quite put a finger on. It riles at him. 

Elias places a hand on Jon’s shoulder and shakes, gently, like a parent rousing a child.

Jon goes stiff as a board. 

~*~

Jon realizes he made a mistake the moment the sharp smell of sterile soap reaches his nose.

He should have never brought Tim into his Archives. He should have left him with Mike, or in the tunnels, or taken him back down the moment that the Statement failed to do any good. But he shouldn’t have left him in his Archives alone. He shouldn’t have left him anywhere Elias could have accessed alone.

Elias’s hand is still on his shoulder. He can feel the press of his ring into his skin. His thoughts start racing, bouncing from what he could want to how much damage he could have already caused to what Jon is going to have to trade to stop the damage. He wouldn’t be waking Jon unless he already had done as he pleased. 

Slowly, he pulls away from Elias’s hand, up, and brings himself into sitting position with a careful, stiff stillness. Leaning back, Elias smiles at him. Jon glances away from him, towards Tim. 

Fuck.

“Jon--” starts Tim.

“I won’t sign.”

Elias rolls his eyes. “You’re not even going to hear what I have to say?”

“I don’t care. I’m not signing. Put him in the library if you want him but I won’t let him step foot here.”

“I hired him as an Archival Assistant,” says Elias, pointedly. “It’s the only department in the building that’s understaffed.” 

Jon knows that. They both know that. As if they hadn’t been fighting about it for nearly two years now. 

This wouldn’t be the first time Elias tried to put an assistant in with him. Wouldn’t even be the first time Elias tried to directly hire in. He’s been trying since the moment Gertrude died, and Jon’s only saving grace has been that he needed Jon’s signature to do anything. But Jon wouldn’t give it then, and he’s not giving it now. 

Tim won’t be able to get out of the contract. Not after he’s already signed. He’s trapped, and it’s Jon’s fault. 

Elias never lets the people who he hires into his Archives go. Jon doesn’t know if that’s because an archival contract itself is what binds, or if the general contract is his binder and he simply doesn’t want Jon to know it. He tried it twice before. The first time, Jon never actually found out the name of the assistant, whoever they were. Elias came down to introduce them and to force Jon to sign, and Jon made sure to have Mastodon playing when they came down. He increased the volume every time Elias tried to speak. Elias gave up after twenty-seven minutes precisely, which was a shame, because Jon liked the thirty-three minute point of that particular album particularly well. 

The next time he tried, Jon locked up his Archives and immediately left the country. He made it three weeks before the contract forced him back, and by that point, the woman Elias hired to be his assistant had already been placed in HR. 

Things are always… less than pleasant, after Jon rejects an assistant. Elias has his own ways of expressing displeasure, and even after all these years, Jon has never quite been able to grow numb to them. He won’t be pleased when Jon refuses Tim as well. 

Whatever. Tim will do fine in Research, or Library, or literally anywhere that is not his Archives. Even Artefacts’ Storage would be better. The rest can be managed.  

“Get out,” says Jon, and he clenches at the corner of his bed with a single, shaking hand. “I’m not taking him, Elias, and you can’t force me to. So get out.”

All at once, he forces himself off the edge of the cot, half-limping, half-falling away. He manages to catch himself on the edge of the desk, gritting his teeth against the pain. 

“I can’t force you to, you’re absolutely right,” admits Elias. “But I also don’t have to fire him, and I don’t have to reassign him either.” 

“Fine. Pay him to sit in the lobby then. Doesn’t make any difference to me.”

“I won’t let him in the building, Jonathan. I’ll have security throw him out if you try to sneak him in.” 

Jon goes still. “People will notice if he gets sick.” 

“Will they?” Elias raises a brow, offering Jon a showman’s frown. “I don’t think they will.” 

Jon grinds his teeth. “I’ll make them notice. Tim’s young and in shape and this is the goddamn Magnus Institute. You don’t want to deal with Section 31 anymore than I do. Just put him in Research.” 

He wouldn’t risk it. He never risks it, and that’s the only reason why Jon’s made it as far as he has. He drew enough attention when he gave Jon control over the Archives right on the heels of Gertrude’s death, young and angry and unsuitable, and it hasn’t died down in the two years Jon’s had his Archives. He won’t risk someone who is in perfect health dropping dead right after signing a contract for an Archival Assistant. 

Jon can be very loud in very unfortunate places, near people who need very, very little prodding to start causing problems. He won’t risk it. 

“Oh, but you forget, poor Timothy Stoker is dangerously unstable. In the span of past twenty-four hours, in fact, he’s missed work, wrecked and abandoned his home, and been seen running through the streets of London in blood-soaked pajamas. Why, just now he was seen wandering the halls of the Magnus Institute with a meat tenderizer. Lord knows what has upset his health so severely as to cause such a change.” His tone hardens. “Autopsies can be influenced, Jonathan. Even if you convince the police to investigate the Institute, I’m certain that they’ll be more than happy to accept whatever more reasonable explanation I offer them. Particularly if his brother loses his skin in the meantime and they need a convenient scapegoat to pin it on.” 

Elias sets Tim’s contract on the desk before Jon. A moment later, the pen comes down beside it, clacking solidly against the wood. 

Jon makes no move to pick it up. 

“Tim’s in good health,” presses Elias, eyeing Jon carefully. “Still, I don’t think he’ll last very long. A week, maybe? Two? Surely not more.” 

Jon’s jaw clenches. He takes a step back from the table. There is exactly one lesson that Gertrude had taught him that he agreed with well enough to learn, and he learned it very, very well. 

You’re never backed into a corner until you break a rib from how hard you’re pressed against the stone. Never, ever concede until the last possible moment. 

“A lot can happen in a week,” he says, and he smiles, and it’s all teeth. “More if I have two. I’m sure I’ll figure something out. In the meantime, get out.” 

“Then I won’t give him a week.” Elias nods to the contract. “Sign it. I’ve had enough of this ridiculous rebellion of yours. I permitted it when it was harmless enough, but it’s been affecting your health for too long. You’ll get yourself killed at the rate you’re going, and I won’t permit that.”

“Or you’ll what?” 

“Well, Tim signed his contract in exchange for his brother’s life. I think it only fair that that be affected if it’s breached so soon.” Elias glances at Tim. “I’m on good terms with Mike Crew, and the Circus can be influenced. You’re barely sustaining this as you are. How long do you think you can keep it up under worsened conditions?”

Jon squeezes his eyes shut. He counts to ten. 

They’d die. As simple as that. Elias doesn’t go against him often, not when Jon’s going up against another avatar, at least. Jon thinks he doesn’t want to endanger the few sources of Feeding he still permits himself, or something along the lines. The only times Elias has ever intervened have usually involved Jon stepping on the toes of a donor--once or twice with the Lukases, and one particularly uncomfortable instance involving Simon Fairchild. He’s never directly interfered with Jon’s actions, though. 

When Jon crosses one line too many, he simply receives a formal request that Jon join Elias in his office for a meeting regarding professional development goals. He always knows that he’s pushed Elias’s patience a step too far when HR sends the slip his way. 

At the end of the meeting, Elias always files a formal report that the issue had been resolved to both parties’ satisfaction, and Jon always keeps to his Archives for a few weeks. 

Still, even if Elias has never tried to go directly against him, Jon isn’t stupid enough to think he can manage Grimaldi and him both. It’d be a death sentence. And one Elias would deliver to spite Jon. 

“Jon, it’s fine,” snaps Tim. “I already made my decision. Just sign the stupid thing.” 

Jon stares at the employment contract, and at Tim’s name scrawled on the bottom line. He shouldn’t have brought Tim here. He shouldn’t have left him alone.

(He shouldn’t have promised Danny.)

Jon picks up the pen. In a single, defeated movement, he lashes his name to the bottom before tossing the pen on the table. 

Elias snatches up the contract with a smug grin. “Excellent,  Jonathan. I’m so glad you’ve decided to see reason in this.”

Jon collapses into his desk chair. “Fuck off.”

He hates dealing with Elias. Even after all these years, it always makes him feel like a stupid little boy, too slow to run and too dumb to do it well. Jon would try and try and think he could manage, and Elias would bear it all, right up until the moment that Jon made a mistake. 

And then it would be over. Years of struggle. Down the drain in a single conversation. 

“I’m certain you and Tim will need some time to adjust to your new shared space. I’ll leave you both to get more acquainted with one another, right after I get your signature on the transfer  forms for your other assistants.”

Jon grits his teeth. “I'm not letting anyone else down here.”

“Three is traditional, Jonathan,” says Elias, pointedly. A moment passes. Elias sighs. “Very well. Will you send Tim up to the legal department when you have a moment? He’ll be passing on so soon, it only seems fair that we give him some assistance in getting his affairs in order.” He glances at Tim. “I do hope you have a beneficiary other than your brother. Jonathan’s work always gets sloppy after funerals, and I don’t know if he’ll manage well without you besides.”

“Listen here you fucking bastard--”

Jon buries his face in his hands. He takes in one deep breath, then another, then another. He needs a smoke, and more sleep, and for Elias to just not be here anymore. He needs to think.

He counts to ten. 

Elias places two more sheets of paper on the desk. They both know he’s going to sign it. 

The contracts on the desk are standard copies of the transfer form, with not a single line filled out, not even the departments. No names. Jon stares at them for a moment before looking back to Elias. “I don’t even get to decide who I’m trapping?”

“If you had decided to cooperate sooner, I would have gladly given you anyone in the building. You forced my hand and lost the privilege. Sign the documents, Jonathan.”

In Jon’s mind eye, he sees Michael, and he sees Sarah. He could have almost mistaken it for a memory, had it not been for Sarah. 

He hadn’t been there when she died. He hadn’t known how it looked. He wishes he still didn’t. 

Elias smiles at him. He glances meaningfully at Tim. 

(Assistants don’t last long without help. And Jon had promised.) 

Jon signs before he can stop himself. He drops the pen on the desk. 

Tim steps forward. “What about my brother?” he demands. “What are we doing about him?”

“Oh, I see no need to change any details of his care. Jonathan seems to have the situation well in hand.”

Jon barks a laugh, weak and incredulous. “You are kidding me.” 

Tim looks murderous. “The deal--”

“--was that I would devote my resources to your brother’s safety. I think you’ll find that Jonathan is the most valuable resource at my disposal. I see no reason to change the arrangements he’s already made, and I’m more than confident about his ability to manage the problem.”

In the corner of Jon’s eye, he notices Tim step forward. The meat tenderizer is in his hand.

Elias doesn’t so much as blink. “Oh, there was something that slipped my mind when discussing the terms of your employment, Mr. Stoker. If you kill me, anyone contracted under the Institute will die too. That includes yourself, and that includes Jonathan. I’d say your brother won’t last long against Orsinov without you both, but, well. The murderer Jonathan’s left him with will do away with him the second he realizes there’s no Archivist left to pay him. Put it away.” 

Tim’s hand drops to his side. 

“Rest assured, I will be monitoring the situation, and will intervene if it worsens. But for the moment, I see no need to interfere.” 

Jon drags a hand through his hair. “Get out, Elias.”  

Elias tucks the contracts into the inside of his blazer. “I’ll leave the two of you today to acclimate to one another. I’ll have your new assistants sent down tomorrow.”

“Fine. Get out.”

“Oh, and Jonathan? Tim is now under the Eye’s auspices. You needn’t fear any lingering effects of giving a Statement.” He casts a disapproving glance down at Jon’s foot. “You really ought to take better care of yourself.” 

“Get out.”

Neither of them speak until the door to his Archives has closed again. 

“He’s a right bastard,” says Tim.

“You should have woken me.”

“Mike said you didn’t have a good chance at saving my brother. He said seven percent.” Tim scans his face. “Was he wrong?”

Jon sighs. 

Mike wouldn’t have any real statistics, nor any real experience past his own. It’d be a guess, based on what he knew about Jon and what he knew about Orsinov. If Jon tried to save a hundred people, how many would he manage?

Seven might be too generous.

Tim sees it in his face. He nods. “Then it was worth it.”

Jon doesn’t reply. 

“So the foot. We’re fixing that now?”

Jon shoots him a glare. “You are the reckless one.”

Unfazed, Tim sits in the chair across from him. “On a time limit, boss. Need to keep the pace up.” Then, before Jon can say anything, he casts a glance around Jon’s office. “So, how are we doing this? All of my spooky feeding references are from old movies. Do you have any fainting couches? Something to stretch out on proper.” Tim strains his neck with a waggle of his eyebrows. “I can bare my neck sitting up but it won’t be as sexy.”

Sighing, Jon says, “That isn’t funny,” but he’s smiling. 

“No, it really isn’t,” agrees Tim, and he isn’t.  

The tape recorder on the desk clicks on. Jon isn’t certain if it had been there a moment ago. He’s never certain. He can never quite bring himself to care. 

“Statement of Timothy Stoker,” he says, and he’s gone, slipping away beneath the haze of the gaze and the hunger and the tape recorder’s whir. He steps back, goes somewhere far away, and something else takes his place. He can never quite bring himself to care about that either. It’s always a relief to lean into it. “Regarding his encounter and subsequent interaction with…  the Archivist. Statement taken directly from subject the 29th of August, 2013. Statement begins.”

Tim’s voice flows freely and carries his story along with it, and Jon sits and watches and drinks and drinks and drinks it all in. He speaks easily, calmly, casual as a conversation between friends, and he seems happy enough to do so.

He tells Jon of Danny, and how very, very much he loves his brother and how he is very, very afraid to lose him. He tells him he’s worried that the clown will get him, that Mike will, that Danny won’t let go of Jon at the end and he’ll be sucked into a life that kills him. He tells Jon that Mike told him they’d have to pay a price to save his brother’s life, and that he would pay any price, any price at all, and he hopes whatever price he pays doesn’t make him into a thing like Jon. He tells him he’s frightened. He tells him he doesn’t want to die. 

“Statement ends.”

Blinking, Tim stiffens. He shakes himself, just slightly. “That’s, uh. I said a bit more than I was planning to.”

“That’s… typical for the experience. We can ignore the more personal parts?” offers Jon, with a wince. 

Tim grimaces. “Yeah. And, uh, about the part where I said you were attractive in an unhinged sort of way--”

“We can ignore that part too,” says Jon. 

“Your foot. It better?”

“Oh, uh.” Jon glances down. “Yes. Thank you, Tim.” 

The skin’s healed over, pink and new, though Jon knows a scar will be left. But it barely hurts, and the hunger doesn’t bite at him quite as fiercely. 

“Good.” Tim nods. “Now what?”

That… is an excellent question. Shit. Jon hasn’t messed up quite so badly in years. 

“I’ll have to explain things to you. All of it. Smirke’s Fourteen and what the Institute is and what we do in the Archives. I’ll need your help to explain it to the others tomorrow. And”--Jon drags a hand down his face-- “you will be explaining this to Danny.” 

“Yeah, I’ll...” Tim winces. “He’ll understand.”

~*~

“Have you lost your fucking mind, Tim?”

He did not understand. 

Tim puts another handful of clothes in his suitcase so he has an excuse to not look his brother in the face. Danny immediately shoves himself into Tim’s line of sight. 

After the Statement, Jon had given Tim a change of clothes, pulled a new phone from his desk drawer, set it up, and told him they were returning to his house. He’d need to get supplies to last himself until the Circus was handled, and probably do something about his door. 

On the way out, he texted Mike to bring Danny to Tim’s place. Tim saw the reply. It was a gif of someone falling off a cliff. Tim did not know how this applied to bringing his brother, and it worried him the entire train ride over. Jon said it was fine, though, and Tim supposed he’d know.  

When they finally reached his house, Tim found his door broken off its hinges. It had been replaced in the doorway, perfectly balanced on the threshold. When he touched it, it fell into his front hall and landed with a crash. 

Not ten minutes later, Danny and Mike arrived. Jon stared at him until Tim told Danny what he had done, and Danny… hadn’t agreed with his decision. At all. 

“We’re not discussing it,” says Tim, firmly. He pulls one of his dress shirts from the closet. “What’s the dress code for this place anyway? Business casual?”

“We don’t follow it,” replies Jon, immediately. “We’re hostages, not employees.” He glances at Tim’s closet with interest before jabbing a finger at the acid red, floral Hawaiian shirt hanging in the back. “Wear that. It’ll drive Elias crazy.”

“Is that why you dress the way you do?” asks Mike, with interest.

Jon frowns. “What’s wrong with how I dress?”

He had changed before leaving, donning a death metal band t-shirt that is at least three sizes too big and both looks and smells like he had last worn it to a burning building. Over it, he wears a thickly-knit pink cardigan sweater so long that it grazes the bottom of his knees. It hangs off one shoulder, pooling around his left elbow, right beneath the twisted white detailing of the Opeth logo. 

Honestly, all of his clothes seem to be too big for him. He’s nearly as small as Mike, but he was still able to offer Tim ripped black jeans in the proper size and a size-small T-shirt depicting a cartoon ghost. 

“I like the cardigan,” offers Tim. “It’s got a nice pattern.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He glances down at it. “My predecessor left it in the Archives. I found it in a box.”

“You need a more uniform aesthetic,” complains Mike. “I was on the run and I still had a sense of fashion.”

“If we could get back to my brother selling his soul,” hisses Danny. 

“I didn’t sell my soul,” says Tim, begrudging. “I just. Got a new job.” 

“Really, it’s more selling his body, if you think about it,” says Mike, agreeably. “Wouldn’t you agree, Archivist?”

Jon closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in one hand. Ten seconds pass. 

“Tim,” says Danny, through gritted teeth. “Can I speak to you in the living room?”

Tim follows with a wince. 

“Look--”

Danny wheels on him. “What were you thinking, Tim?”

“I was thinking we needed a way to not die.” 

“We had a way!” Danny folds his arms across his chest. “Jon--”

“--is a random guy you met twenty-four hours ago who has been unconscious for most of it. He couldn’t even walk!”

“He was helping us,” snaps Danny. “He gave us good enough odds. Why wouldn’t you just stick with that?”

“Seven percent is not good enough.” 

“Better than signing a contract you can’t leave.” Danny groans. “Tim, we had a plan that got us the result we actually wanted. Why would you abandon that?”

Tim’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer. 

Danny’s head snaps towards the bedroom. “Jon!”

A moment passes. 

“Yes?” calls back Jon, hesitantly.  

“Can I ask you a few questions about the job?”

There’s another pause. Jon shuffles into view, not making eye contact. “Uh. Sure?”

“Lovely.” Danny flops onto Tim’s couch with a huff. “Why didn’t you have any assistants before now?”

“That. Uh.” Jon winces. “The last ones I knew. Died. Uh. Horribly. Seemed like a bad plan to get more.”

“Does that... happen often?”

“... We have a one hundred percent mortality rate.” 

Danny buries his face in his hands. “Please tell me there’s a way to get him out of it.”

“Not that I’ve found?” Jon scratches the back of his head. “There was one assistant that managed to break the contract, but he didn’t tell anyone how he did it, and he died nearly immediately after--uh, not from breaking the contract, to be clear. He was married to a serial killer, and, well.” There’s a beat. “Don’t marry a serial killer and you’ll be fine.” 

“Take notes, Tim,” says Danny, pleasantly, which Tim finds deeply unfair. Danny’s the one who’s on the verge of making friendship bracelets for the guy who eats people. 

“So we need to break your contracts,” continues Danny, frowning thoughtfully. “Goal number one.”

“Goal number two,” corrects Tim, giving him a nudge with his foot. “Spooky clown, remember?” 

“These are all excellent goals that we will certainly address,” says Jon. Then, “At some point.”

Both of them stare at him. 

“I do other things too!” says Jon, defensively. “I can’t just abandon them.” 

“What other things?” asks Danny. After a moment, he frowns, and says, “What do you even do, anyway? Is it always”--he gestures vaguely--“this?”

“Oh. Ah. No. Um.” Jon scratches at his head, his cardigan jerking in tandem. “Damn. I just--I cannot say it without sounding utterly ridiculous. I--” He stops with a sigh. “I… am trying to stop the apocalypse. Well, apocalypses. We still have a few to go.” There’s a beat, and he adds, “I wouldn’t mind some help?”

There is a long pause as Tim grapples with the information, tries to assimilate the fact that the world might end and it will be because of actual, evil magic, instead of like, the Tories. That information immediately gets into a heated street match with the fact that, presumably, the only one trying to stop this from happening is, well. Jon. 

And them now. Damn. 

“So three goals, then,” says Danny. 

~*~

On the kitchen table, pinned beneath a cup of coffee long cold, Tim finds a notice. It reads:

Breekon & Hope Deliveries

Missed Service Notice

Sorry we missed you! 

We attempted a (__) Delivery ( X ) Pick-up while you were out. 

We’ll try again very soon. 

~*~

Transfer notices tend to chase Martin to whatever department he lands in--sometimes immediate, sometimes lagging, but there with all the dedication of a hunter that never tires. Research had lasted for five months before he was sent to Accounting, ostensibly for annual departmental overhaul but the subtext had been clear enough. Accounting lasted for six weeks before he buggered the math enough to land in Artefacts Storage, which lasted for an hour and thirteen minutes precisely. 

He’s made it in the Library longer than most departments--more than two years, now--and he thought he might stay, but he isn’t surprised when the little green slip arrives, and he isn’t surprised when his supervisor hands it to him with relief crinkling at the corners of her eyes. 

“Don’t clean out your desk,” she says, a moment after he takes it. “It’s for Archives.”

Oh. So no transfer then. 

Archival transfers are regarded more of a rite of passage or a haze than an actual, legitimate assignment at this point, and the conflict liked to dance the line between office drama and legitimate scandal. At this point, you’d be hard pressed to find a single employee who Elias hadn’t tried to place down in the Archives, and who hadn’t walked up and straight back to their old desk immediately after.  

Still, something pangs in Martin’s chest when he hears it. He thanks her with a nod, and then stands, heading up the back stairwell of the Institute until he reaches the office of Elias Bouchard. 

When he enters, someone is already seated before Elias’s desk. As the door opens, she turns to glance at him--glasses, dark hair… Sasha, maybe? From Research? Martin can’t remember. 

She flashes him a smile before looking back at Elias. 

Elias greets Martin with a warm, pleased look. “Martin. Have a seat, would you?”

Martin settles in before the desk, stiff and fumbling. He’s never liked Elias’s office. He always feels like a bug pinned to a display. 

“Do you know Sasha already? You’ll be working together.”

Sasha glances at him with an air of uncertainty, then nods, turning back to Elias. “We’ve met, yes.”

“I’m very glad to hear it. We like our departments to be like a little family here, and, well, I hope the Archives becomes more than just a place to work for you both. Like a home away from home.” 

“About that”--Sasha leans forward--“I was wondering, have you spoken to Jon about the transfer? I know that, um… Well, he’s never wanted assistants before, and it can be a bit…”

“You needn’t mince words, Sasha.” Elias gives her a pleasant look. “I understand that it has been… difficult, in the past, to place new blood in the Archives, but Jonathan and I have finally come to see eye to eye on the matter. He’s already signed, in fact.”

From his desk, Elias produces two transfer forms, already filled out, with the signatures of the department head and institute head already scratched out on the bottom lines. The only field left unfilled is the signature of the transferee. 

Above the papers, Elias places his thick black pen. He smiles at them both. 

“It’s all in order,” he says, his tone warm. “You’re both set to start tomorrow, and you’ll have the rest of the day off to clear your desks and have a bit of leisure time--full pay, of course. Don’t move down to the Archives quite yet, however. You’ll be joined by an outside hire, and I’m giving Jonathan and him the day to acclimate to one another. I’ll leave introductions for tomorrow. All that’s left is that you sign.” 

Sasha and Martin exchange a glance. 

After a beat, Sasha shrugs. She picks up the pen and signs her name to the transfer form before turning to Martin, pressing the pen into his hand. 

Martin stares at the transfer form for a moment. He rolls the pen between his hands. 

He should sign. Of course he should. He’s running out of departments to be shuffled off to, and Archives at least buys him a little more time before his gross lack of qualifications finally gets him sacked. Besides, you don’t really refuse a transfer, at least not at the Magnus Institute. It’s just not done. 

It’s been over a year since he’s exchanged more than a few words with Jon besides. He’s sure everything will be just… fine. It would be fine, and not at all an awkward work environment that would consume his every ounce of sanity. Really. 

He should sign. Shouldn’t he?

“Oh, goodness, there is one thing I forgot,” says Elias. “While it is a lateral move, the Archives is a smaller department--though no less valuable to the smooth workings of the Institute. As such, there will be a slight increase in duties expected of you, and a ten percent increase in wages to compensate. I’ll notify payroll immediately after our meeting.” 

Well, that decides it then. Martin signs before he can think any more on it. 

Elias collects the paperwork happily. “Excellent. Sasha, you’re dismissed. Martin, if you have a moment?”

Martin is going to die. 

Sasha files out with a goodbye, and the door settles closed behind her a moment later. As she leaves, Martin feels his heart rate tick up a notch. 

It can’t be about the CV. Probably. You don’t transfer someone if you find out they lied about literally everything. You fire them. It’s not that then. Probably. Something else. Another lecture about workplace standards? Or proper citations?

Or Jon. It could be about Jon. 

Elias settles back in his chair, an odd look in his eye. Martin feels like he’s being dissected. 

“We are very excited to have you in the Archives,” says Elias, eventually. “Jonathan too.”

Oh, they’re lying. Perfect. Every single one of Martin’s past interactions had led him to believe that Jon would rather gnaw off his own leg than let Martin within spitting distance of the Archives, which meant that this conversation got to exist entirely in that fun, hostile subtext dressed in layer upon layer of office-appropriate jargon. Lovely. 

A moment passes. Martin thinks he’s expected to say something, but he also thinks that Elias would have better odds at reaching across the desk and murdering him than getting him to take the lead on this conversation. First rule of lying is that you never volunteer bloody anything .    

“There is, however, the matter of your desk,” says Elias, eventually. 

Martin pauses, then blinks. “My what?”

“There was an accident a few years back,” explains Elias. “A desk was ruined. Due to the Archives’ chronic understaffing, we never saw the need to replace it. As such, we are short a desk.”

“Oh.” Martin feels like he’s supposed to say something else here. “Should I… stand…?”

“Oh, goodness, no. I would never subject my employees to such dismal conditions. Luckily, we have a spare desk at the moment in HR. It is, however, at the top floor of the building, and it needs to be transferred down. When you come in tomorrow, will you collect the spare desk and bring it down to the Archives? I’ve already let Janet know to expect you.”

“Oh, uh, of course. But, uh, is there anyone to help me bring it down? It’s--there are a lot of stairs down to Archives.”

“You’ll have full use of the service elevator. I’m certain you’ll manage.”

“Right.” Martin nods once. He wonders if Elias has ever interacted with an actual human being in his life. “Right.”

There’s a beat. 

“That is all, Martin,” says Elias, pointedly. 

Martin’s ears burn. He makes his goodbyes and practically flees, grateful to leave the display-case sensation of Elias’s office behind.

He nearly rams into Sasha. She jumps slightly. 

“Careful,” she says, but she smiles at him kindly as she does it, so she probably doesn’t mind. “I thought we might grab coffee or something. Since we’ll be working together. A get-to-know-you sort of thing? If you don’t have other plans.”

Martin blinks. “Oh--no, I... That sounds nice. I’d like to.” 

She beams at him. “Café around the corner?” 

“Fine by me.”

The street around the Institute had always been a bit of a ghost town, in Martin’s experience. There are few restaurants to speak of, just a McDonald’s and a couple of breakfast spots, a florist that Martin’s never been in, and a café that always is closed by the time Martin gets off shift. 

As he settles into the chair across from Sasha, he finds himself regretting that. It’s a lovely café. It would have been nice to pop in after a hard shift. 

They manage a few minutes of small talk before the conversation starts to taper off. In the lull, Sasha clears her throat. 

“Odd that we’ll actually be in Archives,” says Sasha. “Thought it’d be empty forever, way it was going. Is this your first time being transferred there?”

“I--” Martin blinks. “No, actually. Yours?”

“I had a transfer attempt once before,” she says. “Back when I was in Artefacts Storage. I wanted to be transferred, but the Archives was the only department with any openings. Elias said I had to get Jon’s approval, and…” She shrugs. “You can figure it out from there. I got the transfer to Research in the end, so I suppose it worked out, but Jon refused to let me into Archives. Seems dead set against it. Wonder what changed his mind.”

There’s a long pause. 

“Fourteen,” says Martin.

Sasha blinks. “What?”

“Elias tried to transfer me to Archives fourteen times,” says Martin. “Fifteen if you count this one.”

“That’s--” Sasha settles back in her chair, a bewildered look on her face.

“Crazy?” offers Martin. He takes a bracing sip of tea. “Yeah.”

“What do you think of Jon?” 

“Jon? He’s nice. He seems… nice.” He pauses. “What do you think of him?”

“I don’t know him that well,” she says. “I only knew him from Artefacts.”

Martin’s brow furrows. “I didn’t know Jon ever worked for Artefacts.”

“Oh, he didn’t. But when I first started, there was a bit of an unofficial policy in place to call Archives if things went very sideways. Gertrude came by once or twice--before, you know--but for the most part? Jon would be the one who came. I thought we got on well enough, but I guess not enough for the transfer.”

Martin hums in the back of his throat. 

He had never worked with Jon before. Not properly or anything. He just. Knows him. That’s all. Nothing weird about it. Most people in the Institute know Jon. 

Jon probably barely remembers him anyway. And he probably doesn’t hate Martin either. Probably. 

Martin takes another sip of tea. It’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. Probably. 

Probably. 

Chapter Text

On his first day at the Magnus Institute, Martin Blackwood stops at the corner stand and buys a paper, because he arrives forty-five minutes too early and needs something to fill the time, and because it seems like the thing to do, and because if he has nothing to hold people might notice how hard his hands are shaking. The woman at the stand doesn’t notice his hands, or maybe she does. Maybe that’s why she pushes the extra sales so aggressively on him. Maybe he’s just an easy target. He can’t say she was wrong, if that were the case. He bought them, after all. 

Martin doesn’t smoke, and has never tried, but he feels a bit more confident with them in his back pocket. It’s a proper adult activity, the sort you pick up in university and swear to quit every Easter and Christmas when your parents catch you out back puffing another half-carton. It makes him feel a bit more like he can pull this whole mess off. 

And, well, the lighter is rather nice. Interesting pattern. Martin doesn’t mind spiders, rather likes them in fact, but he would have never picked a web design for himself. So really, it’s a good thing that that random woman utilized sales tactics outlawed by the Geneva Convention, if you think about it. 

Martin sighs. He clutches the paper hard enough to crinkle. 

He was hired for the Research Department, who was assured of his competency by a degree he doesn’t have in a field that Martin barely believes to be real. The woman at the front desk leads him to his desk in the office pool, and Martin sets the newspaper in the corner, so it looks like he’s the sort of person who reads the paper and not at all someone who added six years to his age and hoped no one would check, no sir. 

He feels someone standing behind him and to the left, just out of his line of sight. He looks up. 

He feels relief nearly immediately. 

It’s one of his coworkers, probably--he hasn’t met any of them yet, but this area isn’t open to the public, so he must be either his coworker or in one of the other departments. He looks younger than Martin, if he had to guess, which means he has a coworker that looks weirdly younger than he must be.

It’s perfect. It will allay suspicion. Martin looks young for his age? No, no, just look at whoever-he-is, Martin looks precisely the age he claims to be and not years younger. 

Everything about the man seems slightly off-putting, slightly wrong. His clothes--a white button up and brown slacks, paired with shoes that look far more professional than Martin’s--are disheveled, his shirt untucked and his pants wrinkled. His hair is tousled and the cuffs of his shirt unbuttoned, and as Martin looks him over, he raises a single, impatient brow. 

Martin’s next thought is that he’s too thin. Like, not even in a fashionable sort of way. In a hospital sort of way. His cheeks are sunken and the bags beneath his eyes are deep, and Martin has the fleeting thought that he’s on the verge of falling down. 

It is at this moment that Martin realizes that the man had said something, and Martin had missed every word. 

His ears burn. “Sorry?” 

“You got a smoke,” repeats the man, slowly but tinged with impatience. He gives Martin a once over. 

Oh--that’s perfect, actually. A way to establish himself as the type of person who smokes without actually having to learn how to smoke. 

“I don’t smoke,” Martin hears himself say. 

Damn it. 

The man doesn’t move. “I didn’t ask that.”

“Uh. Sorry?”

“I didn’t ask if you smoke. I know you don’t smoke. But you have smokes. In your pocket.” 

Martin stares at him. 

“They’re for me,” says the man, assuredly. He holds out his hand with open expectation. 

Slowly, Martin takes out the carton out of his pocket. He passes it over, because he’s not quite sure what else to do, and the man snatches it from his hand with hardly any pause. With a single, chewed fingernail, he breaks the plastic and opens the lid. 

For a long moment, he stares at the inside of the package, then slips one from the box and pops it into his mouth. 

He stares at Martin. “Got a light?”

“Oh, uh…” Martin fishes the lighter from his pocket, passing it over. A moment later, the sheer weight of his own stupidity hits him. “Wait, I, uh, I don’t think you can smoke in here.”

“You definitely can’t,” agrees the man, and he lights the cigarette. He takes a long, slow drag before blowing it out again, his shoulders unknotting slightly as he exhales. 

He regards the lighter with an odd, detached light in his eye. Without a word, he tucks it into his back pocket and takes another drag. 

“Wait, that’s min--” starts Martin. 

The man stares at him, his brow crinkled slightly and his head cocked. 

Martin blinks. What was he saying?

With a shrug, the man inhales again, then exhales, and the cloud of smoke pools around them both. Martin coughs slightly. 

In a single motion, the man turns, falling backwards into the chair beside without so much as a glance to aim. The chair rolls slightly from the force, rocking against the desk with a squeak of protest. He takes in another drag, long and hard. Then, he breathes out again.  

Oh God. This is his deskmate, isn’t it. He’s going to spend the foreseeable future wading through enough smoke to film a horror movie in. 

He glances at Martin. “You’re new here.”

“Martin,” says Martin, hurriedly, and he casts a desperate glance towards the cigarette burning in his hand. “I really don’t think you’re meant to do that.”

“Jon,” the man replies. A moment passes, and then Jon says, “You should quit your job.”

There’s a beat. 

“Uh. Sorry?” says Martin. 

“Quit,” repeats Jon, firmly, and he leans forward, staring at Martin intently. “It’s your first day. You could probably leave without any trouble at all. Get a better job somewhere else. Anywhere not here.”

“That’s, uh. I’m not doing that.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t quit my job,” says Martin, incredulous. “And you really need to stop smoking here.” 

“You can quit,” says Jon. “There are just consequences. Can’t is different. You’re not at can’t yet . So quit.”

“I’m not going to--you can’t just--come up to people on their first day and tell them to quit,” splutters Martin. “And you can buy your own bloody cigarettes if that’s how you’re going to be.” 

“Can’t,” says Jon. 

Martin rolls his eyes. “Not the grammar police about can’t now, are we?” he mutters, mostly to himself. 

“They don’t sell cigarettes to sixteen year olds,” says Jon, patiently. “So. Can’t.” 

Martin is in hell. 

“Give that back,” he says, lunging forward, but Jon just leans back to avoid him. “I am going to get fired for giving that to you.”

“You won’t,” says Jon, with confidence, and then he adds, “Don’t act so high and mighty. You’re barely nineteen.”

Martin is in hell. 

“What--I’m not--I’m twenty-five and you’re-- please give that back.” 

“You’re nineteen,” says Jon, not lowering his voice in the slightest. “You lied on your CV--about your age and everything else too. You’re here because you couldn’t afford the medical bills even when you dropped out to work full-time, and because they shut off the water two days ago, and because you think you have no other options. You need to leave before that becomes true. Quit. Now.” 

“Keep your voice down,” hisses Martin. “What are you even talking about? How did you--I mean, I’m--I’m not nineteen.” 

Jon rolls his eyes. 

Before Martin can say anything else, a loud groan sounds from across the bullpen, and footsteps rattle towards them. 

Jon glances past Martin. “Hello, Melvin.”

The owner of the footsteps pushes past Martin. 

Melvin is tall, and thin, and has the beginnings of a dark beard that might be considered sculpted if there were enough of it to consider. He wears pleated slacks paired with a blue pinstripe shirt, and a plain green tie that clashes slightly with the whole ensemble. 

He glares at Jon with open distaste.

Without breaking eye contact, Jon takes another long, slow drag of the cigarette and blows it out again. 

“Don’t make me call Mr. Bouchard again, Jonathan,” grits out Melvin. “Stop harassing the new hires.” He casts an irritated glance at the lit cig in Jon’s hand. He tries to snatch it from him, but Jon just leans back again. “You know you’re not meant to be smoking.”

Jon shrugs, rolling his shoulders in an exaggerated arc before he pulls himself out of the chair. All of his movements seem amplified, dragged out and put on display, like a showman in a silent film. 

“Consider what I said,” he tells Martin, tossing a glance over his shoulder. Then, he ducks out the door and out of view, leaving nothing but the faint smell of cheap cigarettes behind. 

And Melvin. An angry Melvin. 

“Did he tell you to quit?” says Melvin, flapping an irritated hand about to clear the smoke. 

“Um,” says Martin. 

“Yeah.” Melvin huffs a sigh. “Ignore him. We all do. He’s Bouchard’s brat. Going through a rebellious stage or something. Homeschooled, so he’s always here.” He shoots a glare at Martin. “And don’t give him cigarettes. Bouchard doesn’t want him smoking, and he’s not old enough besides.” 

“I don’t smoke?” tries Martin. 

Melvin gives him a skeptical look. 

“Does he really tell everyone to quit?” asks Martin, quickly. “That doesn’t seem very good for, um. Workplace environment.” 

“Mind telling that to Bouchard? He won’t do anything about him.” He huffs another breath. “Don’t let him get to you. And get to work, alright?”

“Right, right, I just--”

Melvin walks away. 

“--don’t know what to do,” finishes Martin, lamely. 

Martin glances at the desk. He has a computer that he, at the very least, knows how to turn on, and a file to the side that’s probably for him. He can find a supervisor or something once he at least tries to figure out what he’s meant to do. 

Unless that supervisor is Melvin. He’s a bit. Yeah. 

Jon left the pack of cigarettes, he realizes. He picks them up from the desk beside and flips open the carton, realizing with interest that there is black, blocky text printed on the inside flap. 

Did You Know ?

A spider is alerted to its prey by the vibrations they make trying to escape its web. 

In a way, they thrash themselves to death.

Martin slips the packet back into his pocket with a slightly unsettled feeling. He hadn’t known they printed facts on the lids of cigarette cartons. 

~*~

“You haven’t quit yet,” says Jon, sitting across the table from him. 

Martin jumps in his seat. 

In the few months he’s been at the Institute, he’s caught a scant few glances of Jon, but not much past that. He seems to mostly hang about the edges, slipping around corners before Martin can get close enough to get a proper look at him. 

He looks thinner. He looks more tired. 

Martin means to ask him why he wants Martin to quit so badly. He means to tell him he isn’t going to quit, whatever the reason. He means to ask him how he knew about Martin’s age. 

What Martin says is, “I’m going to make you some tea.”

Jon’s eyebrows furrow slightly, a confused expression settling over his face. 

Martin gets up, turning to the communal kitchen and busying himself over the tea. He opens his mouth to ask Jon how he took it; then, not entirely sure as to why, he closes it before he asks. He fills the tea with sugar and cream and lemon, and he has the brief, fleeting thought that perhaps he can cram enough calories into a single cup to last someone for a day. 

When he turns back around, Jon has a cigarette out and is in the process of lighting it with a golden zippo, cracked through with a web design. 

It’s a nice design. Interesting. Martin wonders where he got it. 

He sets the tea across from Jon. 

Jon stares at it. He doesn’t move to pick it up. 

“So,” he says, after a beat, “how do you like it here so far?”

He says it like he knows exactly how unbearably awful it’s been, the prick. 

Apparently, when places require degrees, it helps to actually have them. Martin has no goddamn clue as to what he’s doing, and literally everyone knows it. He dreads the Institute’s stop on the tube and cries when he gets home from work, until his mother bangs on the wall and tells him to quiet down. 

He hates it here. He’s miserable. He’s terrified all the time. He wants to quit. 

“I’m not quitting,” he says. “I need this job.” 

Jon’s shoulders slump. 

“Have you ever gotten anyone to quit?” asks Martin, curious.

“Not yet,” admits Jon. “But one would be worth it.”

“Why don’t you want people working here?”

Jon doesn’t answer. He takes another drag. 

After a moment, Jon rocks back in his seat and off it again, forcing himself up from momentum more than any actual standing. He gives Martin another scrutinizing look before shrugging, and he says, half to himself, “Not today, I guess.”

He leaves. He does not drink his tea.

~*~

Martin catches sight of Jon a few times, usually with a cigarette in hand, usually only at glance. As short as they are, Martin finds himself playing the interactions in his head, picking apart every gesture, every grain of the moment. 

He leans against things an awful amount, Martin thinks. Like he’s holding himself up. 

He thinks he’s too thin. 

~*~

The next time Martin sees Jon, he leaves his desk and darts into the communal kitchen, fixing a cup of tea as fast as he can bear. By the time he returns, Jon is gone, and the tea goes cold. 

And so it goes the next time he sees him. And the time after that. And the time after that. 

The time after that, Martin is prepared.

“Here,” he says, shoving a thermos at Jon with one hand and a folded paper towel in the other. “For you.”

Jon rocks back on his heels. For a terrible moment, Martin thinks he’s about to fall. 

He stares at the thermos. 

Martin waves it insistently at him. 

After a moment, Jon takes it, eyeing him warily. “Is it poison?”

“Why would it be poison?” asks Martin, incredulous. 

Jon shrugs. “Gertrude can be oddly persuasive.” 

Before Martin can unpack that, he flips open the paper towel, turning over its contents in his hand with a mildly bewildered air. 

Martin had spent all weekend learning how to make hand pies, and he had tried for a recipe that crammed the most food groups into a single, easily transferable package, all wrapped in a toasty crust. It pairs well with a nice cup of tea, which Martin also has equipped. 

“It’s… for me?” Jon asks, with a frown.

“Yes.” 

“Oh.” Jon doesn’t seem to know what to do with this information. “Why?”

“Take it,” insists Martin. 

Jon unscrews the lid of the thermos and takes a small sip. Martin wonders if this is how people feel when they win international sports tournaments, or maybe a free gift card or something. 

“It’s. Uh. Good?” says Jon. He stares at him in the same way one would stare at a madman waving a rubber chicken and insisting it were a gun. 

“Good,” says Martin, earnestly. “That’s good.” 

Jon sets it on the nearest table, still staring at Martin with an air that is both faintly bewildered and somewhat frightened. 

“You should quit your job,” he says, without conviction, and he immediately flees. 

He only had a small bit of the tea, and none of the pastry. 

Damn it.

~*~

All of Jon’s movements are exaggerated, Martin thinks, like an actor on a stage, like a showman, like a performer. His tread is more stagger than step, and when he rolls his back, it shudders like a great weight has been heaved off before immediately bending inwards as if it had been replaced. 

He looks like he’s barely able to stand. 

~*~

“It’s a shame, that whole thing,” Amy from Accounting tells him, her voice dipped enough to lend an air of conspiracy about it, but not enough to actually keep anyone from overhearing. “You should have seen Elias with him when he first took Jon in. He doted on the boy. Like two peas in a pod. And the way Jon acts now? It’s shameful, if you ask me.” 

“Right, and…” Martin gives an uneasy nod. He feels dirty about it, the gossiping. He worries Jon will overhear them talking about him and assume the worst, but... “How long ago was that?”

Amy shrugs delicately. She takes a small sip of tea. “Hard to say. Time does fly, doesn’t it?’

“And Jon… tries to get people to quit? What’s that all about?”

“Oh, that.” She scowls. “Giving you trouble, dear? You can have a word with Elias about him. We all do. He usually behaves for a few days after.”

“No!” Martin jumps in his seat slightly. He can’t quite put his finger on why the thought of it puts him at ill-ease. “No, he’s not bothering me or anything, I just. I was wondering why, is all.”

“Oh, teenage rebellion or some such. I think Elias should send him away--there are camps and such to straighten children like him out--but Elias can’t seem to bear to be without the boy. It’s so sad to see. Oh, he simply adores Jonathan, and Jonathan treats him so terribly.” 

Martin stares at her blankly. “And that doesn’t… worry you? At all?”

“Oh, it does, dear. Why, just the other day, Elias was speaking to him so kindly, and trying so very hard to spend time with him, and Jonathan just shrugged his hand right off! Jerked right away, when all Elias wanted was to have lunch with him. The nerve of it. The toll it seems to take on Elias, it’s shameful.” 

“Right.” Slowly, Martin scoots back from the table, pushing his tea cup away. “I’m going to--”

“I remember, back when Elias first took him in, why, you’d be hard pressed to find them apart. The little thing was so shy back then, and Elias would always lead him by hand about the Institute, and he would look at him with such fondness. It’s heartbreaking to see.” 

“I’m just going to--”

“And those awful cigarettes. We had a new hire in Accounting and not five minutes into her first day Jonathan came about to harass her. The smell didn’t leave the office for weeks and nothing Elias does seems to stop him from getting his hands on more. I think he has a supplier in the janitorial staff. No one in Accounting is doing it, I can tell you, no one would dare, and I--”

Martin settles back in his chair. He resigns himself to a much longer conversation than he wanted. 

~*~

Jon gets thinner and thinner and weaker and weaker, and he never eats, and he never drinks, not where Martin can see. He walks along walls, keeps a hand on a desk or a chair or any surface solid enough to lean, and his steps become smaller and more stilted. His shoulders bend inwards and his neck bows down, and in his hand, there is always another one of those damn cigarettes.

No one seems to notice except for him, and Martin is never quite certain if they don’t see it or if they simply do not care. 

~*~

Martin has never seen him eat. 

~*~

The next time Martin sees Jon, he finds him collapsed in the stairwell leading up to Elias’s office.

“Jon?” Martin stops dead away before surging forward, hooking an arm beneath his shoulders. “Jon! Did you fall?”

“Martin?” Jon looks at him blankly. He shakes his head slightly, letting it loll to the side with a limp gaze. “I’m fine, I’m just. Tired.” He presses his face to the wall with a groan. “It’s so hungry.”

Martin pulls him up, bringing all of Jon’s weight on himself and setting him upright. He weighs barely anything at all. 

“Okay,” breathes Martin, trying to taper down the panic. He forces his voice to stay level. “Let’s--let’s get you up and we’ll get you some help, okay?” 

Jon tries to pull away from Martin but only succeeds in collapsing against his side again, limp and breathing heavily. Martin holds him tighter. 

“Jon?” He gives him a small shake. Jon’s eyes drift to him briefly before drifting away again. “Jon, when was the last time you had anything to eat?”

Jon snorts weakly. 

“Okay,” says Martin, again. “Let’s go to the breakroom, alright? I’ll--we’ll have some tea and see how we feel, okay?”

He needs to force Jon onto a couch long enough to be able to call an ambulance, or get someone to call for him. He doesn’t have a mobile and the nearest office phone isn’t for another floor, but if he can get Jon somewhere safer, then he should be able to duck out long enough to call. 

Carefully, he pulls Jon to his feet, keeping all of his weight on his shoulder as he leads him slowly down the stairs. Jon’s steps are as uncertain as a colt, and Martin holds him more firmly against his side. 

“Oh,” says Jon. His voice is weak and far away, slurred slightly, confused and not altogether present. He sounds like he’s half-asleep. “You think--is that why you’ve been bringing me tea?”

“Almost there,” replies Martin, reassuringly. “Few more steps.”

“You don’t have to worry,” says Jon. “I don’t think I need to eat like that anymore, but I still do it.” His fingernails dig into Martin’s neck. “I like to pretend sometimes, you know?”

He sounds delirious. Martin quickens his step. 

“You’ll be okay,” he says. “We’ll get some food in you and things will be better, alright?” 

“This is okay. It’s--I’m more me, like this. It’s okay, it just--Martin, I just want to be me again--”

Martin pulls him into the break room and sets him on the couch. 

Moving quickly, he sets about fixing a cup of tea, his hands trembling slightly as he pulls the mug from the cupboard. Jon needs--fluids, probably? And food, probably, and probably an ambulance and--

Martin cranes his neck, trying to see if there’s anyone in calling distance. He’s too frightened to leave Jon alone like this. But when he turns around, all he spots is Jon, a cigarette in his mouth and one hand fumbling to set it alight. 

Martin doesn’t realize he’s crossing the room until he’s already snatched the cigarette from him.

“What are you doing?” he snaps, incensed. “You just collapsed! Do you even care about that at all?”

Jon stares dumbly at the cigarette. He doesn’t respond. 

“You--You walk around this Institute like you’re about to collapse , you did collapse, you don’t feed yourself and I never see you drink anything and you smoke cigarettes like you’re trying to smoke yourself to death. I--I’m terrified every time I look at you, Jon. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Jon shifts his gaze to him, and he doesn’t speak, he only stares, silent and dumbfounded. An odd look passes over his face before he looks away, down at his shoes, and his shoulders bend down with it. 

He swipes at his cheeks. His hand comes away slightly wet. 

“Oh--oh God, Jon, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry, I--”

Jon’s shoulders shudder slightly. He makes another rough swipe at his eyes. 

“I’ll drink the tea,” he says, in a small voice. 

Martin blinks. 

“The tea. I’ll drink it.”

“Oh. Oh, right, I’ll just--” 

He hurries back to the counter, grabbing the cooling mug and bringing it back to Jon as quick as he is able. He passes it over carefully, making certain it’s properly supported before letting go. 

Jon drinks it in small sips, never looking up past the rim of his mug. When he finishes, he passes it silently back to Martin and settles back, his hands in his lap. 

“Will you eat something?” asks Martin. “Please?”

Jon looks at him like he’s a puzzle to solve. After a moment, he gives a small jerk of his head. 

Martin goes to the employee fridge and pulls out his lunch pack. He hadn’t packed much--a sandwich and an apple, a pack of crisps he’s been looking forward to all day--and he brings it over to Jon, passing the whole thing over with a sense of relief. 

Jon makes no move to open it. “This is yours.”

“I’m not hungry,” lies Martin. “Please, Jon.”

For another long moment, Jon stares at him before nodding and opening the sack. He eats robotically, glancing up at Martin every now and then, as if to make certain he’s doing it correctly. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he continues. 

Halfway through the sandwich, Jon says, “They smell like home. That’s why I smoke them.” 

Martin blinks at him. “What?”

“The cigarettes.” Jon rubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “They smell like home. That’s why I started smoking them. Didn’t even like them at first, but. Addiction’s a funny thing.” 

“Home,” repeats Martin. His mind spirals. “Before Elias, you mean?”

Jon doesn’t answer. He finishes the rest of the sandwich in silence. 

The apple disappears in short order, and the bag of crisps follows suit. Jon hands the empty bag back to him without a word. 

“Do you feel any better?” Martin asks. “Less hungry?”

Jon smiles at him like it’s a joke, and one that he doesn’t find particularly funny. 

“I could call someone. An ambulance, or--”

He stops. He feels like Elias is the wrong person to offer. 

Jon’s eyes narrow like he knows what Martin was about to say. All at once, he stands, half-tripping before he rights himself. “I’m fine now. Thank you, Martin.” He moves to the door. 

“Jon--” Martin cuts himself off. He isn’t certain what to say. A moment later, he settles on, “You can tell me anything, you know?”

Jon gives him that helpless, humorless look again. “Thank you,” he says again, and he turns back to the door. At the threshold, he pauses, turning back to look at Martin. “Martin? I--Thank you. For. That. It’s been a while since anyone. That.”

He leaves before Martin can say anything.

~*~

Jon sits across from him in the courtyard a week later, banana in hand. Purposefully, he peels it, eats it, and casts Martin a meaningful glance before standing up and leaving, never saying a single word in the course of the entire bizarre exchange. 

“What?” says Martin, to no one. 

~*~

Two weeks later, he does it again with a pear. Martin doesn’t know if he’s trying to be nice or embarking on a new type of psychological warfare.

~*~

Martin is part way through a total mental breakdown the next time he sees Jon. 

He’d buggered it. Again. 

He hadn’t learned proper citations in school, or research techniques, or anything actually helpful, it seems. Apparently, all of the skills he was meant to use on the daily came from actually having a degree in parapsychology, and not having those skills made him look like the most bumbling, moronic idiot to ever disgrace the halls of the Magnus Institute. 

Which is something his boss told him. Explicitly and at length. In the middle of the office pit, where everyone could hear. 

Martin presses his forehead more firmly against his knees. He drags in another couple of breaths. 

He can’t afford to quit. He can’t. He’s still struggling with the backdated bills and it’s been months, and the service industry didn’t even get him close to keeping up. He’s finally, finally catching up, and he can’t risk falling behind now. 

They’d lose the house. He wouldn’t be able to afford the mortgage, or utilities, let alone all the bills for his mum’s medical care. It’s not like he’d be lucky enough to find another place that paid as well and didn’t check his references. 

Not like he’d be able to put the Magnus Institute down as a reference, after this mess. 

He’s going to be fired if he screws up one more assignment. Hell, he might even be fired now. It’s not his break, but he still slunk out to the courtyard with his tail between his legs.

He doesn’t look up when he hears the footsteps. He expects whoever they are to move past him, but they stop at his side, and a moment later, someone slides down the wall beside him. 

A lighter clicks softly. A moment later, Martin smells smoke. 

 Martin laughs weakly. “I really don’t need to be told to quit my job right now, Jon.”

There’s a beat. “Bad day?”

Martin looks up, wiping the wetness from his eyes. 

The day is one more black than grey, storm clouds churning low and furious over the old tile and brick of the Magnus Institute. The sky above hangs dark and many-layered, with thick veins of black swirling through the blue-grey of coming rain. 

All of the colors in the courtyard seem to have just… drained away. The world around is heavy, and looming, and it presses down with a ponderous insistence.

The courtyard of the Magnus Institute had never had much to offer in lieu of color, and without the light of the day to brighten it, it nearly seems a nightmare of its own. The cobblestones are a dark, charcoal grey, nearly black beneath the clouds, roughly hewn and unevenly laid. At the courtyard’s center, there is a fountain. The stone that forms it is dark and polished, and at its middle, there is a statute raised on a grey, curving platform.

The statue depicts an angel, her back wrenched in an arch, and Martin has never been quite certain if it was in agony or ecstasy. Against her back, there are two limp, wilted wings, and her mouth is open in eternal, silent exclamation. Water flows from it, and from the two empty holes where her eyes should be. 

Jon does not look at him. He stares out over the dark cobblestone of the courtyard, and he does not blink. 

Martin sniffles. “Don’t act like you don’t know. Everyone probably heard that.”

Jon does not reply. 

“You can stop trying to get me to quit, anyway.” Martin buries his face back in his hands. “I’m probably going to be fired today.”

“You’re not going to be fired,” says Jon. 

He lifts the cigarette back to his mouth and draws a breath in, long and empty and slow. He breathes out, and the smoke swirls around them, bleeding into the grey of the day. The end of the cigarette burns sharp against the haze, bright and red, a pinprick of light against the day’s malaise. 

Martin huffs a breath. “Yeah. Right.”

“Martin?” Jon’s voice is soft, distant and far away. He doesn’t look at him. “You’re not going to be fired.”  

“That’s not what my boss thinks,” says Martin, miserably. “He thinks I’m the stupidest person to step foot in the Magnus Institute. Everyone does. Not that I can exactly dispute that.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

Martin doesn’t say anything.

Jon glances at him, then quickly looks away again. Martin can see the sharp, curved angle of his jawline. He’s still too thin, he thinks. 

“You’re smarter than most of those idiots,” confesses Jon, reluctantly. He draws his knees to his chest. “You notice things they don’t. It’s weird. You’re weird.” 

“Oh. Um. Thank you?”

“You’re not going to be fired,” repeats Jon. He says it like it’s a secret, or perhaps a skeleton hidden in a closet only he knows. “So don’t worry about it.”

He stands before Martin can say anything more, dropping the burnt-down cigarette on the cobblestones and stepping away.  He walks to the other side of the courtyard, shoulders slumped downward beneath the heavy air, and he disappears back into the Institute without a glance behind. 

Next to Martin, the small pinprick of red burns out. 

~*~

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: andja;sl

(1 hour ago)

dont turn in the report you prepared turn in what ive attached instead

js

Attachment: abcdefg.pdf

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: andja;sl

(20 minutes ago)

Jon? Is that you? Why do you have an employee email??? Why does it look like it’s going to give me a virus? Why did you redo my report? I thought you wanted me to quit? What???

Martin K. Blackwood
Junior Researcher
The Magnus Institute
Vigilo Opperior Audio

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: andja;sl

(15 minutes ago)

you didnt have correct citations and alatars 1907 treatise on cosmic energy is considered a joke. i fixed it. youve been stressed for a week just use mine.

js

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: andja;sl

(13 minutes ago)

How?? Do you know any of that? I haven’t shown anyone my report yet? I didn’t tell anyone I was citing Alatar?  I didn’t even tell anyone I was stressed? Where did you even learn proper citations? 

Thank you? I guess?

Martin K. Blackwood
Junior Researcher
The Magnus Institute
Vigilo Opperior Audio

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: andja;sl

(2 minutes ago)

quit ur job. 

js

~*~

It’s not that Martin is close with Jon or anything. He hardly sees him, in fact, and most of the times where he does see him involve Jon telling him to quit his job. It’s not like they’re friends, it’s just… 

It’s like this:

Sometimes, Martin makes Jon tea. 

Whenever he sees him, really. While there haven’t been anymore fainting incidents, he’s still too thin by half for Martin’s tastes, and he feels better knowing that Jon’s had at least one good cup of tea, maybe a biscuit, and some friendly conversation. 

He doesn’t seem to have any friends. He doesn’t seem to have anyone at all. It makes Martin sad to see. 

Well, Martin supposes that isn’t true. He has Elias. 

Martin’s never seen them together. He’s heard, secondhand, that Jon and Elias are close, and that Elias loves Jon a lot. Martin’s sure it’s true. He hopes it’s true. It is true, probably. 

It’s just. Jon doesn’t have any friends. And he doesn’t seem particularly happy here. 

There are small things, in the end. Little moments that Martin picks up, tucks into his pocket and takes out later for further contemplation. Jon is not happy at the Magnus Institute. He’s actually dangerously depressed, as far as Martin can tell, and everyone else seems too busy mourning the toll it must be taking on Elias to care. Jon never talks about him, and Martin never brings him up, but Martin has seen the line of Jon’s shoulder’s go stiff at the sound of his name. 

Whenever Martin catches Jon at the end of the day, there’s a tension about him, an energy distinct and off-putting all at once. It takes Martin a few weeks to put a name to it. 

He’s afraid. When it comes time to go home, Jon is afraid. 

So maybe that’s why Martin runs the search that he does. There’s nothing concrete, nothing definite, no real reason to be suspicious, but he can’t help but worry. The fear. The tension. The sheer distress that seems to engulf Jon wherever he goes. 

He needs this job--he needs this job. He needs to not rock the boat, and he needs to not have people come around asking questions, and he needs to not ruin everything when he’s finally getting his feet under him. 

But Jon is so thin. And no one seems to care.  

Martin goes home, and he opens his computer, and he types into the search bar “how to report suspected child abuse.” 

~*~

The notice is waiting for Martin on his desk when he comes in. 

He had taken a half day. It was meant to be a full day, but, well. His mum had an appointment, and Martin had taken her, and he had taken the entire day off so that maybe they could spend some time together. After the appointment, however, she had told him he should go to work instead, and that he should never have taken off so long anyway, it was unprofessional and Martin should know better and--

Martin went to work. 

The slip on his desk is light blue and penciled in with the delicate, curling script that Martin recognizes as Rosie’s. It’s a request, it says, for Martin to join Mr. Bouchard for a professional development meeting at his earliest convenience. 

Martin sets his bag at his desk. He walks up the stairs with his heart pounding in his chest. 

He couldn’t know about Martin’s searches. He had only researched for a little while, and he hadn’t actually called anyone yet. He just. Gathered some information, that was all. It couldn’t be about that. 

But it could be about Jon. 

Martin does spend an awful lot of time around him, and he’s supposedly ten years older than Jon. Could Elias want to yell at him about that? Tell Martin to stay away from his ward at all costs? Martin supposes he can’t blame him for it. 

Or it could be something else entirely, Martin reasons. He could just be firing Martin for lying on his CV. 

Rosie waves Martin in the moment she sees him. Martin opens the door with all the enthusiasm of a man on death row. 

Elias smiles when he sees him. 

He stands at his bookcase, hand paused on one shelf, and takes a step back when he sees Martin. He nods to him. “Martin. I thought you had a day off today.”

“I did, but... I didn’t need it anymore, so I figured I should just. Come in?”

Martin should have done literally anything but that. 

Elias gives him an approving look. “That’s very diligent of you, Martin. I’ll speak to HR and see that it isn’t taken out of your vacation time. Would you have a seat?”

He gestures to one of the awful, stiff antique chairs at the front of his desk, and Martin perches on it awkwardly, eyeing the chair across. Elias doesn’t sit in it, though. He settles against the desk, leaning on the same side Martin sits. 

Martin licks his lips. “Is this… Is there an assignment I--”

“Oh! Oh goodness, no. I’m sorry if I caused you any unneeded worry. This is horribly unprofessional of me, but I haven’t asked you to speak to me today in a work capacity. I’d like to speak to you, well…  I’d like to speak to you as Jonathan’s father.” 

“I meant absolutely nothing wrong with--” 

Elias raises a hand to stop him. “I know, Martin. I’m not here to threaten you, or give you some sort of dire warning. If I’m being entirely frank, I’m coming to you for your help.”

“My help,” repeats Martin, slowly. “With Jon?”

“I’ve noticed you having tea with him on occasion. Giving him a friend to talk to. In the same way, I think you’ve rather noticed that he’s not quite in the throes of the typical teenage rebellion everyone claims him to be.”

Martin stares at him for a long moment. He gives a slight jerk of his head.

Elias grimaces. “I’m not blind to what they say. I wish I knew how to stop it, but, well. It would take a much more clever man than myself to stop office gossip. I can’t tell them the truth of the matter without exposing Jon’s personal troubles to them, and I would never dare infringe upon his privacy in such a way. But I’m rather at the end of my rope, and I’m desperate for anyone who might be able to help me.” 

“And you think… I could do that.”

“Jon likes you,” confesses Elias. “Even if he doesn’t show it, he seems to consider you a friend, of sorts. You’ve shown him great kindness, and he seems to trust you, to a degree.” 

Martin feels his ears burn. “I haven’t. I haven’t done much. Of anything.”

“You didn’t let him push you away, even when he tried. It takes a good man to do that.” Elias sighs. “Do you know much of how Jonathan came to me?”

“Not really? Jon hasn’t told me anything.”  

“Well, Jon’s past is his own to share. I’ll leave it to him to decide how much, if any, to tell you. But I will say that his living conditions before he came to be with me were less than pleasant. He was very young then, but they hurt him deeply, and I’m not shy of admitting that I was a bit overprotective of him as a result.” He gives a fond, wistful smile. “Jonathan was a very shy boy, then, frightened of a lot, a bit drawn into himself, but he was very clever, and very kind. Not to say he isn’t now, but--well, you’ve seen for yourself. He’s angry and hurt and lashing out.” 

Elias gives him a careful look. “Did you hear much of the Gerard Keay murder trial?”

Martin blinks at the sudden shift. “I don’t listen to the news much, I’m afrai--”

What, no, that’s not right. Martin does remember it. It was all over the news a while back. Some teenager had murdered and skinned his own mother before leaving her body to rot in their flat. It was weeks before anyone discovered her, and a good few weeks after that before Gerard Keay was caught. 

It was a grisly crime, and Martin didn’t typically pay attention to news like it. But he remembers wondering what sort of a monster it took to do such a thing. 

“Mary Keay was a close affiliate of the Magnus Institute,” says Elias. “She came to see our records often, and at times, she sent her son in her stead.” He pauses. “I hadn’t thought much of it, when he and Jonathan started spending time together. They had been near enough in age, and I was busy with the Institute. I didn’t keep close enough of an eye on them.”

“Jon--he knew Gerard Keay? The one who--”

“Murdered his mother, yes,” confirms Elias, grimly. “I had taken to homeschooling Jon when I first adopted him, and I would bring him to the Institute with me to keep him close. That’s how he met Keay. He was so badly hurt from his old household. I didn’t want to let him leave my sight at first, and as he grew older, well. I don’t have much of an excuse. I grew complacent. Caught up in other things. So I didn’t realize quite how obsessed Gerard Keay had grown with him, and how disturbed their relationship had become as a result.”

Martin feels sick. “Did he hurt Jon?”

“Badly,” says Elias, his lips pinching tight. “Jon hadn’t had much experience with others his age, and, well. His childhood had left him predisposed towards bearing abuse in silence. When I realized how unstable Gerard Keay was, I made certain to remove him from Jon’s life entirely, but the damage had already been done. Jon was badly affected, and Gerard, well. After losing his access to Jon, Gerard went home and skinned his mother.” 

“He’s in prison now, right?” demands Martin. “I mean, they must have…”

Something in Elias’s face fractures. “He got off. Mistrial. Someone mishandled evidence. I catch him lurking around the Institute edges at times, but I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t let him near my son again.”

“Oh God,” says Martin. His stomach churns.

“Jon’s angry,” says Elias, sighing deeply. “I can’t blame him for it. I promised him I’d keep him safe, and then was so busy with my work that I didn’t even notice him being hurt right under my nose. His therapist thinks his fixation with trying to get people to quit is a form of revenge. I focused more on the Institute than him; ergo, he can hurt me through the Institute. 

“With Gerard Keay still about, I’m too frightened to let him leave the building on his own. I have no guarantee Keay will let him live if he catches him by himself, and there’s no school I’ve found with security decent enough to satisfy me. But in Jon’s mind, I’ve trapped him in the building he hates, and it’s just another thing to resent me for. And the smoking, and all the trouble with eating--I’m terrified for him, Martin. He’s been through so much, and he’s plainly struggling under it. But he’s angry at me, and he won’t let me help.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” asks Martin. “I mean--of course I’ll do anything to help Jon, of course, but… Why even tell me?”

Elias gives him an odd look. “The days that I’ve seen him have tea with you are the days where he eats.” 

“And you want me to… make sure he eats?”

“If possible. I’d like you to keep an eye on him.” Elias must see the reluctance on his face, because he quickly amends. “I’m not asking you to spy on him for me, or make reports. Nothing quite so sordid. But don’t let him push you away. You’re the first person he’s opened up to, even a little bit, since, well, me. I’m aware as to how inappropriate of a request this is--”

“No! No, I don’t mind, I. I like Jon--I, uh, spending time with him, that is. He’s a good person. I just. I want him to be happy, you know?”

Elias smiles at him, relieved. “That’s all I want myself.” 

~*~

The next time Martin sees Jon, he brings him tea in the courtyard. 

He had noticed him duck out, another pack of cigarettes bouncing from hand to hand. He must be chain smoking again, Martin realized, or he wouldn’t bother to leave the building before lighting up.

 He hurries to the kitchen and preps two cups of tea. 

Jon doesn’t exactly smile when Martin walks up, but there’s a definitive twitch of his lips. “Not quit yet?”

“Nope,” says Martin, holding out one mug. Then, feeling a bit braver, he draws back and says, “I’ll trade you.”

He nods to the still-lit cigarette. 

Jon gives him a hard look. “Fine,” he says, eventually. “But only because your tea is good.” 

Martin carefully pulls the lit smoke from his hand and feels a small thrill of victory in his chest as he stamps it out. He passes over the mug with a smile, and Jon reaches out to take it, his face a mix of annoyance and amusement, and--

The mug shatters against the cobblestones. 

“Oh shi--” Martin jumps back, looking down at the fragmented remains. “Was it too hot? Oh, careful, there’s shards everywhere.”

“You spoke to him.”

“Jon?” Martin glances up. 

Jon stares at him, his eyes locked on Martin’s face. His chest rises and falls, rises and falls, faster and faster, and faster again. “You spoke to Elias. About me.” 

“What? Oh God, Jon, no--I mean, yes, we spoke, but I wasn’t reporting on you or anything. We’re just worried, is all, and--”

Jon barks a laugh, desperate and hysterical, nearly unraveling at the seams. “Right. Of course he is. Elias is so concerned and I’m just some raving bloody lunatic--”

“He didn’t say that,” Martin rushes to say. 

“Of course he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He’s a saint and I’m the mad boy he’s taken in and who would believe otherwise--”

“Tell me if something’s wrong, Jon,” begs Martin, taking a step closer. “Tell me and I swear I’ll believe you.”

“God, it’s even worse if you do, I--” Jon jerks backwards, yanking at his hair with both hands. His breaths come in ragged bursts. “I can’t do it anymore, I can’t, I--I’m--we’re all trapped in this fucking place and I want to go home and that stupid goddamn eye won’t ever look away--”

His mouth snaps shut. He stares at Martin in open trepidation. 

“Just breathe in, Jon,” says Martin, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Like me, just--”

Jon shoves past him. 

“Jon?” Martin trips to follow him. 

Half-stumbling, Jon quickens his step, staggering back towards the Institute. “Don’t talk to me.”

“That’s fine, just--if you’re upset, you don’t have to talk to me but someone--”

“I don’t want your pity, Martin,” Jon snarls, rounding on him.  

Martin stops dead away. “It’s not pity.”

“Oh please. You don’t have to martyr yourself for everyone, you know.” 

“I’m not martyring myself for anyone.”

“Aren’t you? You spend every day coming to a job you hate for a mother who doesn’t love you. You’re miserable here, but you just come and crucify yourself for someone happy enough to hand you the nails.”

Martin takes a half-step back. “That’s not true.” 

Jon snorts inelegantly. “Lie to yourself all you want. I’m a bit harder to lie to.” 

“I’m not lying, I--how did you even know I was here because of my mother?”

“You dread going home. You dread being here. You’re not happy in any bit of your life and you’ll never be happy because you’re too bloody busy killing yourself for anyone who looks the least bit sad. Well, I’m done as your latest charity case. Just fuck off.”

There is something hard and hot in Martin’s throat. Martin swallows it back. 

Jon’s hurting, and, and lashing out, the rational part of him says. Something’s wrong. Something is so wrong right now. Jon needs help. But… 

It’s like he found every part of Martin that hurt and dug his fingers inside, clawing at all the soft, painful points that Martin tried to keep hidden. Martin the martyr. Martin, killing himself over people who wouldn’t even mourn him. Martin, who searched out ways to be useful to people because otherwise they would never like him enough to stay. 

Jon’s jaw quivers as he looks at him. There is something animal in his eyes, something desperate and cornered and afraid. 

He turns on his heel, and he goes back into the Institute, and Martin doesn’t stop him.

~*~

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Are you okay? 

(3 months ago)

I know you don’t want to talk to me, Jon. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Please just tell me you’re alright.

Martin K. Blackwood
Junior Researcher
The Magnus Institute
Vigilo Opperior Audio

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Are you okay?

(2 days ago)

I’m fine now. I got help. Sorry for being a bother. You don’t need to reply to this. 

js

~*~

Martin does not have tea with Jon again. 

~*~

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected] and 43 others… 
Subject: Gertrude Robinson

(7 hours ago)

It is with the deepest regrets that I inform you of the passing of Gertrude Robinson, who has been a member of our family here at the Magnus Institute for the past forty-six years. Gertrude passed away on the 19th of December, 2011. She will be dearly missed. 

In honor of her long service, all Institute operations will cease until after the New Year. There will be an optional memorial service taking place in the courtyard on the following Monday at 11:30 am, and grief counselors will be made available upon request. 

Elias Bouchard
Head of the Magnus Institute
Vigilo Opperior Audio

~*~

Martin can’t help but be nervous while he waits for Jon. 

They haven’t talked, really, since--well, since the courtyard all those years ago. He had gotten a word in passing, maybe, but nothing past that, and now…

Now Martin is going to be his assistant. Because Jon’s Head Archivist now. 

It had been the source of endless gossip when Elias made the announcement. Nepotism, everyone agreed, and with Jon so young too. But Elias hadn’t budged on the decision, and Jon--

Well, Jon hasn’t been seen since before Gertrude died. Which hadn’t helped matters. 

When Martin came in this morning, Elias had gathered him with a smile, herding him down into Archives with a smile. He brought two others with him--Jessica, from Artefacts Storage, Martin had lunch with her once, and a man from Research that Martin doesn’t recognize. 

Jon would return from his business trip today, apparently. He would need his assistants there when he arrived. 

Elias hums to himself as he looks over the Archives’ interior. There’s an odd spring to his step as he moves through it, an eager light to his eyes. Martin can’t quite see why. The Archives looks a mess, though Martin doesn’t know if that’s from the chaos following Gertrude’s death or if that's simply how it’s always been. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t envy Jon. 

Jon. Who’s his direct boss now. That Martin would talk to. Every day. 

Martin jumps when the door to the Archives opens. 

“Jonathan,” greets Elias, smiling. “You certainly took your time coming back. Oh--goodness, that doesn’t look good.”

Jon stands in the doorway. He stares at Elias with tired, hollow eyes, and he does not blink. 

He looks--well, he looks a mess. His hair is stuffed in a braid, sticking out at all ends, and his pants are torn at the knee. His shirt is one of those gaudy, awful tourist shirts, and above the collar, Martin can see the shiny pink skin of a fresh scar. 

Whatever caused it, it must have been awful. The scar is thick and jagged, and it slashes over the side of his neck before jerking down across his collarbone, disappearing beneath the fabric of the shirt. 

It must have happened a long time ago, for it to heal so much, but… Martin could have sworn he’s never seen it. 

“Well, no matter,” continues Elias. “I’ve come to congratulate you on your first day. You’ve truly earned this.”

Jon stares at him. He does not blink. 

“... I’ve already assembled your assistants. All you need to do is sign, and then all the paperwork will be set for your first day.”  

Jon finally breaks his gaze, glancing over the walls of the Archives, the shelves and its files. His eyes alight on his office, and he pauses. 

Jonathan Sims, reads the door plate. Archivist. 

He walks to his office without a further glance. “I won’t be taking assistants.” 

A twinge of annoyance passes across Elias’s face. “Jonathan--”

“Ever.” He opens the door, stepping inside without a word. “Get out.” 

Sighing, Elias turns to them. “I’ll be speaking with him. You all return to your previous positions for now.” 

The two others file out ahead of Martin. At the door, Martin pauses, and he steps back to Jon’s office. 

Jon sits in Gertrude’s chair, staring at the office around him with wide, unblinking eyes. There’s an odd light in his eyes. A sadness. It must be for Gertrude, Martin thinks. They must have been close, but… 

He can’t help but think of an animal. A wounded one. Caught in a trap. 

“Jon?” he asks, tentatively. “Are you okay?”

“Please get out, Martin,” says Jon, and his voice is soft. 

“I will, I just. I want to make sure you’re alright, you know?”

Jon looks at him. Martin thinks of the animal again. He thinks of a bear trap. “Martin,” he says, and there’s a heaviness to his voice, a weight Martin can’t begin to fathom. “Please get out.” 

Martin leaves. Jon doesn’t stop him. 

~*~

As Martin waits for the elevator, he thinks of Jon. 

He always thought that Jon would leave when he got old enough. He never seemed to want to stay around the Institute, growing up, and he seemed to want to be here even less when he got older. But he stayed. He took up a position the moment he returned from school, and he hardly ever seems to leave. 

And Martin’s going to work for him now. 

The elevator arrives. Martin steps in absentmindedly. Before the elevator doors can close, however, a cane fits its way between the gap. 

The doors slide open again. 

The man who steps inside has a curious air about him, a joviality to his step. He’s old, tiny and pink, but his movements are spry and he takes his place next to Martin easily enough. His suit is more expensive than Martin’s wardrobe, pressed and sharp and an eye-searing white. Around his neck, he wears a bright blue bow tie. 

“Going up?” he asks Martin, as if it were a joke. 

“I--yeah, uh. Sorry, this is a service elevator.”

“And I’m certain it will serve us very well,” he says, graciously, and he presses the button for the top floor. He gives Martin a considering glance up and down. Then, he hums in the back of his throat, pleased. 

Martin immediately feels uncomfortable. 

“Right. Uh, sorry, are you a visitor, or--?”

Before them both, the doors slide shut. 

“Oh, yes, I’m an old friend of Elias’s. He asked me to stop by.” He gives Martin that appraising look again. “I’m certainly glad I did.”

“Right…” So he’s one of those donors. Martin shuffles a step away. 

~*~

[CLICK]

[METALLIC CREAKS AND GROANS SOUND FROM ALL AROUND. THERE IS A SHRILL SCREECH, THE JERK OF METAL HALTING.]

MARTIN

(Nervous.) Oh, it’s... I think we’re stuck.

SIMON FAIRCHILD

(Jovial.) Are we now? What a shame. 

[THE ELEVATOR BUTTONS CLICK DULLY.]

MARTIN

The emergency call button isn’t working. 

SIMON FAIRCHILD

I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Martin. You know what they say. What comes up, must come down.

MARTIN

How did you know--

[METAL SCREECHES AS THE CABLE TO THE ELEVATOR CAR SNAPS.]

[CLICK]

Chapter Text

Once, Sasha had to open a box in Archives Storage. The box had hinges that opened against the joint, and for three days after, her fingers moved against their joints as well. She had nearly quit despite her finances after that incident, and sometimes, when it rained, she still felt the ache in the grooves of her knuckles.

She had more than a few “accidents'' in her time at Artefacts’ Storage, if you could call them that. While working there, she always had the vague sense of being a lamb in Bible, coat white enough to gleam, and being assured that the others of shades similar had simply gone to another pasture rather than been splattered across a door frame. 

She never understood why they made them test out every artefact. They knew that, whatever happened, it would hurt. It always did. They always had them test more. The eleven months she spent in Artefacts’ Storage had been the worst of her life. 

And yet, somehow, waiting for Jon with Elias is still the most painful experience she has ever had in her years at the Institute. 

He is not, per se, doing anything particularly terrible, she reasons. He’s just… smug, for some reason beyond her. It practically radiates from him--the self-assurance, the pleasure, the oozing, terrible glee. 

God, he’s such a prick. For a moment, Sasha thinks about quitting again, before the thought slips aside. 

Archives is a smaller department. More room for growth, she reasons. She would have never moved forward with all the good boys in Research, all with half as much experience and worse records by far but still somehow managing to show some undefined promise that never seemed to be mentioned in her performance reviews. She had more of a change to accelerate to something here.

She wouldn’t make Head Archivist--not unless Jon finally quit, and he never did, for whatever reason. But maybe it would be a small enough pond that she could finally break through the goddamn ceiling Elias has enforced in every promotion for the last ten years. 

Honestly, a part of her had always expected it. Elias had that smarmy, old money quality to him, and so did half of the supervising staff. She always feels like she’s under a microscope at the Institute, and she is a slide that is found particularly lacking. 

Elias hums lightly. He casts a glance towards her. “I do hope you find a lasting home in the Archives, Sasha. I find that this is a department that can grow particularly close.” 

“I didn’t think that the Archives has had more than the Head Archivist for a while. Gertrude didn’t have any assistants towards the end, did she?”

“Well, no,” says Elias, tilting his head in acknowledgment. “Gertrude was rather set in her ways, at the end. Hadn’t wanted to break in any new assistants. She managed nicely with Jonathan, however.” He gives her a smile. “It’s wonderful to have you and Martin joining him down here. I feel it will really breathe new life into the place.” 

Sasha offers him a thin smile. She doesn’t answer. 

A part of her had always had mixed feelings about Jon. That part of her wonders if she should quit rather than work under him.

She likes him, don’t get her wrong. Quite a bit, actually. She hadn’t known him very well, granted, but she had spent more time with him than most in the Institute, and they had gotten along well enough. He had a nice sense of humor, and hadn’t talked down to her, which was better than half the Institute’s blokes could say. 

She had helped him, once or twice. He hadn’t been the best at computers, and he heard she knew them, somehow. It had been her first month or so at the Institute, and she had thought themselves friends, of sorts. He actually hung about and joked with her, once or twice, and there was one nasty scrape with a Leitner that…

Well, suffice to say, Sasha is grateful for Jon. She likes him, well enough. She doesn’t buy into the nepotism thing fully--well, there was no small measure of it involved in his promotion, she knows that for sure. Elias hadn’t tried to hide it. But he understood the supernatural better than anyone in Artefacts’ ever had. 

Good as he is in a pinch, though, you don’t swan around the Institute the way he does without getting fired, let alone promoted to a department head, young as he is. If he wasn’t the… family friend or nephew or pseudo-whatever that he is of Elias, Sasha doubts he’d even be at the Institute. 

And that’s really the crux of it, isn’t it? The one misgiving she had of him, even when they were still on speaking terms. He always acted like it was some grand burden to have decent and secure employment right out of school, promotion by twenty-four and department to himself. He never seemed to want to be here, and Sasha knew plenty of people half so lucky who worked two jobs and never had enough. 

Well, they hadn’t been on speaking terms in a while. He stopped talking to her entirely after she requested the transfer, and Sasha hadn’t been keen on talking to him either after he refused. A bit uncharitable of her, granted, but--no, actually, it was exactly as charitable as he deserved. He had a new department that was entirely empty, and she got to spend the next few months deciding whether to risk her life going to work tomorrow or risk not being able to pay rent. 

She jumps slightly when the door to the Archives opens. 

Jon steps in, and after him follows man, taller than him by a good head and broader by no small measure. 

Her first impression of him is that he looks exhausted. Her second is that he looks at Elias like he’s an inch from throttling him. 

Her third is that he’s wearing the ugliest Hawiian shirt she has ever seen.

Inside of Sasha are two wolves. The first can’t help but rankle at the blatant dress code violation on the first day,  when she got written up for wearing crocs after working here for two years. The second wants to know where she can buy one. 

Jon isn’t exactly up to code either, but she’s also never seen him be up to code. It’s always been more a question of how he broke dress code rather than the breaking itself. 

Today is a fun combination. Black pants with silver buckles and chains running up the legs, paired with a dark green sweater with lovely cabling running up the front. Both are at least two sizes two large, with the sweater nearly hanging off a shoulder and the pants rolled up at the ankles. From her count, it violates at least four distinct dress code regulations, which is rather tame for Jon. 

He looks tired, though. Exhausted, actually. Sasha wonders when he last slept. 

Next to her, Elias turns to the door. 

“Jonathan,” he greets, smiling with that odd, effusive glee. “And you’ve brought Tim as well. I wanted to come down here for the introductions. It’s quite a big day for the Archives, after all.”

Jon stares at him for a long moment before turning to Sasha. He looks at her with an emotion she can’t quite decipher. 

“Sasha,” he says, and there’s an odd heaviness to his tone. 

“Ah, Tim,” says Elias, wincing slightly. “I see that Jonathan has brought you up on his own… particular version of the dress code. We do, however, have an official and mandatory policy in place, which states that outfits must conform to traditional modes of business casual.”

“Really?” says Tim, cocking his head with an exaggerated flare. “Shame, that. Guess you’ll have to fire me.”

“I’m certain that won’t be necessary,” replies Elias. “Introductions are in order, I believe.” 

Sasha talks half a step forward, reaching out her hand ahead of her. “Sasha James,” she says. “I worked in Research.”

Tim is attractive, she admits, in a conventional sort of way. Tall and fit with a sharp jaw and cheekbones to match. He has nice eyes, she thinks. Grey, with just a little bit of blue. 

He offers her a charming smile. “Tim Stoker,” he says, giving her hand a firm pump. “Evil clown tried to eat my brother.”

Slowly, Sasha retracts her arm. “Sorry…?”

“Well,” says Elias. He claps once. “I’m certain you all have a lot to talk about. I’ll leave you all to chat, shall I?”

“You said there’d be a third,” says Jon, softly. 

He stares at the empty desk next to Sasha. 

“Oh, right. Martin is running a little bit late, it seems. I’m certain he’ll be here any moment.”

Jon’s eyes snap to Elias. “Martin,” he repeats. 

Elias smiles patiently. “You two seemed to get along well enough. I thought he’d be good for the Archives.” 

“I don’t know where he is,” says Jon, half to himself. A horrible look passes over his face. “Where is he, Elias?”

Elias shivers, humming slightly in the back of his throat. “Ah--that’s… Bit strong this morning, are we, Jonathan? Good. Mr. Stoker seems to already be improving the quality of your work.”

“Where is he, Elias?” 

For a moment, Elias braces, and then whatever it is seems to pass. “He should be arriving any minute. Honestly, Jonathan, I thought I taught you patience.”

The emotion from before flickers across Jon’s face, then, flashes through before disappearing again. For a long second, Jon stares at Elias, his eyes wide and unblinking. 

Then, he snaps on his heel, moving towards the door at a stumble. Before he can reach it, it flies open. 

Martin staggers in, white as a sheet and trembling all over. He grips the door with one hand to brace himself, before he tips to the side, sliding down the wall’s face. His breaths come in ragged gulps. 

Sasha starts upwards. “Martin!” 

In a few steps, she’s at his side, crouching down next to him. She takes his hand in hers. It’s cold as death. 

“What happened?” she demands.  “Martin?”

Martin heaves an enormous breath. “There,” he says, “is something wrong with the elevator.”

Sasha hooks an arm under Martin’s shoulder, and a moment later, Tim takes the other side. Together, they help him up, leading him over to the desks and setting him in the nearest. 

Martin stares at the desks, bewildered and blinking. He counts out three on his fingers, mouthing the numbers to himself.

“Well, it seems like you all have much to discuss,” says Elias. “I’ll leave you all to get acquainted, then?

“Elias!” snarls Jon. He shoots a stony glare towards him, then glances at Martin, guilt flashing across his face. “Are you okay--I, right, no, of course not. Tim, can you--tea, or something? He takes it with cream and sugar.”

Tim nods once, casting Martin an uncertain glance before moving off towards the breakroom. He pats Jon on the shoulder as he passes.

Sasha takes Martin’s hand in hers again. She rubs against the top in circles. “Can you tell us what happened, Martin?”

Martin shakes his head. His hand clamps over hers, clammy and trembling. 

“There--there was--it stopped and, and, then wasn’t stopped, and then--the doors wouldn’t open, and then they would-- and it wasn’t an elevator shaft, and the man was just gone and--” He drags in another gulping breath.

“What man?” asks Sasha, worried. “Why were you even in the elevator?”

“The--he was old and here to see Elias and--”

“Was he now,” says Jon, his eyes fixed on Elias. “What did you do?” 

Sasha darts her eyes between them. Without entirely knowing why, she shifts to be more fully between Martin and the others. 

There’s an odd pressure to the air. A heaviness she can’t set to name. She feels like she’s in the center of an arena with the whole world in the stands, and it’s the sort of event where lions are considered an enhancing feature. 

“I’d like a word,” spits Jon. “Now.” 

Sighing, Elias gives Jon a tired look before he moves past him, entering Jon’s office ahead of him. Jon follows, shooting Sasha and Martin another oddly guilty look before stepping in behind him. 

The door shuts with a slam. Immediately, Sasha hears muffled shouting begin to sound. 

Martin startles at the noise. Before she can say anything, Tim returns, setting a mug of steaming tea before Martin. In white, curling letters against a black surface, the mug reads, My body is a temple, ancient and crumbling, probably cursed, harboring an ancient horror.

Jon’s mug, then. 

“Here we are,” says Tim, settling in the chair next to him. “Take small sips and deep breaths, yeah?”

Martin picks up the mug, bringing it blindly to his lips. He takes a long, hard gulp. 

He slams it on the table. “You were right about the small sips.”

Tim rubs his shoulder. He nods understandingly.

“Can you tell us what happened?” asks Sasha, leaning forward. “You weren’t making much sense before.”

“It’s--” Martin takes a bracing breath. “It’s crazy but I swear it’s true.”

“I worked in Artefacts, remember?” Sasha offers him a wan smile. “I’ve seen crazy.”

“This is worse,” Martin tells her, gravely. “I--the elevator stopped. When I was getting the extra desk.” He stops. 

“Why were you getting another desk?” She glances to the desks around. “Is someone else coming?”

“Elias said--I thought we only had two.”

Tim snorts unkindly. 

Sasha glowers at him. 

“It stopped,” says Martin, like it’s a confession. “The call buttons wouldn’t work and then it just-- fell.” 

Frowning, Sasha says, “The elevator crashed?”

Martin shakes his head. He takes another bracing sip of tea. “It just kept falling. Longer than a building could ever be. And then while it was falling, the doors opened, and… It wasn’t an elevator shaft outside. And--the man. He just. Threw himself out.” 

“It’s alright now,” says Sasha, soothingly. “Drink more tea, alright?”

She tries to surreptitiously check his pupil dilation for any signs of a concussion. Something  happened, that’s for certain, but there’s no small chance that involved head trauma if there had been something wrong with the elevator. 

She doesn’t think he’s lying--far from it. Martin seems genuinely spooked by whatever happened. But she’s seen a good deal of genuinely spooked people in her days, and a lot of them turned out to have concussions or drug addictions. There were those who didn’t, of course, and had encounters that seemed real enough, but those were far in few between. 

In all her years at the Magnus Institute, Sasha has seen no small number of supernatural events herself, and all of them were in Artefacts’ Storage. And all of them were far less extensive than what Martin describes.

She wonders if she should call an ambulance. It couldn’t hurt, whether or not it was a concussion. 

Martin looks at her miserably. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I believe something happened,” promises Sasha. 

At the same time, Tim says, “Oh it sounds exactly like something that fucker would do. I’ve got you, mate.” 

Martin and Sasha turn to stare at him. 

“Who are you?” asks Martin, after a beat.

“Oh, uh, Tim Stoker,” says Tim, sticking out a hand. “I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but honestly, it’s been a shitshow.” 

Martin accepts it tentatively. “Martin Blackwood,” he says. “Do you… know the man from the elevator?”

“Oh, him?” Tim scratches his head. “No, don’t think so. But I’ve met Elias, and he’s a total bastard.”

“Elias,” repeats Martin, slowly. “Our boss Elias?”

Tim looks at him gravely. “Jon has used many words to describe Elias in the past twenty-four hours and boss has not been one of them.” 

“Uh huh,” says Sasha. “And, uh. How do you know Jon?”

“That’s a great question,” says Tim, agreeably. “I’m going to float that one to Jon.” 

Suddenly, Sasha remembers that something about all this has caused Jon to go after Elias, and they’re having a blow out as they speak. The office has been silent for a while. She wonders if they’ve settled matters, whatever it’s about. 

“What do you think is happening in there?” asks Martin, fretful. “Jon seemed really upset.” 

Tim shrugs. “Probably giving him hell over whatever shit he pulled this time. Only known him for a bit, granted, and known Elias for even less, but it seems like a pretty regular occurrence.” 

“You are aware this is a job, right?” asks Sasha, slowly. “It’s a bad idea to come in on the first day dressed like that and insulting the head of the Institute.” 

“Jon’s going to talk to you about that,” he says. “Maybe wait for that, yeah?”

Sasha… doesn’t like the look Tim gives her, at that. 

~*~

Jon wheels on Elias the moment the door shuts behind them. “Simon Fairchild?”

Elias gives him a tired look. Calmly, he settles down in the chair at the head of the desk, folding his hands before him on the tabletop. “He left him in one piece, Jon. Just as I asked. I don’t see why you’re getting so worked up over this.” 

“So you’re not even going to deny it, then.” 

“That would rather defeat the point, now wouldn’t it?” 

Jon’s hand slams down on the desk. 

“Why,” he says, gritting his teeth, “did you have my assistant thrown into the Vast?”

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Jonathan,” says Elias, sharply. He gives Jon that look, the one that always makes him feel like he’s eight years old all over again. “Particularly when I’ve gone out of my way to accommodate you.” 

Something close to fear begins to brew in Jon’s gut. He draws back. “What are you talking about?”

Sighing, Elias drags a hand through his hair. “I… understand that you had a difficult time adjusting after Gertrude’s passing. I’ve tried to be patient. To give you the space you needed to settle. I’ve let you carry on with the Archives how you pleased, haven’t I?”

Jon doesn’t reply. 

“I’ve known you for a long time, Jonathan. I watched you grow into the Archivist you are today, and I am so, so proud of your progress. Which is why I won’t sit by and watch you harm yourself. I thought we left this silly business of starving yourself behind in your youth.” He looks at Jon with a look that treads dangerously close to pleading. “Can you at least understand that it hurts to see you in such bad straights? You’re barely able to stand some days. And this business of the avatars--it’s gone too far, Jon. I’m not opposed to more… aggressive tactics, in pleasing our master, but one of these days you’ll find a fight you can’t survive. I want you Fed the next time.”

“Why did you arrange the encounter with Simon Fairchild?”

Faintly, Jon has the sense of dominos falling, clacking into one another and knocking them to an ever-growing destruction. He had thought that Tim was the only ground he lost, and then the assistants, but--

Elias never did things in half measures. Not for as long as Jon knew him. He would wait, and he would watch, and then he would gain all the ground he had lost and then some the moment that he finally moved. 

(Jon’s refusal to take assistants had not been his only dispute with Elias.)

“You seemed to dislike the nightmares,” says Elias, calmly. “I’ve made arrangements for a food source immune to them. For your comfort, Jonathan, not mine.”

“I won’t Feed from them,” says Jon. He begins to pace the length of his office, agitated. His heartbeat thumps shakily in his chest. “Whatever happened with Simon, I won’t ask.” 

“Does Martin not suit your interest?” Elias hums to himself. “Or perhaps you aren’t in the mood for an encounter with the Vast. Very well. I’ll make arrangements for another shortly. The Dark has been rather unsubtle with their ritual preparations. Or perhaps the Lonely--Peter can be very accommodating at times, and I imagine he’d be intrigued by the prospect. Would you prefer Tim again? Or rather some diversity in your diet? I understand you and Sasha were once close.”

“Shut up,” says Jon, weakly. “I won’t. Even if you manage to arrange encounters for them. I won’t Feed. There won’t be a point to this all.”

“Oh, I’d prefer for the option to be prepared, even if you don’t take advantage in the moment.” Elias sees the look on Jon’s face, then sighs. “Even if you can resist the draw of a Statement in such close quarters--which I doubt--I will not be stopping my plans.”

“They won’t survive that many encounters,” says Jon. He struggles to keep his voice level. “And I won’t let another assistant down here after them. Wouldn’t you rather them alive?”

“Whether they remain alive or not is rather up to you, isn’t it?” He drums his fingers against Jon’s desk. “You will always be my priority, Jon. Your health, your safety. I am past the point of negotiation on this matter. If you decide to sacrifice them rather than Feed on them, then that is your decision to make. But I’ve made mine.”

Jon tries to think of what Gertrude would have done. Unfortunately, the answer is “never have been caught in the first place,” which is rather out of Jon’s wheelhouse.

“Of course, I might be amenable to abandoning my plans,” admits Elias. “If you kept yourself Fed of your own volition.” 

And there it is. The sales pitch.

Jon’s more him, when he doesn’t Feed. Less of the Eye. Gertrude had always felt preserving what little human pieces he had left was priority, and she wouldn’t have hesitated to let the assistants fall to Elias’s machinations. Oh, she would have tried to protect them, keep them alive for as long as possible, maybe even attempt to get leverage against Elias. But in the end, when it comes down to it, assistants are an acceptable cost when the rest of the world hangs in balance. 

Jon knows that this is cost shifting of the worst sort. He’d be saving Tim, Martin, and Sasha at the price of an endless string of strangers, and they would never, ever be able to escape Jon’s sight. It wouldn’t end for them. The nightmares won’t ever stop. Jon knows he’d be damning strangers for the sake of his assistants.

In the same way, he knows that he can’t save his assistants. He can’t free them, and he can’t protect them indefinitely. And they wouldn’t suffer the worst of the effects. From a cost perspective, he should just let Elias carry on with his plans.

Gertrude would have said that they can’t account for the actions of others. That they can only take their best efforts to preserve the world as they know it, even if it comes at costs. You can’t help it if the opposing side takes one of your pieces. You can only try to maintain control of the board. 

Jon had been terrible at chess. Gertrude eventually gave up on trying to teach him. 

“Get out,” says Jon, eventually. “I need to think.”

Amiably, Elias stands, straightening his suit coat as he passes to the door. 

“Elias?” tries Jon. His voice is pleading. He hates himself for it. “You don’t have to make arrangements for them. I’ll. I’ll do. Something.”

Elias’s face softens. He takes a step towards Jon, then places a single hand on Jon’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. 

Jon forces himself not to shrug it off. 

“You’re better Fed than I’ve seen you in quite some time, Jonathan,” says Elias, giving him a smile. “I won’t lie--it’s rather relieving to see. I won’t make any further arrangements until your hunger begins to affect you, alright?” He squeezes, hard. “If you have the sense to accept what’s been given, and take Mr. Blackwood’s Statement. Do we have a deal?”

He stares at Jon, an eyebrow raised. 

“I can’t just… take it from him. He might not want to give it.” Jon forces himself to remain still as the hand tightens. “I’ll ask if he’s willing to give it,” he adds.

The hand stays for a moment longer, grip tightening, before Elias steps back with a sigh. “For his sake, and the sake of your other assistants, I hope he agrees.” 

Then, he crosses to the door and opens it, nodding cordially to Tim as he passes through Jon’s Archives. Tim watches him with tightly creased eyes, taking a step between Elias’s path and the other two assistants. 

Jon takes a deep breath. He counts to ten. 

“How we doing, boss?” asks Tim, his voice tight.

Jon starts his count again. “I need. A minute.” 

Elias isn’t going to give him time to find an alternative. The written Statements haven’t been enough to sustain him on their own for years. He might be able to stave off hunger for a week, two at most, but if he doesn’t have another plan in place by the time the next Statement giver arrives, he’ll…

He doesn’t know yet. 

For now, he has more immediate problems. He got Martin and Sasha trapped down here; he has to explain to them what they’re facing. He can’t leave them in the dark. It’s different for them, now that they’re in the Archives. There isn’t an easy escape. There isn’t a possibility of reverter to normal life, unscathed, unmarked. Martin’s already felt the Vast’s touch, and they’re likely to be Marked by more even if Jon takes the deal. 

Maybe if he tells them, they’ll have a better chance. Maybe if they knew what they were up against from the start, they might be able to get out of this with their beings intact. 

Or maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe they’re already damned. Jon doesn’t know. 

But he had always wondered if it would have given him a chance, knowing the truth from the start. And he can’t help but hope that it will give them one. 

~*~

It could be said that Martin has had better days. 

Like, it was already shaping up to be a bad day, what with the transfer to the department run by that guy he once pushed into a full nervous breakdown in childhood and then never spoke to again. Like, that, relatively? That was a thing Martin was worried about. 

It feels a bit silly, now. Spent all that time worrying about Jon, and in the end, it was an endless black expanse outside the open doors of a perpetually plummeting elevator that he should have been worried about. Which. Martin thinks he could be forgiven for not anticipating. 

Jon pulls in a deep breath. 

Martin watches him warily as he braces himself, staring at them with wide, unnerving eyes. Jon had always had an intense stare, since he knew him. It always seems to cut through Martin to his core. 

He’s still too thin, Martin thinks. He wonders when Jon last ate. 

“Right,” says Jon, an air of purpose about him. All at once, he draws his shoulders up, looking at them with a heaviness. “I suppose I’d best explain things to you.” 

“That… would certainly help,” says Sasha, after a beat. 

“The thing is, you see--” Jon stops. Panic flashes across his face. “It’s just that, well--” He stops again. 

Tim nods encouragingly at him. 

“We’re all--” attempts Jon, and then stops again. He drags a hand through his hair, huffing a breath. 

His mouth flattens. All at once, he spins on his heel and goes into his office. The door shuts behind him.

There’s a beat.

“I’ll just… check on him,” says Tim, flashing them a smile. He crosses to the door. 

Martin really thought the elevator thing would be the weirdest thing that happened to him today. He really did. And like, yeah, it’s still winning, but he honestly doesn’t know which bit of this all will end up truly being the oddest thing to happen to him today. 

Tim taps on the door with a two-fingered knock. “We doing alright in there, Jon?”

Silence. 

Glancing over his shoulder, Tim flashes them another reassuring smile before turning back to the door. He knocks again. “Gonna let me in so we can talk about it?” 

There is a longer silence. Martin and Sasha exchange a wary glance. 

Tim tries the door knob. It doesn’t turn. 

Tim knocks again. “We can, uh, practice again, if you’d like?” he calls, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Don’t have to have the conversation now.”

“What conversation?” demands Sasha, giving Tim a suspicious look. “Does this have to do with Elias, or whatever happened to Martin?”

Tim makes a distracted waving motion behind his back. Sasha’s eyes narrow. 

“I could talk to him?” tries Martin, wincing a moment after. “I mean--you probably know Jon better than I do, uh, maybe? I don’t actually know how well you know Jon. But I know him some, and maybe I could talk to him? About. This?”

Oh, fun, surprise anxiety, a lovely chaser to the soul crushing terror he just experienced. A nice little cocktail of adrenaline, really. 

“This is sort of… delicate,” says Tim, apologetically. “It’s a specific thing we’re working through. You’ll understand in a bit. Maybe pop over to a café or something while I talk to Jon?” He immediately grimaces. “Scratch that, spooky old men about, probably don’t leave.” 

The door behind him jerks open. Tim nearly stumbles into Jon. 

“Boss!” Tim’s eyes search Jon’s face. Something unspoken seems to pass between them. “We good?”

Jon gives a jerky nod. Stepping to the side, he gesture deeper into his office. Martin follows the line of his hand to an open trapdoor, that Jon casually has, in his office, which is supposed to be the bottom level of the Institute. 

The elevator’s still winning. Just barely. 

“Right. We’re doing this,” says Jon, firmly. “Get in the hole.”

Sasha and Martin exchange an uneasy glance.

“No?” says Sasha. She folds her arms over her chest.

Jon does not seem to have an answer prepared for that. 

“It might help if we knew why we had to get in the hole?” says Martin. Then, because people seem to be forgetting, he adds, “It has been a very long day.” 

“I need to explain things to you. And I’m not doing that where Elias can watch.” Jon gives another gesture towards the hold, less confidently this time. “So. Hole.”

There’s a beat. 

“Elias isn’t here,” says Sasha, slowly. “He can’t watch us.” 

“I will explain that in the hole,” says Jon, patiently. 

Sasha stares at him for a long moment. “Right. And we’re all just going to talk. While standing. In a hole?” 

“There are tunnels beneath the hole.” Jon drags a hand through his hair. “This would be easier to explain if you just got in.” 

Clearing his throat, Tim waves a hand. “I’ve, uh. Been in the tunnels. Jon has a good idea. Best we all just”--Tim has the look of someone regretting every decision he’s made, ever--“get in the hole.”

There’s another beat. 

“But wouldn’t it be easier to explain the Archives if we were in the Archives?” says Sasha. 

Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. A pained look passes across his face. “If you get in the hole, I promise to personally force Elias to give you fifteen percent raises.” 

Sasha and Martin exchange a look.

They get in the hole. 

The ladder is old, and the metal beneath his hands feels marginally gritty and bitterly cold. Martin wobbles slightly when he touches down, still unsteady. Beneath his feet are cobblestone, rough and uneven, and he pants slightly as he turns to inspect his surroundings. 

The square of light from the trapdoor above does not illuminate much of the tunnels, but Martin’s breath catches nevertheless when he sees it. The ladder releases out into a juncture, a branching path carved of ancient stone, and the darkness beyond seems to creep ever closer to their small sliver of light. Sasha has already taken a few steps from the light’s edge, her head darting about to take in the underground. 

From behind Martin, there’s a grunt as Tim touches down. He takes a step back from the ladder and nods to Martin, clicking on the flashlight in his hand. 

A moment later, Jon sets down. He wobbles slightly as he lands on the cobblestone, and Tim reaches a hand out to steady him, his face pinched and worried. 

Martin eyes Tim curiously. He wonders how they met. Whatever it is, he doubts that it was in the course of a typical employment interview. 

“How long has this been down here?” asks Sasha, her voice hushed. “It must go on for…” Her voice trails off. 

“Miles,” finishes Jon. He stares past Sasha, into the dark. “We can go deeper. It might be safer.” 

There’s a beat. Reluctantly, Sasha shakes her head, taking a step back. 

“No,” she says, turning to face Jon. “No, I’m not going any deeper unless you tell me what’s happening. This… what’s going on with all of this?”

“I--” Jon licks his lips. In the shadow of the dim lamplight, he looks suddenly, profoundly sad. “I, well. I made a mistake, and I’m afraid you are the ones paying the price. And… I owe you an apology. For that.” He takes in a deep, steadying breath. “We are all trapped in the Archives. All of us. And… it’s not a safe place to be trapped.”

“That… doesn’t make sense,” says Sasha, slowly. “It’s an archive. It’s not dangerous. And we can leave.”

“No--it’s… I’m getting to that part. I”--he draws in another breath--“need to explain to you the reality of this place. What it’s for, what we do, what happens to the people who work here. And… what I am.” 

“You’re Jon,” blurts Martin, then immediately clamps his mouth shut again. He feels his cheeks burn. It had felt important, in the moment, but now that he’s said it aloud, he just feels silly.  “I mean. Sorry. Keep going.”

“No, no, I’m--not. Not exactly. Or maybe not fully?” He frowns. “This place--it calls itself a place to collect knowledge of the supernatural--and it is, but it knows far more than it leads anyone to believe, and it’s not for people. It’s not for us. The --thing-- this place feeds--it’s not human. And neither am I.”

He tells them, then, about the world, and the secrets of the things within it. He tells them about him, and… what he is.

His words are not pleasant things. 

~*~

Tim starts to feel the first real stirrings of regret when watching Jon with the others. 

Yeah, he regrets getting caught in this bullshit. Regrets not stopping Danny from going to the theatre. Regrets having to sign, but the signing itself? Hates it, but he would probably do it again. In the end, better him than Danny getting caught here, and he doubts that prick Bouchard would have actually taken his rejection sitting down. Not that he’s planning to stay, mind you, he’ll take the door out the second he can find it, but the decision he made in the actual signing? It kept Danny safe. And he can’t bring himself to regret that. 

But he gets close, watching Jon. Watching the knots he ties himself into while worrying about it all. 

He was a nervous mess all day yesterday, trying to figure out what to say, and no matter how many times he practiced with Danny and Tim, he never seemed any calmer about it. He left Tim at Mike’s to rest, and when he got back the next morning, it was clear he hadn’t slept a wink. The entire train ride over, he was a fidgeting mess, and Tim was worried he’d make his fingers bleed with how badly he was picking at the nails. And then with all that shit with whatever Bouchard said to him--

Tim isn’t quite willing to take the blame of all this onto himself. He can’t help the bit with the evil clowns or the fact that there’s a literal Bond villain hanging out in the main office of this shitty building. But he is acutely aware of the fact that all of this is for the benefit of him, and it’s coming at no small pain to Jon. 

And now these two poor sods stuck with him. Damn. 

It’d be easier if Jon wasn’t so obviously torn up over it all. It was easier to do a lot of things when he was just some rando who was bad at sharing information. 

It’s… a lot harder, to justify doing whatever it takes to save Danny after listening to Jon practice the best way of explaining just how stuck they all are. How stuck he’s been for a long time already. 

His voice had shaken the hardest, practicing that bit. 

And then all the bits about Elias, about how he’s not to be trusted, how they’re not to go in a room alone with him and how they’re to find Jon if he tries...

In the back of Tim’s mind, he can’t help but hear the sound of a tape recorder playing, droning on in endless, ticking repeat, constantly replaying the moment where Jon decided to go in--

He only went in to help Danny. And damn, it’d be easier to let him bear the costs of keeping Danny alive if it weren’t for how goddamn grateful Tim was that he helped him in the first place. And after spending an afternoon listening to him explain just how fucked he was, and how hard he’s tried to not get fucked in just the manner Tim caused--

Okay, yeah, Tim feels more than a little guilty. 

He lets himself tune out a bit while Jon explains it all. He’d heard it all before, after all, more than once. Jon had needed a few run throughs to get it all out yesterday, and he and Danny were a better audience than Mike. 

His mind wanders to the Institute. And to Jon. 

The night before, after Jon had left and Danny and Tim had long since crammed themselves into Mike’s guest bed, Danny had told Tim, unequivocally, that if they weren’t going to let Danny come to the Institute himself, Tim better find the way out for Jon and him both. 

Then, he had turned over, and there weren’t any more words to be had. 

Tim wonders what shit Bouchard pulled this time, with the poor sod and the elevator. It sounded like… the Vast, Jon called it? Falling, and endless spaces. 

Like Mike. Who is currently spending all day every day with his little brother. His dear, wonderful, idiot little brother, whose sole approach to life is fuck around and find out. 

Jon peters off with a worried look firmly planted on his face. Poor guy radiates enough anxiety to kill a fully grown gorilla. He has the general energy of a small, distressed animal caught in the throes of a tsunami. Tim wonders if he’s ever seen a therapist, or maybe taken a Xanax. 

“Do you have any questions?” asks Jon, stiffly. 

Sasha and Martin stare at him silently. 

“It’s alright to have questions,” says Jon. He coughs slightly. “Very normal, under the. Circumstances.”

Sasha and Martin stare at him silently. 

Jon turns to Tim. “Maybe Danny was right about the powerpoint,” he says, anxiously. 

Tim claps a hand on Jon’s shoulder, then withdraws it when Jon startles at the touch. Too sudden, probably. 

Stepping forward, he tries to adopt his most trustworthy look. Believe me, a stranger, about this objectively batshit claim, he tries to convey, with his eyes. We don’t have time to convince you about the true existence of spooky clowns. 

“I know it’s a lot--”

Those words, it seems, are enough to snap Sasha out of her fugue. Her eyes flick to him, zeroing in on him with a look hard enough to do damage. 

“Right,” she says, briskly. “This was fun. You get points for using the tunnels, really. Wonderful effect, I’d love to explore them sometime. But that’s enough for one day, isn’t it? Can we get to work now?”

Tim exchanges a look with Jon. With this look, he tries to convey, the fuck do we do now?

Jon conveys back abject bewilderment and a desire to be anywhere but here. 

“You don’t believe us,” says Jon, drawing the words out slowly. “Is that it?”

Sasha gives him a thin-lipped smile. “Look, I get it. A bit of hazing for the first day. But aren’t we all a bit old for this?”

“Sasha,” says Jon, and his hands fidget at his side. “I’m not lying to you.”

“I get it, spooky archives, spooky institute, have a bit of fun with it, yeah?” says Sasha, patience fraying in her words. “But Martin’s had a long day already and I’m done joking. This place is--it’s weird but it’s not a--an evil temple or something. We’re not trapped here.” 

“The, uh, Sasha, the elevator--” starts Martin, softly. 

“I could prove it?” Jon frowns to himself. “Uh--a question, maybe? Think of a number and I’ll--”

“This isn’t funny anymore,” snaps Sasha. “You’re--whether you like it or not, Jon, you’re the head of this department, and it isn’t funny to tell your employees that evil gods will kill them on the first day. Whatever fight you have with Elias over assistants, you can leave Martin and me out of it--”

“Then quit.”

Sasha’s mouth snaps shut, all at once. “What?”

“Quit.” Jon stares at Sasha, his jaw tight. “You hate it here. The conditions are terrible, the pay isn’t worth it, and you spend everyday feeling like a bug under a glass. Quit. Prove you can. If you’re able, I’ll make sure you get the rest of the month’s pay and a glowing recommendation.”

Sasha opens her mouth then shuts it again, uncertain. “I’m not going to quit just because you want to get back at Elias for something.”

“Or you don’t want to quit because you can’t,” presses Jon, stepping closer. “Tell you what, I’ll hire you back the moment after. Or, better yet, we won’t even count it. Just say the words and we’ll pretend it never happened.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” 

“You’ve been here for how many years now?” says Jon, his eyes narrow. There’s a sharpness to his voice. It puts Tim on edge. “And you’ve been turned down for every single promotion, every single higher position, every single advancement, and all in favor for people with half your skill. Your only moves have been lateral and you still had to fight for them. And the pay? Someone with your skill set could get three times as much somewhere else. Why are you staying here? Why don’t you just quit?”

“I’m not quitting just because you’re having a--a spat with your--your parent or whatever. Grow up, Jon.” 

The look on Sasha’s face is firmly within the realm of frustration, but Tim can see an edge of nervousness, of fear. She swallows, hard, her lips pressed tight. 

Tim wonders if it might be better to let Jon keep pushing. Let it all burst up and get past this big mess of convincing people without like, the evil clown needing to make an appearance. It’s a nice thought, truly, and one that occurs to him after he’s already opened his mouth and barreled in. 

“Now, hang on--”

Sasha wheels on him, her eyes burning with the fire of a thousand burning suns. It’s extremely terrifying and extremely attractive all at once. But also like, clown, so Tim’s threshold for mortal terror is a little bit higher than normal. 

“This isn’t a joke,” she insists.

“You can’t say the words, can you?” says Jon, grimly. “Sasha--I know. Believe me, I know.”

“I--” starts Sasha. She stops. That near-fear looks flickers across her face again. “I--”

She stops again. She shuts her mouth, then draws in a hard, deep breath, shutting her eyes. “Martin, can you say it?”

Martin starts slightly. “I… no. I’ve been trying while you’ve all been talking. I can’t say that I quit.” 

Sasha takes in another deep breath. She starts to pace. “People have quit the Institute before.” 

For a moment, Jon looks surprised, before he nods quickly. “Never Archives. Got my hands on the records once. There was one person who quit from Research back in 2004, two retirements from HR in the past ten years, one termination from Library in 1998, and a few times someone quit from mailroom or janitorial in the past thirty years, and a few scattered retirements. Artefacts Storage”--Jon tilts his head, looking thoughtful--“it’s weird. Huge patches with no actual termination, only transfers, but there was a mass exodus in 1983 and then again in 2001. Entire department quit and was replaced. Don’t know if it’s because the contract only ties people to the Archives or if they… escaped, somehow. Or if Elias can let people go. I tried to see if I could force people to quit for a while, but I never managed one. Don’t know more than that.” Jon scowls, half to himself. “Elias found out I managed to gain access to employment records and took them away before I could read more. Think he burned them.” 

Martin startles slightly. He looks at Jon with a strange, stricken look on his face. “Elias… He’s…?”

“Extremely evil and holding us hostage,” says Jon, emphatically. “I recommend we all devote a minimum of two hours of the workday irritating him. I made you all a spreadsheet of the activities he finds most frustrating. I will forward it to you all today.” 

Sasha makes a strangled sound in the back of her throat. 

“It’s… a lot,” says Tim, casting Sasha and Martin a commiseratory look. “I know. The last forty-eight hours have been super weird. But Jon hasn’t led me astray yet, and I don’t know much about”--he waves his hand vaguely--“all this but I do know that we shouldn’t trust Elias.”

Martin raises his hand, tentatively. A moment later, he turns red and lowers it. 

Clearing his throat slightly, he jerks his head upwards. “The, uh. Elevator. What was that?” 

“Oh, uh. That. I--I’ll handle that, I swear to God, but, uh. That’s another problem. I, uh, the thing I mentioned earlier? About me? Being not… fully… human anymore?”

There is a long pause. 

“Yes, that,” says Sasha, slowly. 

“Right, uh, the thing about that is that there are a lot of catches. The thing that I’m bound to--the Eye--it, well. Gets hungry. And it wants me to Feed it. Through stories. Statements. Encounters with the supernatural.” 

“Like… mine,” says Martin, slowly. 

“I don’t do it,” Jon hastens to say. “Feed. On people. It’s better, like this. With the hunger. I keep a bit more of myself and I hurt less people. It’s better. I’m better.”

“Hungry,” repeats Martin. A horrible, dawning revelation comes over his face. “It hurts you?”

“No--er, well, yes, but. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Just a little tiredness, and dizziness, and… Anyway, I had a system of sorts? There are consequences to taking Statements. For the Statement giver. The lasting sort. I  don’t do that anymore. I took to going after things like me when the hunger got bad—and it worked—but…”

“He nearly got his foot ripped off by a spooky clown trying to save my brother,” interjects Tim. “Didn't seem very phased by it.”

Jon grimaces. “Not quite how I would have put it, but… Things like me have a bit more fight to them. And I only ever Fed enough to stay alive, so sometimes things get. Complicated. Elias doesn’t like it, and he’s given me an ultimatum, of sorts. If I don’t Feed, he’ll make a food source for me.”

There’s a long beat.

“What, me?” says Martin, blinking. “Like, more than just now?”

“All of you,” replies Jon, reluctantly. “You’re bound to the Eye. Not the same way I am, but still bound. That’s not without advantages. If I took a Statement from you, it wouldn’t have the same consequences.” 

Sasha and Martin get a distinctly uncomfortable look on their face. 

“I’m going to figure something else out,” Jon hastens to add. “I’m not going to just let him do that.” 

Nodding, Sasha draws in a deep, steading breath. “So, uh. Just to get this straight. We cannot quit.”

“You cannot.”

“An evil clown wants to kill us all.”

“Probably just me and Danny still?” Jon scratches the back of his head. “They’re not the best at getting new information quickly. But yes, it’s an imminent problem.”

“You say there are evil fear gods which literally eat people, and we’re all bound to one, here, in this job we cannot quit.”

“... Yes.”

“And you’re a. Priest? Of that fear god.”

Jon winces. “Priest is a strong word, isn’t it?”

“And our other boss, who is also an evil fear god priest, he wants to periodically feed us to other evil fear gods so that we can then feed you.” 

“The goal is for that not to happen. But yes.”

Sasha nods again, once. Then, she crosses the space between them, climbs the ladder without a word, and disappears through the trapdoor. 

A moment later, the door to the Archives slams. Loudly. 

Jon turns to Tim. “Did that go badly?” he asks, frettingly. 

“Nah,” says Tim. He slings an arm around Jon’s shoulder, projecting his movements as he goes, because Danny spent fifteen minutes last night lecturing Tim about how introducing affirming physical contact into Jon’s life was important but it was equally important to be aware of and respect Jon’s boundaries as they did so. Jon doesn’t seem to mind, so Tim leaves it. “She probably just needs some time.”

“Right.” Jon nods once to himself, then turns to Martin. “Are you… okay?”

Martin blinks, a startled look on his face. “Oh, uh, yeah! I’m fine, I just. Am not fine at all. Uh. This is a really weird day.”

“Do you have… questions? I’ll answer what I can.” 

“Like a million.” Martin draws in a shaky breath. “Probably best I don’t ask them quite yet. I need some time. To process.” 

“You can head home for the day,” offers Jon. “If you’d like. Not like Elias can fire you over it.”

Martin barks a laugh, somewhat hysterical. He drags a hand down his face. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense. Guess I’ll just go stare at a wall for a while and question the last decade of my life.” 

He crosses to the ladder, grabbing onto a rung. Before he begins to climb, however, he turns back to face them. 

“Jon, about everything, I’m--” 

He stops, casting an uncertain glance at Tim. 

Jon raises an eyebrow. 

“... I’ll tell you later,” he says, then begins a shambling climb upwards. 

Tim waits until they hear the door close to turn to Jon. “Now what, boss?”

Jon shakes himself slightly. He looks back to Tim. “Right. We need information about the Circus. As much as we can find, before things escalate any further. We can start to look through the Statements now, and… Sasha and Martin will come back. It’s not like they have a choice in the matter. For now we can manage it between us.” 

Tim unslings his arm, taking a step back and nodding to the ladder. “After you.” 

Jon gives a brief, tired jerk of his head before he begins to climb, pulling himself painfully up, rung after rung. Tim keeps a careful eye on his path. 

He’s probably already starting to get hungry. Maybe it’s just normal, human tiredness, or maybe his foot is just still bothering him, but Tim doesn’t think they’re that lucky. 

If Jon’s hungry, Elias starts to be a problem again. And Tim doesn’t think Jon has a plan for that quite yet. 

He hopes Jon makes it out of this place. He seems like a nice enough bloke, and Tim owes him, for Danny. And whatever’s going on with this place… it’s hurting him. That’s simple enough to see. 

He hopes he makes it out. He hopes they all do. But it’s only been a few hours, and Tim is smart enough to read the etching on the wall. 

This is a building with teeth. Tim needs to make sure that he and his brother don’t get caught in its bite. 

As for the rest of them… he hopes they all make it out. Truly, he does. And he’ll do what he can to help that along, but…

He doesn’t think they’re that lucky. And he has his brother to think about. 

He follows Jon up.  

Chapter Text

Jon can’t remember if Sarah was there when he first came to the Archives. He remembers standing before a line of people, and Elias’s hand is on his shoulder, and Elias’s voice is in his ear, and he’s explaining in a low, droning tone the function of an assistant in the Archives. He tells Jon’s names that he can never remember, words that slip away beneath the ever-rushing stream of their creeping, seeping identities. There are so very many things the Eye wishes to tell Jon.

There is man who is tall and lanky and once watched his friend be eaten. He makes Jon tea. He makes Gertrude tea. He wears shoes he bought for thirty-six pounds, except for when he wears the ones he was given by his late Aunt Beatrice, who killed her father and never told a soul. He never met his grandfather, who was killed by his Aunt Beatrice. He once met the singer for his favorite band, but he hadn’t the courage to ask for a signature. He wears a jacket that belonged to his friend who was eaten but did not die. His friend is still not dead. His friend is in a book now. There is a bookplate in its front. Jon knows what it says. 

Sometimes Jon remembers that the man’s name is Michael. Sometimes he doesn’t. The man always looks so goddamn sympathetic when he forgets that it makes him want to scream. 

There is the shape of someone else there. Someone standing next to him. Jon can never quite remember if it’s Sarah, who has lovely brown hair and lovely dark skin and eyes that have seen terrible, ugly things, or if it’s someone else. There’s a woman who was before Sarah, Jon is certain of it. Sometimes, he remembers that the woman’s name is Fiona. 

The woman’s name is still Fiona. She is not dead. There are worse things than death. Jon knows that too. 

Sarah is here now. She’s nice to him. 

Emma is here too. She is not as nice. Jon can’t remember why he thinks that, but he’s certain he does. Sometimes, he thinks he might almost recall the why, but if he truly ever does, he’s already forgotten. 

Memory is such a liquid thing. Jon has such trouble keeping it in his hands. He feels like a glass, sometimes, spilling over past the brim. The Eye keeps telling him more, so more has to spill out to make space.

He forgets his name, sometimes, but not as often anymore. He made such a fuss trying to remember that he forgot to read any Statements at all, and the Eye hadn’t liked that very much. It likes watching him read. 

Jon doesn’t like the reading, so much, but it doesn’t care about that. 

Mostly, it likes him in the Archives. It’s--not satiated, never satiated, but more pleased when he’s there. It’s the difference between a lion stalking its prey and a lion with its prey dead at its feet. 

It knows it’s going to Feed. It’s just a matter of Jon picking up a Statement. 

The Statements prick at him, in his mind, sharp and jabbing and full of teeth. They burrow into his mind like thorns, aching, tearing, and the only way to pluck one free is to read. 

Jon thinks he read a story, once. He can’t remember if he actually read it or if the Eye told him it. There were children, and they had names, Jon is certain of it, but he can never recall them anymore. They were in the woods. Jon can’t remember if he ever knew why. They followed bread crumbs, or maybe they didn’t. He thinks they were eaten in the end. 

Jon feels like that. Sometimes. Like he’s following breadcrumbs with every Statement he reads. Like he’s going to be eaten at the end. 

He supposes he has already been eaten. He followed the breadcrumbs too far, and something swallowed him along the way. 

Jon can’t remember if the children knew where the breadcrumbs led. If they knew they were to be eaten at the end. He can’t remember if they ever followed any of those damn breadcrumbs, or if they weren’t there at all. He can’t remember why he cares. 

When he can remember, it goes something like this: 

Jon thinks they would have followed the breadcrumbs even if they had known there was a monster waiting at its end. 

The woods are a dreadfully boring place to be. He can’t imagine they’d rather stay there. He thinks, after an appropriate time being lost, they would have taken step after damning step down the path to their end, because at least their end is something different than the forest. At least it ends when you’re eaten. It’s supposed to end, he thinks. It didn’t work that way for him. It didn’t work that way for the friend of the tall man, whose name Jon has already forgotten. 

What was he thinking about? Right, the forest. Being eaten. 

He thinks they would have picked it. Jon did, after all. Or, he thinks he did. Elias always says so, and the Eye never tells him that he’s lying. He can’t remember, most of the time. 

He can never remember what ate the kids, at the end. He writes an ending of his own, and sometimes he even remembers it. It’s like a joke, almost, except Jon never laughs. 

It goes something like this:

The kids follow the breadcrumbs, pick them up, tuck them between their lips and swallow them down. They never become less hungry. No one can live on breadcrumbs alone. They walk and they walk and they walk some more, and somewhere along the way, they start to read signs with helpful messages like Careful, breadcrumbs will kill you and You will be eaten at the end. 

The kids never pay much attention to the signs. The only alternative is to stay in the forest, and anything is better than that. 

Eventually, they reach the end of the breadcrumb trail. There is a door in the forest, standing solitary and free in the center of the forest. Its doorknob is made of brass. The door tells them, helpfully, that the thing beyond it will eat them. 

The kids always turn the knob. The only alternative is the forest. No one wants to stay in the forest. 

They turn the knob, and they step over the threshold, and they wait to be eaten because at least being eaten is an end, and what’s there? 

More goddamn trees. 

~*~

“Did you have a nice time today?” 

Jon goes still. 

Elias raises an eyebrow, glancing at him in the rear view as pulls the belt over with one hand. There is a long, pregnant pause. “Jonathan? I asked you a question.” 

“I’m sorry,” says Jon, because he doesn’t know the answer. The Eye can’t tell him. He doesn’t know which answer is the right one. 

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Jon doesn’t reply. 

Elias sighs, heavily, the way he always does when Jon deviates from the script that he never got a chance to read. Jon hates it. Jon hates him. 

“You left the Institute today,” says Elias, still looking at him in the rearview. “May I ask why?”

Jon can’t remember the why anymore. It was a-- feeling. A desire. Something nebulous and intangible that made him walk through those doors. He can’t remember what it is, and the Eye can’t tell him things it doesn’t understand itself. Those things always just get sort of… thrown out. 

“Where did you go?”

He sat on the grass, in a park. The sky was blue. He had felt dirt beneath his fingertips and a rock had pressed into the flat of his hand, and Jon had started crying, for some reason. He can’t quite remember why. 

Elias’s voice turns impatient. “Jonathan.”

“I came back.” He rubs his palms against the leather of the car seat. “I came straight back afterwards.”

“Of course you did,” says Elias, as if it were obvious, and he turns the key in the ignition. “Why wouldn’t you come back home?”

~*~

There’s something important, Jon thinks, whenever he’s in the Archives. He keeps forgetting it. It keeps getting thrown out. He left for a reason. He can’t remember what it is.

~*~

There’s a story in his head, rattling around like a steel ball in a whistle, and he rewrites it whenever he can’t quite remember how it’s meant to go. 

There are woods. And--and breadcrumbs. The children are lost in the trees and the dark and there’s no food to be had, not anywhere, nothing but the breadcrumbs, so they pick them up and pass them between their lips, and they swallow and swallow and swallow. And why wouldn’t they? When you’re hungry, you eat. 

It isn’t enough. It’s never enough. People can’t live on breadcrumbs alone. 

They take turns with it, Jon likes to imagine. They walk hand in hand, step in step, and they swallow breadcrumbs by appointment. 

Step, and the girl eats a crumb. Step, and the boy. 

The breadcrumbs are sharp and they slice down the children’s throats like knives, until their mouths are painted red and their coughs bubble every time they raise another breadcrumb to their lips. They keep eating. And why wouldn’t they?

When you’re hungry, you eat. 

~*~

Jon dreams of an ocean around him, endlessly deep, and Jon is somewhere in its center, at the point where there’s water all around and the sky and the ground has ceased to be. He coughs, in the dream, and breadcrumbs come out, one after another, as if they were connected by tape. 

Then, the dream shifts, and he holds his hands against his ears and tries to keep the ocean inside. It pours out between his fingers and fills the room until there’s water all around, and the first dream starts again. 

~*~

There’s always two children in the story. Jon hadn’t written it that way. It’s just how the story goes, and people are bound to that, stories and their roles in them. You can’t change it. You can’t just change things. 

Jon wonders why they made it that way, with two children instead of one. One child can be lost just as easily as two. If he had to make a guess, he’d probably say that no one thought one child could swallow that many breadcrumbs. 

They hurt to swallow. They never stop hurting.

~*~

There are unrecorded Statements in the Archives. There are so many stories to be told. 

It isn’t enough, writing them down. Writing them confines them to lifeless, bloodless paper, chains them to ink and pulp that can never, ever feel. It isn’t enough. The Eye doesn’t want the stories. The Eye already understands the stories. The stories are nothing but dead words already spoken and there is not a word ever uttered that the Eye does not know. 

It’s the feelings it cares about. The fear. The messy, nebulous decisions made by ridiculous humans acting on the spurring pump of cortisol and adrenaline. It doesn’t understand them. There’s not enough of an it to understand such human things. 

Jon supposes that’s where he comes in. 

It should be comforting, he supposes, in an awful way. There aren’t enough comforting things left for anything to be properly comforting, but bad things can happen in measures and this is a better result than he could hope for. If the Eye needs him to feel human things, then there’s still enough human left in him to feel. 

Jon follows the tug of the Statements, his fingertips trailing the corners of the shelves as he walks. He stops at a shelf, pulls a file box out, and digs until he finds the one at the bottom. It’s fat and squat and waiting for him, like a spider on a web. 

He opens it up, and the words slice at his throat while he swallows them down, but that’s just what words do. 

Statement begins. Statement ends. 

When the Statement ends, Jon watches as his hand turns the page. There are case notes, usually. Details about the person. He always wants to know more. 

There’s another Statement, and it begins. And it ends. 

After that Statement, there’s another, tucked directly behind the first. It begins. It ends. 

His voice is raw by the time he reaches the end of the file, and his hands are trembling, and the twisted mess of human fear sits in his stomach and churns like a storm. 

He tries to stand, but he can’t. 

“Jonathan?” Emma’s voice. Emma’s face. Emma’s hand on his forehead. “Oh dear. Michael!”

There are spiderwebs in her hair. There are spiderwebs on her fingertips. There are spiderwebs on the file. 

Michael turns the corner. “Yeah?”

“Jonathan’s having another episode,” says Emma, the picture of concern.

It’s important, somehow. The spiderwebs. Jonathan needs to hang on to them, keep them in his hand, cup his hands over his ears so it can’t leak out the crevice--

“Oh no,” says Michael, stepping closer. 

He bought his shoes on sale at a store in Camden, thirteen days before the fourth anniversary of his friend being eaten by lightning being eaten by a book. He cried for an hour on the anniversary of his friend’s not-death, and drank himself to sleep with a twenty-three dollar bottle of whiskey. 

Jon looks back at Emma, and he thinks there’s something he’s forgotten again. 

“I’ll call Elias,” says Emma. “Have him take Jonathan home.”

There’s that word again. 

~*~

There are spiderwebs encasing the bookshelves of the Archives. It cocoons them, floor to ceiling, and Jonathan tries to remember, really, he does. 

He blinks, and he can’t see the spiderwebs anymore. He can’t remember there being any at all. 

~*~

“Oh dear,” says Emma, brushing the hair from his face. “What do these episodes feel like, Jonathan? Can you tell me?”

Jon feels himself shake all over. The Statement had been missing pages at its end, and the sudden, abrupt halt had come crashing over him like a wave. The hunger bears down on him, drowns him, and he doesn’t know how the Statement ends. 

The edge of the words are stuck in his throat. It cuts him when he tries to swallow. 

Emma pulls him more fully to her side, lacing her fingers in his hair. “It might be easier if you tell me. It might hurt less.”

Jon hates her. 

She’s the only one in the Archives. That had become more and more common, lately. There was always some new reason for everyone else to be gone, and none of them can be easily traced back to her. 

“I don’t like spiders much,” Jon bites out. 

Emma’s fingers go still in his hair.

~*~

So that’s why he left. Leaves. He doesn’t run to anywhere. There isn’t anywhere to run to. From is another story. 

The doors are large and solid and have a window of stained glass, and no one stops him when he leaves. They don’t care. Not as long as he comes back. 

He always does. There isn’t anywhere to run to, after all. 

~*~

Sarah brings him a stack of paper and crayons, and smiles at him brightly when she suggests they color for a time. Jon just blinks at her owlishly until she presses a green crayon into his hand, and he figures he should find a way to do what she asks before anything bad happens. 

He draws the forest. He draws the trees. The breadcrumbs. The door. 

“What are you drawing, Jon?” prompts Sarah. Her eyebrows are pinched while she says it, in the sort of way that suggests he did something wrong. 

He tries to explain the story, but it’s difficult. He can’t quite remember how it goes. He rewrites it as he speaks, and it comes out wrong. 

“Hansel and Gretel, you mean?” Her eyebrows are pinched tighter. Jon explained it wrong. He knows he explained it wrong. “Why is there so much red?” 

From the breadcrumbs. From eating them. 

“They don’t eat the breadcrumbs, Jon.”

Why do they have them then?

“Well.” Sarah seems thrown by the question. “They’re following them home.”

That’s the stupidest thing Jon’s ever heard.

~*~

The Eye knows where everything is, and it does not know where home is. 

~*~

“You need to stop going out with Emma,” Jon tells her, clutching the green crayon in one hand. 

Sarah frowns. “What do you mean?”

“There was someone else who worked here before you.” There are spiderwebs in Emma’s hair. Jon can’t remember why that’s important. “Do you understand?”

Sarah doesn’t. 

Jon supposes that he should have expected that. 

~*~

Home isn’t a place. 

It isn’t real.

~*~  

Jon leaves the Institute. No one stops him. 

He always comes back. There’s nowhere else to go.

~*~

Jon leaves the Institute. No one stops him. 

He wanders the streets of London until his fingers are numb from the cold and his limbs are shaking. He feels odd outside the Institute. Untethered. He isn’t certain if he likes it or not. 

There is something terrible happening somewhere, and the Eye would like to watch it. 

He follows it down back alleys, turning where it leads him, half in a dream as he follows the path already set. He walks until a storefront fills his vision, and it takes him a moment for him to realize that it’s real. The facade is a pale, sandy brown with a green awning stretched overhead, and there are words scrawled on a glass door in white, painted letters. 

It reads: Ithaca Books. 

Jon barely hears the door as it chimes his entry. 

The bookshop is small and cramped, poorly organized, and the interior is dark, with dust swirling in the few beams of light which manage to seep past the teetering stacks of unlabeled tomes. There are only two occupants at the moment, the man at the counter and the boy before it, pushed up on his tip-toes as he leans over. 

Something terrible is going to happen to them. 

Between them, pushed slightly to the side, there is a book. Jon Knows it. The Eye doesn’t tell him if there is a bookplate in its front cover, but Jon supposes he can still know things as well. 

It’s going to eat one of them, or maybe both. That’s what books do. 

The Eye would like to Watch it. Jon can feel it in the heady thrum of hunger building behind his eyes, the burning, nauseating desire that he can never truly be free of. He should give it what it wants. He should. It hurts less then. 

But he doesn’t want that. Does he?

Jon’s head is full of stained glass with spiderwebbed fractures throughout, and his thoughts cut at him when he tries to hold them in his hands. It’s hard, trying to feel any of him beneath the weight of the Eye. It hurts. He should just let it be. 

The Jon from before the Eye, the Jon he isn’t anymore, that Jon was an idiot. He was a fool. He picked up a book knowing he shouldn’t and he was eaten knowing it would happen and he had the audacity to be surprised when it killed him in the end. 

He was wrong. He was stupid. Jon hates him. 

But God, he wishes he could be him. 

~*~

Here is the thing about Jon, his fatal flaw, his core personality trait if there’s enough of him to have a personality:

He’s stupid. Naive. A verifiable village idiot. He will make every mistake under the sun. 

And then he’ll make them again. 

~*~

He picks up the book. 

~*~

There’s at least one thing Jon had right the first time: When you have a book that’s set to eat you, the first thing you do is run. 

Granted, he’s not running from the book. He’s running from the idiots about to be eaten who are lucky enough to not know just how terrible of a fate Jon’s saving them from. It’s fine, though, because that means they can still be saved. Jon can’t be saved. Jon’s already been eaten. 

The moment he snatches the book from the countertop, he bolts back the direction he came, the bell above the door clanging violently as he shoves it open. Then, he picks a direction and runs, not bothering to ask the Eye which direction would be best. 

The shopkeep shouts after him, but Jon’s already down the road, heart and feet pounding in his ears. 

The boy from the store gives chase, matching him turn for turn, step for step. He’s bigger than Jon, with longer legs, and it’s been ages since Jon has even had the option of running. Jon’s barely a block from the store by the time a pair of arms snatch him around the center and wrestle him to a stop. 

Jon immediately bites him. 

The boy behind him swears violently. He grapples for the book in his hand--more of a pamphlet, really, if Jon had to guess, he’d say it’d barely be twenty pages long--and Jon gives him merry hell trying to keep it. 

But he’s bigger than him, and stronger by no small measure. It’s not long before he’s wrenched the book from Jon’s grasp and shoved him roughly onto the cobblestones. 

The boy inspects the bite on his wrist with open frustration. 

He’s taller than Jon, and older by a few years, if Jon had to guess. His hair is a mess of patchy black streets cut through with dark blonde strands, and he wears a black t-shirt with a violently red decal on the front. He smells, faintly, of cigarette smoke.

“Go on then,” he hisses at Jon, shoving the pamphlet into the waistband of his jeans. “Go. Count yourself lucky.”

Jon shoves himself to his feet. His hands are a faintly bleeding mess of scrapes and dirt, but he’d be surprised if they’re open long enough for him to make it down the block. 

“Give that back,” he says, lunging for the Leitner. The boy catches him and shoves him back with ease. “Give it.”

“No. There are better books to steal than this one.” He turns, beginning to walk in the opposite direction. “I’ve done you a favor by taking it off your hands.”

Jon follows him doggedly. He tries to snatch the book free, but the boy just heaves a sigh and shoves him back again. “That book is going to hurt you!”

The boy freezes. When he turns to look at Jon, it’s with a strange, eager interest. “Oh? What makes you say that?”

“You’re stupid,” huffs Jon. “You probably wouldn’t even believe me. Just give it here.”

There’s something odd in the boy’s face as he steps closer to Jon. “What kind of book do you think this is?”

It’s not like Jon can steal it back from him. Might as well give him a warning. 

“The sort that eats people.”

The boy sucks in a breath. “From the library of Jurgen Leitner?”

Jon goes still. 

Rubbing his hands against his jeans, the boy looks around, a bit frantically, as if he’s worried someone is watching them. Jon supposes that’s fair. Something is watching them. 

“We should talk more,” he says. “I want to talk more--I--everyone else who knows about them are adults and stupid and I’ve never--” He stops entirely, licking his lips. “I’m Gerard.”

“Oh. Uh.” Jon’s heart beats a little faster in his chest. This feels--messy. Human. Like something that’s not meant for things like him. “My name’s Jonathan.”

Gerard grins something fierce. “C’mon then, Jonathan. Let’s find somewhere good to talk.”

Then, he sets off down the road, not so much as glancing to see if Jon follows. In the back of Jon’s mind, he can feel the tug towards the Institute, the pull of Statements and the Archives. 

He’ll go back. There’s nowhere else to go. 

But for right now…

He trips off down the road after Gerard. 

Chapter Text

Gerard lets out a little laugh of delight when he steps down at the base of the winding, creaking staircase. He digs a small, thin torch from his pocket and flicks it on, shining it around the tunnel’s breadth with a grin. 

“These are cool,” he tells Jon, with a conspiratorial air. “These are Smirke’s right?”

Jon doesn’t reply. In a single, dizzying rush, he realizes he has no idea. The Eye is--there, never gone, never not with him, but it’s… blocked. Somehow. Distorted. Like trying to see an image on the other side of stained glass. 

If Gerard notices, he doesn’t comment on it. He pushes deeper into the tunnels, not glancing behind to see if Jon follows. His torchlight beam roves the wall with a slow, meandering interest, and he doesn’t seem bothered in the least by the narrowness of the halls or the thickness of the spiderwebs. 

“You’ve been down here before?”

It takes Jon a moment to realize he’s asking him. “Once. A long time ago.”

“Yeah? It’s a good place to talk.” Then, without preamble, he spins to face Jon before flopping himself down onto the rough stone. He grins at Jon like it’s a grand adventure they’re both a part of, as if Jon were the sort of thing that could be a part of something and as if he would want to be a part of something with a thing like Jon. “So. How do you know about Lietners?”

Jon settles across from him, pulling his knees to his chest. “How does anyone? I read one.” 

“But you know what they are?” presses Gerard. “The bigger picture?”

Jon is grateful, in that moment, that the Eye’s grip on him is obscured. He remembers the moment, the moment the Eye looked into him and he looked back, that blazing second of knowledge--

“Yes,” says Jon, simply. “I know the bigger picture.”

“Mum’s obsessed with it. She wants me to be too. I guess I belong to this world now. I’ve tried to leave, you know? But I always come back. It never sticks.”

“Too late to leave,” says Jon, swallowing hard. “Stuck.”

“Yeah. Not like there’s anywhere for people like us to go, right? Once you know the truth, it’s, it’s hard to not. To pretend like you don’t.” He drags a hand through his hair. “They just seem so clueless. I don’t even remember what it’s like to know so little.”

Jon doesn’t reply. He’s trying to remember. He isn’t certain if he can anymore. 

“What are you going to do with the book?” he says instead. “You can’t read it.”

Gerard snorts. “I’m not going to read it. Not an idiot.”

“Thought you were,” shoots back Jon. “Only idiots want the book in the first place.”

“What do you call yourself then?” Gerard gives him a little grin. “You weren’t going to read it.”

No, Jon was going to set it on fire. He hadn’t tried it the last time. It might have worked. 

“Mum has a shop. Rare books. All she cares about is the Lietners, though. Never sells those.”

“She can stop them?” Jon leans forward, his eyes wide. “I didn’t think anyone could.”

Gerard makes a face. “She’s not interested in that.”

Jon doesn’t ask anymore questions. He has a feeling Gerard wouldn’t want to answer them, and he for once, the Eye isn’t there, urging him forward. He doesn’t want to ask anymore questions, for once. He wants to sit in this, the thrill, the novelty of someone else. He doesn’t remember ever really having someone else.

He had too, though. Right? There had to have been someone. There must have been. 

“What book is it?”

Half-turning, Gerard digs it from his waistband, flipping the cover towards him. He shines the light on it with a squint, then tilts it slightly towards Jon. 

“The Disappearance,” he reads, frowning. “Mum will know what it does.”

Jon leans back. “Nothing good.”

“Never do.” He shoves it back under his coat. “Enough about this. Do you like music?”

~*~

When they leave the tunnels, Gerard jerks his head down one of the roads. “I’m back this way.” 

He doesn’t elaborate more, and Jon doesn’t expect him to. 

Jon nods in the direction of the Institute without a word. He always knows where it is. 

From where they are, the Institute is impossible to see, but Gerard’s face scrunches up nevertheless. “Figures. Mum got into it through them. Her folks used to work there, y’know? Wasn’t for her though.”

Jon doesn’t reply. He can feel it, the crushing, pounding, searching weight of the Eye on him. He had left. It hadn’t liked that.

He turns to go back. He always goes back. There isn’t anywhere else to go.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” shouts Gerard.

Jon pauses in his steps. For a moment, he finds it hard to answer. 

“Yeah,” he says, when he finds his voice. “I’d like that.”

~*~

“Where were you?” asks Emma. Her voice is light, airy, trembling like spider silk in the air. That’s important, somehow. Jon needs to remember why that’s important. “I haven’t seen you all day, Jonathan. You don’t usually wander so much.”

She knows the answer. She already knows. Jon can tell with a dizzying, spiraling fear that she knows just where he was and who he was with.

“I don’t like spiders much,” Jon says. 

And she doesn’t like that much at all. 

~*~

Three days later, the Eye tells Jon that Gerard Keay is standing across the Institute, looking up. His hands are in his pockets and he’s chewing on his lip, and he’s considering whether he should go inside. 

Jon bolts out the Institute doors faster than he ran when he was trying to get back to Nan. 

He nearly trips on the curb. 

Nan. He had been going back to someone. There had been--she used to hold his hand when he crossed the street, he had never wanted to, it made him feel small and he hadn’t liked feeling so. He made a face and she would tut at him, her tongue clicking solidly behind slightly crooked teeth. She would lick her thumb and swipe it through his hair, and he would make the same face.

What happened to that? To her? Something had happened, she had been at the kitchen table, Jon had been there, too, something happened and he couldn’t go back to her anymore--

Gerard Keay is standing across the street. There is a chain on his pants that he bought for thirty-seven cents from a store with chipped black paint. On his cheek, there is a purple welt. His mother put it there. 

He startles slightly when Jon stumbles across from him. “I was wondering if I should come in.”

“Don’t,” says Jon. 

His face crumples. “Yeah, I expected as much. Why I didn’t come in straight ‘way.” 

Staring down at his shoes, he shuffles his feet, and the position tugs the gash in his cheek into distorted size. Jon can see scratch marks. She had dragged her hand along his face. 

His jaw tightens. He looks up at Jon. “Want to just… get the fuck out of here?”

Yeah. 

Yeah, Jon does.

~*~

Elias hates dirt. He hates the muck and any that Jon trails in with him, and he keeps Jon in clothing that is crisp and pristine. When it rains, he looks at the mud and the puddles and the grime streaking down the windows of the car, and he gives Jon a look that suggests he will find Jon personally at fault if any of it enters the sterile interior of his home. 

Gerard stomps firmly in every puddle on the path. There are pale streaks of dirt and mud caking his boots, and he doesn’t seem overly concerned by this fact as he walks. Jon watches him, and he thinks he would like to do that. Splash in the puddles, in the rain. 

Nan had always looked at him with such exasperation when Jon tracked in the mud, but she never did more than yank his shoes off at the door and send him up to bathe. Whenever the rain came, he used to hurry into his slicker and boots and bolt out the door, and sometimes he would forget to close it in his rush, and Nan would stand in its opening and she would open her mouth and say, “Jon, you don’t have to take after your mother in everything, learn to close a door--”

All at once, it hurts to breathe. The memory, it doesn’t go away. Not right away. It squats in the corner of his mind and burrows in, and Jon can hold it, he can keep it, and he doesn’t want to forget it. He’s so scared he’ll forget again.

But he steers firmly clear of the rain water. Elias will be mad. 

“Parents are full of shit,” says Gerard, his voice cutting. He kicks at the puddle before him, sending it up in a spray. “It’s a con. You let these people take home squirming little helpless things and pretend they’re actually going to take care of it just because they should. It’s a goddamn joke.” 

His shoulders hunch downwards. He looks like he’s trying not to cry. 

“I told her I was going to run away again. And you know what she did? She laughed. She never even cares when I do. She knows I’ll always come back.”

Jon used to wander. Nan--men would come, men with badges on their hips, they’d take Jon by the arm and pull him home and make him stand in the front hall while they lectured him about running off. When they were gone, Jon would puff himself up and demand why she insisted on always having him dragged back. 

And Nan would sigh and say, “Jon, I didn’t know if you were going to come home again.”

“I’m going to do it one day,” Gerard tells him, viciously. “I’ll get a car and drive all over the world in it. My dad had one. We keep it in storage except when we need to go someplace far. I’ll get one just like it and go away. She can sit in her store and be with her books until the world ends for all I care.”

Jon believes him. If anyone could leave, it would be Gerard.

“Where are you going to go?” he asks, turning on Jon suddenly. “When you’re old enough. When you can leave.”

That’s not ever going to happen. 

Gerard’s face twists. “You don’t want to stay in this?”

No. No, Jon doesn’t think he does.

“Then where do you want to go?” Gerard seems impatient. “There has to be somewhere.”

There’s nowhere that Jon can go that Elias can’t find him, but that doesn’t seem to be the answer Gerard wants. Jon wants to give him the right answer. He wants to give Gerard the answer he wants. 

The Eye doesn’t know the answer to Gerard’s question. But it occurs to Jon, suddenly, that he didn’t ask Jon where he could go. He asked where Jon wanted to go.

“Somewhere with rain.”

Gerard looks exceedingly unimpressed. “That’s everywhere.”

“The McMurdo Dry Valleys in Antarctica averages zero milimeters of rainfall per year.”

“That’s just one place, though. Everywhere else has rain.”

“A lot of rain, then.” Jon shrugs. “I like rain.” 

“Hmm.” There’s a long beat. “I want to go places with music. There’s a city in Germany, right? Leipzig. And they have music festivals and stuff. I’m going to go there and listen to all the bands.” 

“Before you drive around in the car? Or after?”

“During. I’m going to go everywhere and find the best music as I go.” He kicks the puddle again. It sends up another spray. Then, he swipes roughly at his cheek, at the purple and the scratch marks. 

His cheek is wet. He’s crying. 

“Up north has a lot of rain,” Gerard tells him. “Ireland. Scotland. You should go there.”

Jon doesn’t think he ever will. But he doesn’t tell Gerard that.

~*~

Jon goes back. There’s nowhere else to go. 

In his mind, Nan says, “Jon, I didn’t know if you were going to come home again.”

Again and again and again. 

~*~

Elias asks Jon how he finds the Keay boy in the elevator at the day’s end, and he does it in a crisp, clicking tone that leaves no question as to how long he’s known. He’s never not known. Everything Jon is is for Elias’s consumption and Jon can never, ever hide. 

“I asked you a question, Jonathan.”

Jon doesn’t look at him. “He’s fine.”

Elias hums. “You haven’t had a friend before.”

“He’s not my friend.” 

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not so blind, Jonathan. You already seem rather attached to the boy.”

“He’s interesting, is all.” Jon looks at his shoes. There’s specks of dirt on them. Mud. He wonders if Elias has noticed. “The Eye wanted me to See what he was doing.”

“Friends can be useful. You should learn that.” He casts an irritated look at Jon’s shoes. “The Keay boy has been of our world for a long time. He might be very useful.”

Jon doesn’t want Gerard to ever be useful to him. 

But he doesn’t tell Elias that.

~*~

There’s a kitchen table. Fog. Mist. Nan sits at its center, and she says, “That’s my grandson.”

As if that matters. As if it’s important somehow.

She says, “Stop.”

No one, of course, pays her any mind at all. 

~*~

The next time Emma tells Sarah to gather her things and come out in the field, Jon grabs her by the wrist and tells her she isn’t to go out with Emma anymore. There was someone here before Sarah. That’s important, somehow. 

“Jon, I’ll be back soon,” she tells him, half-soothing. “We’ll color, okay?”

She needs to listen to him before she ends up in the ground and can’t come out again. 

There’s an odd look on her face as she tries to pry Jon’s fingers from her wrist. She looks frightened. “Is that what this is? Emma told me about Fiona, Jon. She was very old, and, and, look, it’s just something that’s done when people pass on. People get buried every day.”

Fiona isn’t dead. There are worse things than being dead. 

“She is. She was very old and had some health problems. Jon, I know it’s frightening to think about, but it’s okay. Emma and I look out for each other. We’re not going to be buried anytime soon.”

She’s stupid. She isn’t listening. She needs to listen. 

“I have to go,” she insists, her mouth flat. “Why don’t you go find Michael, alright? He’ll sit with you for a bit.”

Before she leaves, Emma comes to find him. She stands over him and smiles with all her teeth and says, “Maybe you should go find your friend Gerard while we’re gone. I know how much you like him.”

Jon had never told her his name. 

~*~

“Adults are stupid.”

Gerard snorts. “They really are, aren’t they?” 

“They don’t listen.” 

“They don’t want to. We’re just kids, right? What do we know?”

“Everything,” says Jon, with a vicious certainty. “More than them, at least.”

Gerard gives him a wild grin. Then, he digs a cigarette box from one pocket and a plastic lighter from the other, popping one free and placing it between his teeth. The lighter makes a small, dull clicking noise as he sets the end red. One hand shoves the lighter back in his pocket while the other pinches the cigarette between its fingers. 

It comes out of him in a cloud, and Jon finds he likes the look of it, swirling and dark in the air. He watches with interest until it’s nothing but tendrils. 

“Technically I’m not old enough. But who cares, right? Probably gonna get eaten one day and what’ll it matter then?”

Jon understands. Jon’s been eaten before. 

“I think my mum killed my dad.” Gerard releases the words into the air like they, too, were smoke. “I’ve asked her, but she’ll never tell me anything about him. But I’m sure he’s dead.” 

“How do you know?”

“Well, where else would he be?” He gives Jon a vicious frown. “He wouldn’t just leave me with her, would he?”

“I don’t know,” says Jon. 

“He wouldn’t.” Gerard says it with certainty. “He’d put me in his car and we’d drive away where she can’t find us. That’s why she killed him. Because he’d take me away.”

Jon believes him. 

“Good. Because I’m right.” Then, he adds, “What’s your mum like?”

“I don’t really remember her.” 

“Oh.”

All at once, Gerard tells him he’s found a new band, and they’re brilliant, and Jon will like them just as much as he does, he’s certain of it. He produces a CD player from his jacket and insists that Jon put the headphones on, and he watches with an excited grin as Jon complies. 

The music is startlingly loud and screams in his ears, droning and sharp and screeching. Jon can’t make out any of the words, and he isn’t entirely certain if he’s supposed to. 

“What did you think? Brilliant, right?”

Jon thinks he couldn’t understand any of it. 

“Brilliant,” he agrees. 

Gerard beams like the sun. 

~*~

“You smell like cigarettes,” says Elias, disapprovingly. 

Does he? Jon hadn’t realized. He doesn’t think it’s very strong if he does. Gerard hadn’t been smoking for very long, and Jon hadn’t been standing right next to him while he did it. 

“I like the smell.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. 

He puts him into the car in tense, dangerous silence, and Jon follows Elias into his house with the same danger hanging between them like an omen. He doesn’t say a word as he locks Jon in the bathroom, and Jon knows that he’s to scrub until not a single bit of the scent remains. He changes into clothes Elias provides and says nothing as his old one’s disappear, because those are Elias’s too. It all belongs to Elias. It’s Elias’s house. He owns everything inside. 

He doesn’t say anything when Elias lets him out of the bathroom again. He isn’t supposed to. Nor does he say anything when Elias puts him back in the room he keeps for Jon and locks him inside, bolt after bolt sliding shut in the door. 

Jon doesn’t dare hum Gerard’s song as he tries to force himself to sleep, but he lets it play in his mind like a lullaby. 

As he drifts off, he realizes he still remembers it. 

That’s important, somehow. 

~*~

“That’s my grandson,” says the Nan of his dreams. And, “Stop.”

So stupid. It’s so stupid. Of course they wouldn’t have stopped. People like them don’t just stop. 

It doesn’t matter that she said it. It didn’t do anything, so that means it doesn’t matter. Might as well have said nothing, for all the good it did. 

“Stop,” says Nan, like a prayer, like a hymn, and she won’t stop saying it. “Stop. Stop. Stop.”

Like it matters.

~*~

“What’s that song you’re humming?” snaps Elias, his voice dangerously light. 

Jon clamps his jaw shut. 

~*~

Pinhole Books sits in a dark, thin building, crammed into the street corner like it forced a place for itself at the last moment. The door knob is slightly rusted, and Jon does not have to turn it to find out. There is a dead body in the upper room. 

The door bangs open, and Gerard steps out, hands shoved deep in his pockets, stomping on the curb. He had another fight with his mother. It’s about the dead body in the upper room. 

When he sees Jon across the street, he freezes. Then, in a rush of movement, he crosses, snatching Jon by the elbow and dragging him down the road. 

“You don’t ever come here,” he tells Jon, and his hand squeezes tight enough to hurt. “Ever.” 

Jon stumbles trying to keep up. “You were hurting.”

“No, I wasn’t,” lies Gerard, dragging him down a side street. “I’m fine.”

“We’re not,” says Jon. He rips his arm free and tilts his head up to Gerard, jaw trembling. “This isn’t fine and we’re not fine and you’re a liar.” 

He plops himself on the curb, then, back pressed up against the wall, and he tugs his knees to his chest and presses his face into their back. Nan’s words play in his head. Over and over and over again. 

After a moment, Jon hears Gerard sit down next to him. 

“I always wanted my friends to call me Gerry.” 

Jon leans over so his elbow presses to Gerry’s, crisp white shirt to cheap leather. 

“I’m Jon in my head.”

Chapter Text

Gerry tells Jon about his father like a minstrel spinning a grand tale, one that changes with each iteration. Gerry’s father was tall as can be and had broad, sprawling shoulders. Gerry’s father only was with his mother because she used a Leitner to control him, and he broke its control through his own force of will. Gerry’s father had great taste in music, wonderful, twice as good as Gerry’s and would have taught Gerry all he knew. Gerry’s father was in the process of loading a car and packing Gerry in it when his mother killed him, and it was only through use of dread power that she succeeded. 

Gerry asks Jon what his mother was like, and Jon always tells him he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t have a sense of her, really. He knows of the concept but not of her, and his father is even further removed from his memory. He doesn’t have any grand tales to tell of her, not like Gerry. 

When he says he doesn’t remember, Gerry’s mouth always goes flat and thin, and he thinks its because it reminds him that he doesn’t remember anything either. 

They go to the park one day, because it feels like the sort of place children might go had they really been children. Jon curls against the crevice of a tree and pulls grass through his fingers, and he breathes in the air through his nose. It’s nicer here. Calmer. He doesn’t feel the press of Statements at his spine. 

Gerry flops backwards on the grass, his limbs sprawling without care. His boot kicks outward as he tumbles, nearly knocking Jon on the knee, and Jon giggles for a moment before shoving it back towards Gerry. Gerry just grins and lets his limbs loll. He’s all boneless limbs and exaggerated gestures, Jon’s friend, and he loves to move in huge bursts or not at all. Jon thinks he loves him for it. It’s--it’s none of the measured, balanced control of Elias. His energy has no place in the Archives, or the Institute at all for that matter. It’s too human for that. 

“I wish I knew his name,” says Gerry, staring resolutely at the sky. 

The day is grey, overcast, full of dark, rolling thunderclouds near the point of bursting. The day had been grey long before either of them sought the other out, and neither of them had suggested making any movement indoors. Indoors, someone might question why they weren’t in school, or where their parents were, or if there might be somewhere better they ought to be. Indoors was the sort of place you went if you had places to go. 

Jon didn’t care if the rain came crashing down. It was better than being in the Archives. 

Gerry doesn’t turn towards Jon. He doesn’t lift his head. He keeps his eyes on the sky, unblinking, and he fists grass between his fingers. 

“Mum won’t tell me. He’s just a, a spot in my head, you know? And I can paint it however I want, but it always feels like the truth is, is better somehow and if I could only reach it then I might know how… how he felt, you know?” His shoulders tremble slightly. He starts to cry, silently, because it’s the way they taught themselves. “I tell myself I remember. That I knew him. He felt warm and strong and he could toss me up in the air like I was nothing. He loved me and it was real. But I don’t really know, now do I? But maybe I could if I could just… remember something.”

Jon pulls blades of grass through his fingers. He doesn’t look up. 

“His name was Eric. Eric Delano. He studied library sciences and liked ghosts. He had dark hair and thick, blocky hands and he played rugby when he was younger, before he blew out his knee. I don’t know if he loved you. I have trouble with things like that.”

Gerry doesn’t say anything. 

There’s a warm trickle down his cheek, and Jon swipes at it roughly, trying to choke back at the lump in his throat. He twists a strand of grass around his index finger, pulls it tight, watches as the skin around it turns white. 

“Did you learn where I lived the same way?” asks Gerry, softly. “I did wonder about that.”

Jon can’t hold back his tears anymore. They spill out, down his cheeks, out his throat, choking and gasping and louder than he’s cried in years. He clamps a hand over his mouth to keep them in but they just keep coming, more and more and more again. 

He’s going to hate him. He’s not going to want to be near him again. Jon is an awful-something, a monster worse than books, and Jon wouldn’t want to be near himself.

Gerry doesn’t move. He doesn’t stop staring at the sky. He’s trembling, or maybe that’s just Jon, he can’t tell anymore. 

“It’s alright,” he says, his voice shaking. “I think--I already knew, Jon. I think I’ve known for a while now.”

Jon’s heart catches in his throat.

“You--I feel it around you, you know? Watching. It… it’s always there, except when we go in the tunnels. Probably wouldn’t have realized without the tunnels, but it just… dropped away so fast. And sometimes you just, you forget to blink.”

“Why are you here then?” demands Jon. “Why haven’t you run?”

“I don’t know.” He turns on his side, his back to Jon. His shoulders tremble. His voice is choked. “Should I run?”

“I’m like the books,” Jon says, disgusted. 

“You’re my friend.”

His stomach twists. “I still am?”

“I want you to be.” His shoulders hunch farther in on themselves. “I just. You haven’t hurt me and I just… I don’t want you to go, Jon, don’t go, I don’t care as long as you don’t go away and leave me with her again. I don’t want to be alone again.”

“I don’t want to go,” says Jon. And, “Gerry, I’m frightened.”

His breath catches. “I’m frightened too.”

The sky opens above them, and rain comes down, fat droplets falling in large, pounding clumps. Neither of them move. 

There’s nowhere else to go.

~*~

It’s a fairytale, right? There’s a man, and he has a car. There’s a monster too, but the monster doesn’t win. He puts his son in the car and they drive away in it, the man and the son, and they go on adventures until the Earth is swallowed. Nothing short of that could stop the man. The man cannot be stopped. 

It’s a fairytale, right? And it starts with the man. And his son. And the thing is, the man wants to save the son. That’s how it starts. That’s how it always starts. There are always heroes in fairytales. That’s what makes them fairytales. 

It’s a fairytale. And the thing about fairytales is that they aren’t true. 

~*~

“There was a man here before you too,” Jon tells Sarah. 

Sarah frowns. “What happened to him?”

Jon frowns with her. “I don’t know.”

~*~

Gerry asks Jon if he became what he is because of the Magnus Institute on a sunny day, when there’s no chance of rain and no chance of dragging back wet. It’s been a long time since Jon has seen Gerry. Days and days. Elias hadn’t been pleased with Jon’s state when he came back. From the fading bruises Gerry doesn’t bother covering, Jon suspects much the same for him. 

They go to the tunnels anyway. There’s no chance of rain in the tunnels. 

Jon tells him yes, because it’s true. He went to the Magnus Institute. He thinks he didn’t come out again. 

Gerry’s mouth turns hard. “You didn’t go to the Magnus Institute. Your father brought you there.”

Jon doesn’t understand. 

“Parents always do this.” He’s full of energy suddenly, gesturing and pacing and moving about, in that chaotic, human way of his. Jon watches him from his place on the floor, cross-legged and eyes wide. “They--they drag us into this shit and we end up the worse for it. There’s no other kids in this, you know? I’ve met lots and lots with my mum and all of them are adults because adults are the only ones stupid enough to muck around in this.” 

“My father didn’t bring me to the Magnus Institute,” says Jon, dumbly. “He’s dead.”

Gerry stops all at once. “But I thought that was your mum.” 

“It is. She’s dead too.”

“Then why are you at the Magnus Institute?” He sounds impatient. “Who brought you there?”

“I did. I found a book, a, a, bad one, and it was going to eat me so I brought it there so it wouldn’t.”

“But you wouldn’t stay unless you had, a, a parent or a guardian or whatever there. They can’t just keep kids with weird books. They pretend to be normal, you know? The police has hunters.”

“He killed the police officer when I told them,” says Jon, swallowing hard. “And I tried to go home but he just took me back, and it’s too late now.”

All of a sudden, Gerry looks very, very afraid. “I don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jon tells him, and he feels panic rise in his throat. He can’t remember the policewoman’s name anymore. But she had been nice, and she had wanted to help him, and she had looked so afraid when she died. He doesn’t want that for Gerry, the choking, the panic, the red line on his throat. “Gerry, Gerry, tell me about music instead, or the car, or--”

“Jon, I think it matters.” He crouches before him, and the shadow of the tunnel shrouds his face, makes it difficult for Jon to read it. “Jon? Just--it’s okay, I just… You need to help me understand, okay?”

“It’s not important anymore. I--I already let it eat me, Gerry, because I thought it’d be over and I wanted it to be over and I was wrong about it all because I always am and it doesn’t matter anymore because it’s too late to fix.”

“If it doesn’t matter, then it doesn’t matter if you tell me.” His voice takes on an odd edge. “Please, Jon?”

“I just didn’t want the spiders to eat me,” Jon tells him, desperately. “That’s all.”

“Spiders.” Gerry licks his lips. “It… The Lietner was from the Web?”

“Yeah. And I thought, I thought the Magnus Institute could stop them, right? There was an advert in the paper. I didn’t think they were bad too. So I boxed the book up and brought it all the way to London because the spiders were at home and were going to eat me if I stayed. But I got here and all they did was take my Statement and they wouldn’t let me go after.”

Gerry’s eyes remain locked on Jon’s face. “And then what happened?”

“I tried to leave.” He nods to the tunnels. “I--there was a trapdoor, and I went through it, and this was at the other end. But the police lady died when I went to her and they were going to hurt my Nan when I went home. I don’t want to talk about after, Gerry, I don’t, please don’t make me.”

“I won’t.” Gerry swallows, hard. “But just, just tell me--they made you like this? That’s why they kept you. They wanted you to be Eye.”

“Elias says I chose this. He says you have to choose.”

“Yeah, well adults are great bloody liars, aren’t they?”

The vitriol in Gerry’s voice surprises Jon, somehow, and even then, he can’t account for the tears that start down his cheeks. 

“Jon--Jon, don’t cry, I’m sorry, don’t cry.” He leans closer, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him against his chest. “We don’t have to talk about it anymore, I promise.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I doesn’t, Gerry, it’s too late and that means it doesn’t have to matter anymore--”

“It does matter,” Gerry tells him, fiercely. “You matter and it matters.”

Which only serves to make Jon cry harder.

~*~

Gerry tells him a fairytale before they leave the tunnels. It goes something like this:

“My dad, he, um. He was good and he cared about things like this, like, like, kids like us, he cared and. If he had been here he would have put us both in his car and driven us far away and it’d be great, yeah? And, and we’d drive all about and go on adventures and… we’d go north. Where there’s rain.”

Jon feels exhausted to his bone, wrung out and empty. He’s leaned against Gerry, his face pressed to his shoulder, and each breath he takes in is tinged with the faint smell of cigarette smoke. 

“It’s a nice story.”

“Just a story, though.” Gerry’s voice is rough. He’s been crying. “I don’t think adults care about people like us. They would have done something if they did.”

“I don’t think so either.” 

“Yeah.” Gerry sounds distant, all of a sudden. “Jon? Don’t tell anyone about what you told me.”

“I don’t tell anyone about you.” He pushes himself up. “I don’t. I promise. I wouldn’t ever tell anyone anything about you.”

“Good.” His jaw tightens. “I know you wouldn’t. We take care of each other, don’t we? We do.”

“You’re my friend,” says Jon, because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

Gerry smiles at him. It’s full of teeth. “And you’re mine.”

~*~

Gerry spends more and more time outside of the Magnus Institute. Jon knows this, because the Eye tells him, and because he doesn’t try to hide it particularly hard. When Jon asks, he says he’s waiting for Jon. 

He doesn’t meet Jon’s eyes when he says it, and Jon doesn’t think he believes him. The Eye doesn’t know if what he’s saying is true. Things like whys and desires are too foreign for it to possibly fathom. 

But he doesn’t ask Gerry what else he’s doing. He doesn’t think it’d be very good if he knew.

~*~

Sarah spends more time with Jon--coloring, or reading to him, or setting him in the corner with tea made by Michael. She makes notes in a journal and Jon doesn’t ask what they’re about. It’s easier to not know things, since Gerry, and Jon finds the quiet nice. He doesn’t think the Eye could help but tell him if he actually asked, and he’d rather the Eye not tell him much of anything. 

She doesn’t go out with Emma as much, and Jon doesn’t ask about that either. He feels Emma’s eyes on him more and more, and that’s answer enough. Gertrude has been gone more lately, too, and it’s always after Emma goes into her office. That’s also an answer. 

He doesn’t like spiders much, he remembers. That’s important. 

That’s about Emma. 

~*~

It’s a story, a fairytale, and Jon tells it to himself whenever he thinks he can’t exist for another second the way he is. Once upon a time, there was a man, and he was wonderful, and he cared about things like kids being eaten. He had a car and he put them in it, and they drove far, far away. They experienced beautiful things like music and rain and they never went back, never never never. 

The man was big and strong and wasn’t afraid of a thing, and when he tried to save people, it actually worked. They didn’t have to worry about being taken back. The man took care of everything. The man was brave and powerful and he took care of them the way adults are meant to. 

It’s a fairytale. It isn’t real. And Jon doesn’t know which part he disbelieves more--whether there’s an adult who cares enough to save them, or whether there’s an adult who even could. 

~*~

The next time Jon sees Gerry, he asks him what he eats when he gets hungry. Jon freezes at the question, half-stiff at whatever reason behind it. 

He scratches the back of his neck. “Food?”

Gerry doesn’t so much as blink. “You know what I mean.”

“Not people,” says Jon, like a promise. “I won’t eat you.”

“I know that.” He rolls his eyes. “But you’ve got to feed the Eye somehow.”

“I read Statements, mostly.” Jon shrugs. “Uh, stories about people who have encountered the Entities? We’ve got a bunch in the Archives. The Eye needs to See things to Know them, you know? It likes to Experience them. It’s… foreign, to it. It doesn’t understand things like emotion, which means it’s what it wants to know. So, when it’s hungry, when it wants to eat, I just, I read them and feel them for it.” 

His face scrunches up. “But if it’s just you, then it’s just you it’s eating. Forever.” 

“I’m sorry--”

“I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at him.”

They only call Elias him now. Jon thinks he likes it better than his name. 

“But you have a bunch in the Archives?” asks Gerry. “It keeps you Fed?”

“Yeah. You don’t have to worry, Gerry. I won’t eat you.” 

“I’m not worried about that,” says Gerry, firmly. “Don’t ever think I’m worried about that.”

It sounds like a lie, but they’re in the tunnels. Jon can’t ask the Eye even if he wanted to, and he doesn’t want to.

“Will you do me a favor?”

Jon doesn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

“You said you left the Institute through the tunnels, once. I want you to show me the way.”

“You can’t,” says Jon, immediately. “You can’t ever come to the Institute. Gerry, I told you, I told you not to go there, they might not let you leave again--”

“Just to the door,” he says, firmly. “We won’t go inside.” 

Jon bites his lip. 

“Please, Jon?”

“You promise you won’t go inside?” says Jon, begrudgingly. 

“We won’t go inside,” repeats Gerry. “But I’d like to know the way.”

Jon leads him through the tunnels, every twisted, warped inch of them, following the tug in his gut where he knows the Institute lies. Even with the Eye obscured from him, he knows the way to the Archives. Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever not know. 

Every now and then, they stop, and Gerry makes notes on a crumpled sheet of paper he had crammed deep in his pocket. Jon doesn’t ask what he’s writing. He desperately doesn’t want to know, because if he knows the Eye might know and if the Eye knows then Elias might know. Jon doesn’t know how much the Eye tells Elias about him. He seems like he knows everything, at times, and the Eye won’t tell Jon much about him at all. 

Gerry gives a long, hard look at the trapdoor when they finally find it. Without hesitating, Jon turns on his heel and starts to drag him back the way they came, ignoring the crooning of the Archives above. He needs him gone, away, before he’s caught too. 

There’s a Web, Jon remembers desperately. They’re all caught in a Web, and the Archives is in its center. There’s webs on Jon. The book put them there, and he doesn’t know if he ever pulled them off again. He has to remember the webs. 

“Alright,” says Gerry, grabbing Jon by the shoulders and holding him still. “We’ll go, okay? But I want to see if I can lead the way back.” 

Jon jerks himself free. “We shouldn’t have come here.”

“Yes, we should have.”

“Just because you’re older doesn’t make you right.” 

“Never said it did, did I?” Gerry smiles at him, but it isn’t very happy. “We’ll go back, okay? C’mon.”

The tension doesn’t leave Jon’s spine until the Archives is nothing but a faint tug at his center. 

When they finally reach the spiral staircase to the street, Gerry stops, staring upwards at the exit with an odd, heavy look in his eyes. He turns to Jon and tells him to close his eyes and turn around. 

Jon doesn’t move. “Why?”

“There’s something I want to test. Just do it, okay?”

“Will you tell me what it is?”

“Later, I promise.” 

Jon folds his arms over his chest, his lips pinched, but he does it anyway. Behind him, he hears the faint flip of pages being flipped. 

“You can turn around again now.” 

Gerry doesn’t look any different. He starts to ascend the steps without a word.

“So? What was it?”

“Check something with me outside.” He casts a glance back at Jon. “C’mon.” 

Jon groans. “You’re being weird.”

“C’mon, Jon.”

“Fine.” 

He stomps up the stairs, just to make his dissatisfaction entirely clear. Gerry rolls his eyes and calls him a brat. 

“I want you to try to ask the Eye something about me,” he says when they step outside. 

Jon looks at him skeptically. “Like what?”

“Anything. Ask what's in my pockets or something.”

“Alright.” 

It’s always easy when Jon wants to know things. The Eye always wants to tell him. But when Jon looks at Gerry, he’s… fuzzy, somehow. Not even fuzzy--it’s like he isn’t there at all. 

“I don’t know,” says Jon, stunned. “How did you do that?” 

“I’ll tell you later,” promises Gerry. “But don’t tell anyone about it, okay?”

“I already told you--”

“It’s important, Jon.” There’s an odd look on his face. He’s afraid, but it’s more than that. There’s a tension to his jaw, a grit, an odd bitterness that’s made its home in the grooves of his face. “Look, I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you soon, okay? I promise. And I’ll explain everything then.” 

“I won’t know you’re outside the Institute if I can’t see you.”

“Let me worry about that. Just--don’t think about this too much, okay? Don’t make the Eye interested.”

“I’m interested,” grumbles Jon, but he doesn’t say anything more on the matter. “Alright. Don’t come in the Institute, though.”

“You won’t be seeing me cross the threshold,” says Gerry, and odd smile on his face. 

Jon turns to leave. When he’s halfway down the street, Gerry calls after him. 

“Hey Jon?” The look on his face is still there. “I think we’re too old for stories now.”

~*~

Jon doesn’t see Gerry for weeks afterwards. It wouldn’t bother him as much if he Knew what Gerry was doing. He’s--disappeared, somehow, empty from Jon’s mind. It itches at him, his absence. He feels oddly unmoored without Gerry’s visits. The Eye begins to flood back into his mind like a tide rising, and Jon finds himself standing more and more in the center of the Archives, Statement in hand, with no memory of how he came to be there. 

Sarah finds him, once or twice. Her face gains deeper and deeper lines of worry. 

The next time she finds him, she pulls the file from his hands and puts it back on the shelf. She takes him by the hand and leads him to Gertrude’s office, and she settles him into her chair over his protests. 

“I’m going to get you some tea, alright? Just stay here.”

Jon does, because there isn’t anywhere better to go. There’s--something, in the Archives. He can’t remember what. 

He’s still sitting there when the rug over the trapdoor suddenly pushes upwards. He stiffens in the chair, watching with a wary eye, and he doesn’t Know what’s coming up. 

The rug heaves to the side, and the door flops open on top of it. A beat later, a head pops through, hair patchy black cut through with blonde. Gerry heaves himself through, breathing hard, and lands heavily on the floor of Gertrude’s office. There’s a large canvas duffle bag slung on his shoulder, criss-crossing his back like the weapon of a soldier. 

Jon is out of her chair in a flash. When Gerry sees him, he grins, but Jon just tries to shove him back down the trapdoor. 

“You can’t be here,” he babbles, yanking at his arm. “Elias will see you.”

“He can’t see me,” says Gerry, grabbing him by the shoulders and holding him still. “And even if he could, it’s too late for him to do anything. He’s gone every Tuesday at this time, and he won’t be back for hours.”

He uses this time for out-of-office appointments, Jon knows. A lot of his donors don’t like to make the trip, and Elias goes to them. But that won’t save Gerry from him.

“That doesn’t matter!” He gives him another firm push, but Gerry is bigger and stronger and older, and he doesn’t move at all. “He’ll go after you! He went after me.” 

“He can’t go after me because I’m leaving, Jon,” says Gerry. “We can’t live like this.”

Jon’s heart stops. “What?”

“Listen to me: I’ve got my dad’s car keys, and I’ve got enough money to last for a bit. And--do you remember the book we found? When we met.”

“The Disappearance.”

“It makes people go away.” Gerry’s voice is hushed like a prayer. “You can’t find people who read all of it, but if we just read a bit, the Eye can’t find us either. Elias can’t find us.” His hands tighten on Jon’s shoulders. “What do you say we shove as many Statements as we can into this bag and drive until no one can ever find us again?”

Jon immediately shakes his head. “Elias will--”

“Fuck Elias.” He gives Jon a firm, hard shake. “No one’s going to save people like us, do you understand? No one. Not the police or parents or adults. We’ve got to save ourselves, Jon. And, and--I know I’ve tried to leave before and I know it never stuck, but it’ll be different with the two of us. I never had anywhere to go before. But we’ve got places together, right? Places with music and rain.” His voice turns pleading. “I don’t want to be alone again.”

Jon’s hands shake, shake, shake. He feels his heartbeat in his throat. “We’ve got to go quickly. Quickly.” 

Gerry laughs, delighted, terrified, like the world is ending but he already has a ticket booked to the next one over. He grabs Jon by the hand and tugs him to the office door, and he lets Jon lead him from shelf to shelf, shoving statements in the bag at Jon’s direction. 

They turn from one aisle to the next, and at its end stands Emma, a calm, placid smile on her face. 

And Jon remembers something. All at once. He goes stiff as a corpse. 

“You must be Gerard.” 

“I think you tripped a Web,” he whispers. 

He can see them now, the Webs encasing the Archives’ shelves. They cotton over the Statements in thick, overlapping layers, like ancient gauze wrapping a still-pulsing wound. The Web has long made its home in the Eye’s keep, Jon knows. It brings the Eye gifts. It brings it Statements. It brought it Jon. That’s important. Jon needs to remember. 

Gerry pushes himself between Jon and Emma. He’s trying to be brave, Jon thinks, but his voice still trembles when he speaks. 

“We’re leaving. Get out of our way.”

“Jon has been behaving very poorly lately,” says Emma, taking a step closer. “I don’t think he can play with his friends right now.” 

Gerry swallows, hard. He keeps Jon behind him. 

Emma is looking at them both, and she’s pleased, so very, very pleased. A spider with a fly caught in its web. She’s paying attention to Jon, and she’s paying attention to Gerry, and she’s drinking in both of their fear as she does. 

She isn’t paying enough attention. 

Sarah brings the fire extinguisher down on her head with a clang. 

Emma’s head splits like an egg, and Jon can see inside, empty and dark and full of webs cottoning its innards. From its crevice, spiders begin to spill out, scuttling free from the remnants of her skull and pouring out in all directions. 

Sarah sprays them firmly with the fire extinguisher, stomping hard on any that come close. She steps over Emma, then, her chest heaving with effort. Her eyes are sad when she turns them on Jon. 

Gerry stiffens, keeping himself between them both. All at once, Sarah stops, nodding once and stepping back.

“I understood all of this wrong, didn’t I?” She glances at the bag, still clutched in one of Gerry’s hands. “You’re going, then?” 

Jon gives a small, short nod. He doesn’t dare speak. 

“Oh, Jon,” she says. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand.” 

 Behind her, Emma’s body begins to shudder, her limbs jerking like a marionette being pulled from a heap. It pulls at the back of her neck, the joints of her limbs, tugging her up and back. 

There are still webs in her. A person has only ever needed to be decoration to the Web. 

Sarah spins, bringing the fire extinguisher down hard again. Her skull shatters inwards like porcelain, and more spiders crawl free. 

“Go,” says Sarah, stumbling backwards. She grips the fire extinguisher like a lifeline. “I can do this much.”

Gerry’s grip is painful on Jon’s hand. He pushes him backwards, but Jon doesn’t move. 

“Go!”

Jon’s arm firmly in grasp, Gerry turns tail and flees, tearing back into Gertrude’s office to the scuttle of mandibles and chitin. The trapdoor waits open, and the cold air rises up to meet them, musty and wet. 

Gerry squeezes Jon’s hand once. “Ready?” 

Jon squeezes back. “No.”

The spiders reach Gertrude’s door. Beyond, Jon hears a long, chilling scream. 

When they jump, they jump together. 

Chapter Text

The thing about logic is that it’s utterly fucked if you don’t start from the right premise. 

Take, for instance, the job market. It isn’t a good thing, looking for a job. If you have a job, you’d like to keep it. You aren’t made of money either. You have a perfectly good job that makes you money that you need, so of course you’re going to stay in the job. There’s no reason to quit, really. You like the supernatural. You’re interested in the supernatural. 

It doesn’t matter that your job gives you nightmares, does it? It doesn’t matter that you stood in the stairwell sobbing for a good half hour before going in one day, you were so afraid you were going to die. 

You have a job. You need the money. You stay in the job because you choose to stay in the job, and that’s all, really. 

The premise, of course, is that something as basic and common as an employment contract isn’t an eldritch mousetrap that’s snapped over you and kept you pinned for most of your adult life. The premise is that staying was your choice at all. 

Sasha has a headache. It squats in the place behind her eyes. 

She’s tried to write her resignation letter four times. The first started with “I am sorry to inform you that I” before it tapered into nothing. The last started with “Get fucked you miserable bastards, I” before it reached the same end. 

She can’t quit. That’s a new premise. 

Now that she knows she can’t quit, it casts her every action since signing that damn contract into a new light. Why the fuck would she stay? She hated that job. That job almost killed her on more than one occasion. She had no vertical movement at that job.

And money? Not being able to quit? With her background in code, she could have gotten three times as much at another job easily. 

It had been her plan before signing up. She’d spend a bit chasing her passion and if it didn’t work out, if it wasn’t enough money, if she just wasn’t happy there, she could just. Get another job. Quit. It would be easy. She could even go freelance to make ends meet while she took on the job hunt. 

Flash forward three months. Suddenly, the prospect of money looms over her like a shadow in her childhood bedroom, and she’s convinced it’s a thing with teeth. 

And the worst part of it is that it still feels like her thoughts all along. She can’t even begin to unravel where she begins and the--the eldritch fucking manipulation ends. 

That’s the other problem with logic. It lives in your head. And you think that makes it trustworthy, because it comes from you. 

There’s another new premise. She cannot trust her own thoughts. She doesn’t know what part of it comes from her. 

On her wall, she makes a list. It starts in paper, sheets pinned with tacks and string, and bleeds into markers against paint when the tacks run out. The fuck does she care about her security deposit? From what she’s heard, she’ll be dead before her lease is up. 

The headache is still there. It’s hard to think, but that doesn’t matter either. She doesn’t know which thoughts are hers. 

She knows:

1. She cannot leave.
2. She cannot trust herself. 
3. So she cannot trust anyone. 

Martin and Tim. And Jon. They’re all trapped, the lot of them. The rest of the Institute too, presumably, just not in the same way. And it would be so easy to trust them. She wants to trust them. She likes them, as much as you ever like someone you’ve just met.

But she doesn’t even know if it’s her thinking that. And she can’t risk being wrong again. 

She has to prove her premises before she commits to them. Beyond all reasonable doubt. 

Premise One: If she does not return to the Institute, the contract will kill her. 

So far, she has shaky hands. A headache. A fever that began slight only to climb, higher, higher, higher. 

She won’t go back. Not yet. She needs to know how bad it gets. She needs to know how it gets worse. If she finds her limits now, before any plans are put into motion, before anything else happens, she’ll know it for when shit hits the fan. 

See how close she can get to the edge without falling over. Be ready for what’s next.

The Magnus Institute is a place that eats people. But they won’t eat her. She won’t let them. 

~*~

Jon keeps his office door open. Typically, it’s closed, a buffer between himself and the Statement shelves, another level he has between himself and falling into a haze of Feeding. But the door is heavy, solid and thick, and he prefers to be able to hear anyone in his Archives now that Tim is wandering around its insides. 

The  door is open, but TIm knocks anyway. Two fingers against the solid, heavy wood. 

“Don’t think they’re coming in, boss.”

“It’s only been a week.”

“And if it’s more than that? What then?”

Jon pauses. “I suppose that’s their decision.”

Tim seems thrown, slightly. “To… die, is it?”

“If you break the contract? Yes. Without a doubt.”

“And you’re just going to let them… do that.”

“They have time before it gets that bad,” says Jon, firmly. 

“But we’re not going to… do. Anything. About that.”

“What do you want me to do, Tim?” demands Jon. “Drag them back here against their will? Chain them to their desks? We’ve got few enough free decisions left to us. I’m not going to take away any from them.”

“Okay, first off, no,” says Tim, drawing out his words with care. “I thought we could start with swinging by their flats with a cup of tea. Maybe a pamphlet. Support group or something.”

“I… yeah. Sure. If it gets that bad.” He drags a hand through his hair, rubbing his eyes with the other. “Sorry, Tim. Sleep’s just… Been the same, I suppose.”

Tim eyes him. “Bad dreams?”

“Something like that.”

Tim doesn’t press. From the look on his face, he probably thinks Jon has enough fodder for bad dreams to fuel a haunted house. 

Which is objectively true, when you think about it. Only bit missing is that Jon’s gone and made himself a haunted house in miniature, and he’s more of the trapper than the trapped. 

Grimaldi has been there every night since. It isn’t happy about it. And last night… 

Last night, it just stared at him. It smiled. 

“Any luck with the Statements?”

“Nothing to help. Barely anything on the Circus that I can find.”

Jon frowns. “That can’t be right.”

“Well, this place is a mess. I’ll keep looking.” His eyes flick over him once more, narrow, nervous. “Everything good, boss?”

“No.” He leans back in his chair. “The Circus has been active for hundreds of years. It predates the Institute. And they’re not subtle, either. Where are all the Statements about them?”

“We found the one.”

“No, we didn’t. That was given to us.” With the odds of finding a Statement for the Circus on the same night he slips up and brings Tim, that bit had been about as subtle as a crowbar to the face. No one less than the Web could have maneuvered things so cleanly. The why is about as clear as it’s ever been. “And if it was given, then they had to have gotten it from somewhere.” 

Statements exist cleanly within the Eye’s domain. The Statement belonged to the Archives, no doubt about it. And if there is one Circus Statement, there are doubtlessly more.

Someone’s taken Statements from his Archives. And he hadn’t noticed. 

“I… don’t follow. At all.”

Jon stands immediately. “We’re not going to get anywhere like this. I’m going to try something else.”

Tim follows him to the door. “Where to?”

Oh God, he has employees now. What do people even do with employees? All of his experiences with coworkers involved a disproportionate amount of murder.

He freezes halfway through shrugging on his coat. “Uh, I suppose you could go to a shop? Get yourself some tea? Or… something?”

“I’m coming with you,” says Tim, with all the grace and poise of a man actively contemplating murder. 

“You… are… not…” replies Jon, with all the grace and poise typical to his lot. He starts to slowly edge out the door.

Tim matches him step for step, because apparently looking really, desperately like you don’t want to be followed does nothing to shrug off a tail. “I want to help, Jon.”

“You can help by not coming.” He casts about desperately for something for Tim to do. “Hold down the fort. That sort of thing.”

Tim stares at him with the sort of look Jon recognizes. Usually this is the point where he gets dropped from a very high place or the weird pile of meat suddenly develops appendages and an active bloodlust. 

Well, Jon hasn’t ruined his own life by obeying these little warning signs. He darts out the door.

~*~

“You can’t keep breaking into my car.”

“Of course I can. You taught me how.”

Daisy heaves a sigh, half-turning in her seat. “Jon,” she says, as reasonably as she can with an adult man face down in her backseat like a beleaguered maiden, “I taught you to do that so if someone was trying to kill you, you had a chance at getting away. I didn’t do it so you could wait for me in my car like a child.”

“Would you rather I do it in the station?”

God, that’s a good way for him to die young. Wouldn’t even take a Sectioned officer to do it. He’d open his mouth and a meter maid would put him down. “Why didn’t you text?”

“I did. New number. Phone broke.”

“Same here. Explains why you never replied to my text.”

He turns his head just enough to peak up at her. “Vampire?”

“No, spilled my coffee. What is wrong with you?”

“Oh.” He looks disappointed, for some ungodly reason. “Mine was an evil clown.”

“Yeah?” Daisy perks up. Something stirs deep in her chest. “Haven’t killed a clown before.” 

“You haven’t?” says Sims, skeptically. He eyes her in blatant disbelief. “Are you sure?”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course I’m bloody well sure.”

“Not even a regular clown?”

“Why would I kill a regular clown?” she demands. “Do you go around killing regular clowns?”

“No, but I wasn’t an active serial killer for a portion of my life.”

Daisy turns on her car engine, pinching her lips. She feels it rumble to life beneath her, but she doesn’t so much as change the gears. 

Jon has a mouth on him. Never knew when to shut up, even at risk of his own life. She’s gotten used to it. Likes it, even. He’s a good laugh once you get to know him. But when they first met--when they first started their arrangement, even--it would grate at her. She’d spend every second near him an inch from wringing his neck. Sometimes not even an inch. 

You’d think he learn when to hold his tongue, but it hasn’t killed him yet. Not from lack of trying.

“Why are you here, Jon?”

He hauls himself up into a sitting position. 

He’s an eccentric one, Jon Sims. That’s another thing about him that’s alchemized from rage-inducing to fond indulgence. He’s ridiculous, and proudly so. He never could bring himself to care about passing for normal long enough to put in an effort.

Today, he’s wearing one of her jackets. Not one of the good ones. It’s old and denim, missing fabric in some places. Beneath, he’s wearing an unintelligible tourist shirt from Yugoslavia. 

“I am in Hell,” he declares, with all the weight and exhaustion of a man being given a personal tour of Satan’s sock drawer. “And I’ve dragged others down with me this time. So everything is terrible and falling apart, and I would really, really appreciate it if you helped me blow up some evil clowns before they stripped the skin from my bones and made the entire mess worse.”

Daisy stares at him for a long moment. 

“Eh,” she says, and she puts the car in drive. “Sure.”

He collapses back against the seat cushions. “God bless and prosper.”

As she pulls out of the lot, she grins to herself, and she feels the Hunt begin to creep in her chest. 

It’s better now. She’s better. She’s not as… out of hand as she used to be. Her deal with Sims has been working. Keeps her Hunting proper monsters. 

“We’re not getting the explosives from your last guy, are we? Because that was a fucking disaster.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Jon. “We just have to workshop it a bit.”

~*~

Martin waits until his hands shake too hard to make a proper cup of tea before he heads back to the Institute. He doesn’t do much in his time away. Cleans his flat, catches up on some reading. Calls his Mum’s home and listens to the line ring without anyone on the other end. Once or twice, he pulls out the good, decent letterhead he only saves for special occasions and tries to pen a note. 

He gets as far as:

Dear Jon, 

I’m sorry I ignored all of your blatant trauma, as well as your attempts to save my immortal soul from being chained to an engine of mortal terror. I am also sorry for that bit about allying myself with the man who has been holding you magically captive for an indeterminate period of time. Would you like to maybe get some tea and ignore the shit heap of missed opportunities between us?

Which doesn’t seem quite right when Martin reads it back. He leaves it in the waste bin and makes another cup of tea. 

He starts getting sick fairly immediately. Headaches, tremors, fevers, the whole lot. He starts feeling like the dirt after a herd of cows march through, soon enough. 

It reminds him of Mum getting sick. One day, she had been fine. Then the intermittent headaches started, the exhaustion, the shaking in her hands. It was like one day the symptoms, sporadic as they once were, simply made their home in her and decided to stay. 

After that, it was just… gravity. Couldn’t get out of bed, so she had to go to the doctor. Couldn’t work, so Martin had to. Martin had to work, so he couldn’t go to school. Couldn’t make up the cost of the bills on his low-wage work, so he had to get a better job. 

Next thing he knows, he’s spending all of his adult life working for a place that strikes mortal terror into his very soul on the daily, and apparently all for nothing, because no one was going to bloody fire him in the first place. 

He should have listened to Jon all those years ago. He should have quit. 

He should have done a lot of things. And maybe that’s why he stays away. Maybe it’s not the Institute. Maybe he just couldn’t bear to look Jon in the eyes after buying into the narrative for all these years. 

Elias the poor, beleaguered parent. Elias who just wants what’s best for Jon. 

Jon had looked so tired after he left his office that first day. So… small. And how many times has Martin seen him look exactly like that? And just… chalked it up to Jon having problems?

Whatever the reason, he knows why he goes back. The idea of his mother’s degeneration frightens him more than the prospect of looking Jon in the eyes. 

He waits until midday to go in. A half day would be better. Easier on everyone. 

Maybe it’d at least make this damn headache go away. 

Before he can bring himself to enter the stairwell, he sucks in a deep breath to steel himself. He doesn’t so much as look at the elevator. 

The Archives has always been a dark room. Spooky, you might even say, though Martin had never dared utter the word aloud. People got picky with it at the Institute. Something about maintaining respectability in a profession greeted with skepticism more often than not. Martin believes in calling a spade a spade, is all. Not his fault they decided to keep great bloody basements with looming, ancient shelves and lighting spaced so far out it emulated a career mugger’s ideal side street. 

He’s not two steps inside before the headache begins to ease. It washes over him in a wave of cool, calm relief. 

“Uh, Jon?” he calls, taking a few steps deeper. “I’ve, uh, come back. To not die, I suppose, but I also guess to work?” 

“He’s not here.”

Martin has gained an increasing awareness of the fact that the old adage “jump out of his skin” may have some very real implications for some of the current members of the Archives, if the clown situation isn’t handled. So he very decidedly does not jump out of his skin. His skin stays firmly attached to the rest of him. 

He does, however, startle violently and clutch at his chest like an alarmed debutante. 

Tim raises an eyebrow at him. “You good, mate?”

He doesn’t know what to do with Tim, is the thing. 

Martin knows people at the Institute. Martin has been here at the Institute longer than anyone. He knows how to handle the mean ones and befriend the ones with more patience. He knows everyone’s birthday, everyone’s style of work, everyone’s big life developments. He’s been here a bloody long time. He’s worked in nearly every department the Institute has. For the most part, he’d say he’s fairly good at working with people. 

And then Tim showed up, all… in cahoots with Jon. Disheveled and tortured and pretty, swanning around like some kind of Jon expert after knowing him for a single violent clown escapade. 

He also has a meat tenderizer in hand, for some ridiculous reason. 

Tim follows his gaze, blinking before he tucks it back in his waistband. “Thought you were a clown. Or Elias.”

Martin doesn’t know which one he finds more insulting. He clears his throat slightly. “Where’s Jon?”

“Dunno. Said he needed to try something new. Didn’t explain before he took off.”

Martin frowns. “Is it safe for him to be out alone? With the, uh. Evil clown. And everything.”

“Knowing Jon? Not in the least.”

Knowing Jon. Known him for a bloody week. 

“Oh. I. Uh. Wanted to talk to? About, you know. Things.” 

Thank God he left that note in his waste bin. Would have been a disaster. Who apologizes for leaving someone stranded in a bastion of mortal terror via letter? 

“You’ll have to wait ‘til he gets back. C’mon, I’ll show you what we’ve been doing in the meantime.” 

Martin follows him, because it’s not like he has anything else to do. Orientation involved the revelation that they’re all going to die horrible deaths and the promise of a spreadsheet on how best to annoy their boss. He has no idea what his actual job is, except for the vague inclusion of clowns somehow. 

“Jon can tell real Statements at a glance,” explains Tim, bringing him into the area closest to Jon’s office. “But he doesn’t know the contents until he records them, so we can’t just spookily know where the Circus Statements are. So I drag stacks and stacks in front of him and he points out the relevant ones, and then I give him short descriptions after to see if they’re worth looking into more.” He glances at Martin out of the corner of his eye. “It’s easy for Jon to get stuck, okay? He’s got to moderate the spooky, or it’s… worse, somehow. Makes him spiral. So only ever go to Jon with descriptions, never the Statement itself. Wait for him to ask for that.”

Martin nods faintly. 

He jabs a finger to a stack in the distance. “I’ve been putting the fake Statements over there. It’s most of them, be warned. Real ones are far and few between, and Jon always makes this face like he bit into a lemon if you let a fake one near him. Just shove ‘em off where he can’t see them, okay?”

“What’s all this?” He nods to the stack of books on the center desk. “Doesn’t look like Statements.”

“We’re not getting anywhere with Statements,” says Tim. “All the damn Circus ones are gone for some reason, and Jon won’t explain why he thinks so. I decided to go a different approach.”

Martin picks up the nearest book. “The Evolution of Greek Revival Architecture in the 18th Century,” he reads, before setting it back down in favor of the next. “The Circuses of Moscow.”

“Smirke,” says Tim. “He built the Theatre Royal, where my brother met the clown. I’ve been trying to find more on Grimaldi before he was, you know. That. We found a Statement that said the circus used to be in Russia, so I’m covering that base too. I figure we need a new approach if we want to get close.”

“What are you looking for in all this?”

“Dunno. Weaknesses? I’ll know it when I find it.”

“What does Jon think?”

Tim’s lips flatten. “Guess we’ll have to ask him when he gets back.”

He sits down at the desk. Hard. 

Martin eyes him warily. This is the bit where you’re meant to ask what’s the matter. You sit down across and say it all gentle and kind, What’s the matter, Tim? Tell Martin your troubles over a nice spot of tea. Don’t worry about me, I’m just nice and friend-shaped and not at all having an active crisis of my own. 

Martin sits down across. “What’s the matter, Tim?”

“You mean other than the imminent, painful death we’re all facing?” Tim gives him a painful smile. “I’m not--expecting us all to hold hands and sing songs or whatever. But I can’t help but think that it’s making it a lot easier to kill us with us all scrambling about while apart.”

“Sasha’s not been in yet?”

“Not yet.” He gives him a searching look. “How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Oh, you know. Better now that I’m here.”

His face scrunches up. “Really does make you sick, then?”

He offers him a wan smile. “More than a little.” 

“Damn.” All at once, he claps, standing. “Well, no use working when you’re feeling ill. Besides, I could use a break too. You stay here and rest and I’ll make us some tea. We can get to know each other, yeah?”

Tim’s face is open. Friendly. He’s all--kind and comfortable and handsome, and he really does make Martin want to sit down and have a cup of tea and pour out all the details of his life. He’s got a disgustingly disarming demeanor. Absolutely lovely. It’s horrifying. 

“I’d like that a lot.”

He grins. “Perfect. Hell, maybe we’ll be nice and unionized by the time Jon gets back. Then we can get a proper order going here. Have everyone be on the same page.”

~*~

“I need to keep them involved to the absolute bare minimum,” Jon tells Daisy, balancing his coffee on his chest with both hands. He’s still prone in her backseat, but they’ve added coffee to the equation, which means everything is marginally better. “Or, well, we do.”

Daisy takes a sip of her own coffee. “That’s not going to work forever.”

“It’s going to work better than pointing them in the direction of a clown and wishing them luck.” 

“What about after the clown? What then?”

“We’ll talk about that later,” says Jon, in the way he uses to mean We’ll talk about that in the tunnels. 

Daisy looks displeased, the way she always does when she’s reminded that Elias is someone that exists. She takes another drag of coffee.

Jon feels a headache coming on. 

It had felt all… weird and companionable when this first started. Sure, he’s fumbled the ball bad enough that he’s gone and done exactly what he’s been trying to prevent for bloody years now. Sure, he’s gone and trapped a bunch of innocent people with him. 

But, well. It’s been a long time since there’s been anyone but Daisy. And the prospect of having allies was nice. 

And then he remembered all the terrible deaths that await anyone even marginally associated with him, and all the terrible things worse than death, and the fact that he’s gone and backed himself into a corner with the Statement thing, and the fact that he hasn’t experienced normal, regular human company in, well. Years. And he realized that the whole mess is more than slightly buggered, and the best thing he can do for them all is to keep them far, far away from things that might start removing important bits. 

They’re still human, is the thing. That hasn’t been true for Daisy or himself for a good, long while. 

He squints. “Oh, for gods’ sake.”

“What is it this time?”

“Another one of my assistants showed up and I think they’re unionizing.”

Daisy snickers into her cup. 

“It isn’t funny.”

“Oh, come off it. You’re going to be insufferably weepy until you get some sort of understanding with them sorted. Just buy a damn hair shirt and end the self-flagellation, alright?”

“I am not weepy,” says Jon, with great dignity, and he tries to maneuver a sip from his coffee before deciding that’s a terrible risk for a prone man to take. “This is a reasonable reaction. They’re in danger because of me.”

“They’re in danger because Elias is a prick and because they picked a bloody terrible place to trespass. Stop crucifying yourself, Sims.”

“It’s not just the contract,” he sighs, pushing himself up on one elbow. 

He tells her about the ultimatum. 

By the time he’s finished, she’s half-snarling. Jon can see the whites of her teeth peeking from the corners of her lips. 

Deep in the back of his mind, in the place where instincts primal and old still live, Jon feels the urge to run. 

He tampers it back down. “It’s going to be a problem. I’m… getting hungry again.”

“You going to start… losing bits? If you start feeding more regularly, that is.”

“I don’t know,” says Jon, and it feels like a lie. 

“But Elias hasn’t made any moves yet.”

“He wasn’t bluffing,” he warns. “Just waiting for me to let myself starve.”

Daisy hums to herself. “I ever tell you about that time with the shitty pub down in the West End? Had some creep that could make you dizzy just by asking for your number. And god awful whiskey.”

“You don’t have to do this, Daisy. I know you hate it.”

“Not like I can dream you twice, now can I?” says Daisy, sharply. “Shut up and listen.”

He settles back down against the seat. Her car smells familiar, after so long working together. The smoke of his own cheap cigarettes has sunk into the seat, half-mixed with Daisy’s own brand. 

When he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend like he’s home. 

“Statement of Detective Daisy Tonner,” says Daisy, crisp and clean, the words half-bitten in her mouth. “Regarding some great big bloody idiot who picked the wrong bar.”

He could do for a smoke. He could do for a lot of things. 

He could do for not making all the same mistakes all over again. 

~*~

By the time Jon comes back, Tim’s persuaded him into unionizing. It’s hard not to be persuaded. Tim’s the sort of fellow who’s just a genuine pleasure to be around. He’s charming and nice and really, extremely blunt about how badly he’d like to take a meat tenderizer to Elias’s sensitive bits. It’s hard not to like him. 

They have a good time together. Tim tells him a bit about his brother. Martin tells him a bit about his mother, and leaves out all the terrible, awful parts that make him want to die inside. Tim tells him that once it’s all said and done, they’ll all get a drink, all of them. And it’d be nice, only he says it in a way that suggests that he’s just tacking it on to make them both feel better, and that he really doesn’t expect both of them to be alive to get a drink. 

When Jon finally comes in, Tim’s got Martin giggling over the trouble he got into in Uni. It makes him feel bad, almost, when Jon comes in the door, his shoulders bent inwards like he’s got weights dragging him down on either arm. 

He shrugs off his denim jacket, hanging it up by the door. “Martin. How are you feeling?”

And what Martin plans to say is: “I’m doing fine, how are you feeling?”

What he says is: “Oh, I feel like I got beat up and left for dead in a back alley, but it’s really worse emotionally, because the whole degenerative part of this reminds me of watching my Mum slowly waste away.”

Jon freezes with his hand still on his coat. 

Martin clamps a hand over his mouth. 

“I,” says Jon, still frozen stiff, “am so sorry. It’s been. A while. Since I’ve. Talked. To people.”

“It’s fine,” says Martin, hand still over his mouth, because what else do you bloody say to that. 

“It isn’t,” replies Jon. “I’ll… be more careful in the future?” His entire body seems to cringe. “Not that it helps here.”

“It’s fine, really.” He aims his tone for light-hearted, but he thinks he lands a bit closer to mortal terror. “Just, uh. As long as you don’t do it again, yeah?”

Jon’s face twists. “We… need to talk about that, yes.”

“We do?”

“It can wait. I bought a little bit more time today. I’ll explain later.”

Wow, Martin hates all of whatever that is.

“Actually, boss, we were talking,” says Tim, seeing the moment and seizing it with all the daring of a man who carried about a meat tenderizer in hopes of pummeling a servant of god. “We think it would be best if we all get on the same page. With everything.”

The look on Jon’s face suggested he could not imagine a worse idea. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Safer for us all, you know?”

“Right. That’s… a bit difficult considering Elias is spying on our every word.”

Tim doesn’t budge. “We can talk in the tunnels.” 

“Sasha isn’t here.”

“That’s another thing,” says Tim. “Martin here felt like death already, and she must feel the same. I’m not saying we force her back, but I am saying we should check up on her. See how she’s doing.”

“I don’t want to invade her privac”--he winces--“and that’s pointless now. She’s testing the bounds of the contract. Tracking symptoms. She’ll probably come back.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

He crosses into his office without a word, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a leather-bound journal, small and black. He hands it over to Tim. “You can pay her a visit, if you’d like. I doubt she’d like to see me. But give her that. It’s everything I’ve learned about the contract so far--though make sure to warn her that I can push the bounds farther than she can. I have something that wants me alive. She does not.”

Tim flips it open with interest. “You got an address?” he asks, leafing through the pages. 

“I’ll text it to you.”

“Right. I’ll be off then. And when we’re all back, we’ll talk. All of us.” 

Jon grimaces. He doesn’t reply. 

And then Tim leaves. 

And Martin’s alone with Jon. For the first time in years. 

He says: “Jon, I’m--”

At the same time, Jon says: “I suppose I should--”

Both of them stop. 

“You can go first,” says Jon.

“No, no, you.”

“Oh.” He coughs slightly. “I suppose I should apologize.”

Martin stares at him. “For what?”

“All of it?” He scratches the back of his head. “Getting you stuck here, getting you, well. Tossed down an elevator shaft, it seems. Carrying on like I did when I was younger. There’s a lot to cover. Take your pick.”

“Jon, I talked to Elias about you,” says Martin, bluntly. “I believed him and what he told me about you.”

Jon looks cagey all of a sudden. “It was a weird time in my life. I wasn’t making all that much sense back then. We don’t… I mean, you know, sleeping dogs and all that.”

And what Martin wants to say is: Jon, I bloody left you to suffer. 

What Martin wants to say is: You should hate me right about now.

What Martin wants to say is: I hate me right about now. 

What Martin says is: “I could make us some tea?”

Jon startles slightly. He looks surprised. “Uh, yeah. I’d like that.”

Chapter Text

Reality is a thing that can be sloughed off. 

Her supervisor had told her as much, and Sasha had blinked at him, confused in the hesitant, uncertain manner of all fresh recruits trying to sift genuine advice from first-day hazing. She had waited for the moment where the joke broke and took the tension with it, blank-faced and expectant, but her supervisor had merely looked at her with tired eyes and told her it was a lesson best learnt early. 

I think therefore I am, isn’t that what they say? The ultimate proof of life, of existence, of the dominance of self. I think, therefore I exist, therefore there is such a thing as existence. Proof of the universe grounded in proof of the self. Geocentrism in miniature. It’s such a human thing, concentrating everything inward. 

Human rules for human things. Structure, symmetry, logic. 

The things in this room are not human, her supervisor had told her. They will not follow human rules. Geocentrism had been proven wrong. 

But it is such a human thing, expecting the universe to confine itself to the rules of men. Logic, physics, mathematics, self, reality-- inventions of quarreling, squirming sacks of flesh who scurry across the surface of the Earth and try to gouge their little marks in its skin as if that made them real. 

Humanity has only scratched the surface of the Earth, Sasha knows. She read it once, though she can’t remember where. The deepest hole ever bored had been twelve kilometers deep. The crust of the Earth reaches down seventy kilometers. The mantle stretches nearly three thousand kilometers down. The outer core goes well over two thousand kilometers deeper, and the inner nearly matches it. 

In the end, the Earth is a spinning ball of water and gas and oozing, burning muck, and its center cannot be found unless you sliced six thousand kilometers deep. It’s hurling itself through the cosmic, endless black, surrounded by other balls of water and gas and muck of sizes far mightier, and the grandest mark it’s managed to score has reached a mere twelve kilometers deep. 

Proportionally speaking, a cat scratch is deeper. 

The best thing that she might learn, her supervisor told her, is that humans have learned nothing at all. We’ve been operating from the false premise that our logic, our existence, our perception means a damn at all. 

Human rules are a game the universe plays to humor us. But a game only lasts until the referee blows their whistle. Reality is a thing that can be sloughed off. 

And Sasha had nodded in that vague sort of way, and smiled in that don’t-fire-me sort of way, and she went about her business and tried to look at inhuman things with her human eyes. The thing about it, the thing about the dismissal of human rules, that thing--well, it suggests that there’s something else in existence, something grander, something whose rules mean far more than a man of flesh and a man of bone’s ever could--

“Ms. James?”

There’s a hand at her wrist. It grasps her firmly, painfully, jerking her hard to a stop. There’s a solid, wet thump. 

Reality sluices back down around her in wet, dribbling clumps. 

With reality comes the cold, and the damp, and the courtyard bleeding into being with all the washed-out dullness of watercolors. Her clothes are soaked-through, they cling to her body like a film, and sensation is walled-off behind the numb, dullness of the freezing cold. 

“Ms. James,” repeats Jon Sims, squeezing her wrist. “Are you alright?” 

Sasha blinks. She’s… in the courtyard. It’s raining, and so cold out she can’t feel her face from the brittle wind. She isn’t wearing a jacket. She isn’t wearing much of anything warm, not even a cardigan. Just her slacks and her blouse, but nothing fit for the cold. 

She doesn’t remember coming outside. 

“Jon?” she says, and she raises a hand she cannot feel to wipe the water from a face that she cannot feel. “Why are you in the rain?”

“I was coming out to smoke,” says Jon, nodding to the smokers’ area at the courtyard’s end, the bit with the awning for rainy days. He doesn’t ask why she’s in the rain. 

His eyes flicker down between them. 

On the cobblestone, facedown in the wet, there lies a children’s board book. It’s back displays a spider, grotesquely fat, with its legs frozen in danced pantomime and a bowler hat on its head, squat and red. 

Jon’s lips flatten. He bends down to pick it up, and as he turns it between his hands, Sasha catches a glimpse of its cover. 

A Guest for Mr. Spider, it reads. It says as much in the center of a sprawling, tangled web. 

“I have lighter fluid in the Archives,” says Jon, casting a critical glance upwards, towards the spiral of the rain. He turns his eyes on Sasha. “And some coffee to warm you up.” 

Sasha follows him in the door dumbly, and follows him down the back staircase without a word. They pass no one in the halls, so there’s no one to ask why Sasha is wet. 

Jon settles her into the chair at his desk then, after a beat, heads to one of the boxes stacked at the back. He pulls out a thick, fuzzy blue sweater and hands it over to her. 

“It was Gertrude’s,” he says. “She had a thing for warm things.” 

Sasha clutches it between numb hands. “I’ll make a mess of it.”

“Because you’re wet and cold. It’ll be doing its function.”

“I know you and Gertrude were close,” she says, as delicately as she can. “She’s--I don’t want to take anything that might be hers, especially not so soon after…”

Jon snorts. “Did you ever meet Gertrude?”

“Once.”

“Stone cold bitch, right?”

Sasha very nearly chokes on her laugh. 

He cracks a smile. “She would have hated it if anyone ever sacrificed function for sentiment. Take the sweater.” 

It’s argument enough for her. She pulls it on, and Jon disappears out the door and into the employee kitchen. When he comes back, he has a steaming mug in his hand, and he sets it in the place in front of her. 

It has cream, and two sugars. Exactly how she takes her coffee. It strikes her as odd, since they’ve never had coffee together. 

Sasha holds it between her hands. The heat is scorching against the cold deadness of her hands. 

Jon shuffles about the office, picking his way through boxes and yanking open desk drawers. He looks frazzled. “Where the hell did Gertrude keep anything in here?”

“You were her assistant for a while. You don’t know?”

“She moved everything before…” He slams the drawer closed. “Can’t believe she’d hide the damn lighter fluid.”

The book is on the desk. Sasha’s eyes are drawn to it as if on hooks. 

Jon follows her gaze, glancing up from the box he’s digging through. “Don’t think about it too hard. It’ll get you tangled.”

“It’s a Lietner.”

“A nasty one.”

“We’re not supposed to burn them.” 

It’s--a rule, one invented by humans for humans. Don’t burn the Leitners. Catalog them. Learn what they do, lock them up, contain them but keep them. 

“Of course we’re supposed to burn them.” He sets the lighter fluid solidly on the desktop. “It’s the best thing to do with them.”

“What was it going to do to me?”

“Doesn’t matter, as long as it didn’t do it.”

“I don’t remember picking it up.”

There’s rules. Human rules. Made for dealing with inhuman things. Never go near a Leitner alone. Always have someone there to stop you from reading. Sasha wouldn’t have broken the rules. She knows she wouldn’t. 

Jon doesn’t look at her. Instead, he picks up the waste bin, dumps its contents on the ground, and places the book in its center. He pours lighter fluid on top with a grim certainty. 

“You’re just going to burn it?” The idea of it seems impossible, for some reason. “We could…” Why don’t they burn the Leitners? “Learn something from it, I suppose.”

“We could learn how well it burns, for one.”

“But it’s over, if you burn it. There’s nothing more we can get from it. We can’t help anyone if we can’t understand how it does what it does.”

“We can help the person who would have read it next.”

Sasha doesn’t answer. Everything is distant, floating and unmoored. Reality doesn’t fit quite right around her. She doesn’t know where she fits inside it. 

He digs a lighter from his pocket. It’s small in his hand, gold, and cracked through with a web design. He flicks it to life, sets a scrap of paper on fire, holds it over the bin…

“Are you feeling better?”

Sasha blinks. “Yes. Thank you, Jon. For the coffee, and for… being there.”

“Of course.”

 She stands, pulls the sweater from her shoulders and passes it back to him. He accepts it and walks her to the door. 

“Be careful around Leitners,” he tells her. “They can be tricky.”

“We have security regulations in place. I’m usually so careful.”

“Sasha?”

Sasha blinks. 

“Sasha, are you alright? You’re all wet.” Adam, one of her coworkers, frowns at her. “And you’re not meant to be in this section alone.”

She’s in the Leitner section. When did she come to the Leitner section?

“I got caught in the rain,” she hears herself say. “Sorry, I feel… Not myself. It’s the cold.”

“You should head home earlier,” he tells her. “You’ve got the sick leave.”

“Right.” She feels unsteady. Unmoored. Like she’s still playing by rules not meant for human participation. “I think that’d be best.” 

There’s a thin film over her fingertips. It smells like lighter fluid. 

~*~

 The knock at her door comes when the headache is very nearly too intense to so much as crack her eyes open. For a moment, she tries to ignore it. Whoever it is will go away. They’re probably just the postman or someone with a pamphlet she couldn’t care less about it. 

The knock comes again. 

With a groan, she hauls herself up from the couch, then, after a moment’s consideration, grabs a butcher’s knife from the kitchen block. If it’s something else, she’ll at least have a weapon. If it’s someone with a pamphlet, she’ll be able to very strongly suggest she is not in the mood for a pamphlet. 

She peers through the peephole. Tim Stoker stands at the other side of her door.

She rests her forehead against the wood. “Fuck off.”

“But then your coffee would go to waste.”

“I have a knife.”

“There is also a pastry.” 

Sasha snorts. She opens the door. 

Tim casts a glance up and down. The look on his face tells her how she looks better than any mirror. 

“That bad, huh?” he asks, passing over the coffee. “Jon told me how you take it. Hope that’s not weird.”

“It is. I never told him how I take it.” She drinks it anyway. She’d welcome poison at this point. “What do you want, Tim?”

“Before coming here? To make sure you’re not dead on the bathroom floor. Now I’ll settle for a chat over coffee.” 

She swings the door a bit wider. He follows her in with a nod. 

Her apartment looks like a bomb went off inside, and that bomb was full of takeout containers and clothes. She doesn’t give a shit. Finding out your soul is bound to an evil being of impossible breadth and power puts the importance of cleaning for company in startling focus. 

If he minds, he doesn’t show it. He settles in at her kitchen table with a soft thanks. 

She sits across. “How’s the Institute?”

“Well, Martin’s back. Feels like shit. Figured you must feel the same, so I volunteered to swing by.” He gives her another searching look. “How’s it been?”

Snorting, she takes another long, hard drag of her coffee. She doesn’t reply. 

“Yeah, figured. Suppose this is where I apologize for setting the ball rolling, huh?”

She sets her coffee on the table between them. “That’s not actually an apology.” 

“Probably because I’m not sorry,” he agrees, not unkindly. “I’m sorry how it went. But I don’t regret anything I’ve done.”

Her fingers drum against the table. The headache spikes behind her eyes. “At least you’re honest about it.”

“I’m not empty handed, though,” he announces, reaching into the bag at his side. “I come bearing gifts.”

He gives her a small leather book. She immediately opens it. 

“I took the liberty of reading it on my way over. It’s all Jon’s figured out about the contract. He told me to warn you not to push it as hard as he did. He’s got”--he waves his hand vaguely--“spooky help.”

She snaps the book shut sharply. “I know how hard to push it.”

Tim looks at her doubtfully. “If you say so.”

“I do.” 

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he says, leaning over the table. “Look, it’s fucked, believe me, I know. I was a bloody publisher a week ago. Way I went out, I’ll never work in the industry again. And that’s the absolute least of any of our problems. We’re outnumbered and outgunned. Way I figure, our best chance is if we pool our resources. Keep an eye on one another. If you’re testing the contract, I could stay, make sure it doesn’t get too bad--”

She thinks about the list scrawled on her bedroom wall. “No.”

He settles back in his chair with a sigh. “Won’t even think about it?”

“No.” 

“The offer’s open.” He gives her another searching look. “I’ve been talking with Martin.”

“Yeah?” She digs her hands in her hair, pulls. The pain feels good. Like different pain than the one in her head. “What about?”

“Well, for one, who wants to be included in the groupchat,” he says, pulling out his phone. “We asked Jon and he just stared at us before going into his office and shutting the door, so I took that as a yes and added him. My brother’s there too, but don’t encourage anything he does. Want me to add you?”

Sasha stares at him for a long moment. 

“That is a disturbingly accurate impression of Jon.”

“Is this fun for you? Is it a game?” 

“Sasha, I can honestly tell you that I’ve never had less fun in my life,” says Tim, and he sets down his phone. “A week ago, I was happily asleep and then my brother and some random spooky man dropped on my head and suddenly a fuckin’ Cthulu-endorsed Bozo the Clown is after his body parts. You ever get stuck on a big work group project?”

“What?”

Tim shrugs. “I did a lot of them. Corporate life, you know? Look, shit never gets done until everyone starts working together. And quite frankly, we don’t do this right and we’re dead. Our best odds are with each other and I will do anything to improve the odds.” He looks at her steadily. “Look, I’m new to the game. I get it. This has been a week for me and years for you. So let me help with the fallout.” 

Sasha swallows. “You have helped.” She holds up the journal. “I’ll come back to the Archives soon.”

Something in his face falls, but he just nods, standing. “I’ll get out of your hair then.”

She walks him to the door. “Tim? You can add my number.”

“You need help with getting to the Archives after this, you call me to bring you down, understand? Or Martin. Don’t ask my brother or Jon--not that they wouldn’t help, but Danny’s on house arrest until things stop trying to kill him, and Jon doesn’t have any upper body strength.”

She wishes she could laugh. But she’s too tired. And it hurts too much. “I will.”

“I mean it. About us being a team.”

He looks like he means it too. She just… wishes she could believe him.

~*~

I am keeping this record in hopes that someone will manage to escape the Magnus Institute even if I never do. If you’re reading this, then I am either dead or managed to escape myself. If you’ve found this record, then you doubtlessly have already discovered that the Magnus Institute is but a front for things far worse than it appears. 

There is a way to escape the contract. Eric Delano, an archival assistant, managed it before his death. I have found no hint of how he managed it. I suspect that--had he left any clue--it was destroyed not long after his own death. 

If you’re the Head of the Magnus Institute, get fucked.

~*~

Tim S. has added Sasha James to scooby gang knockoffs. 

Tim S.: sasha’s going to tough it out a bit longer before coming back, but she’s going to join the group chat 

Danny S.: hi sasha! I’m tim’s brother, danny. tim and jon won’t let me come to the institute, but we’ll find a way to meet sometime. 

(Read 3:04 P.M.)

~*~

Day 15: Symptoms  have increased to near-immobilization. Not even Feeding the Eye is enough to lessen any of the effects. Blood pressure is 170/115. Heart rate hasn’t dropped below 110 bpm for the past 12 hours. If I do not return soon, I risk stroke, heart attack, or organ failure. 

I suspect the contract kills through means which will seem completely natural on the autopsy. It won’t trigger a Section 31, and nothing will be traced back to the Magnus Institute past yet another tragic but unavoidable loss of life. 

If you have decided to stay away despite the contract, I suggest painting some kind of cult symbol on the walls of the room that they’ll find your body in red paint or, if you can manage, animal blood. Something disturbed and occult. Have a bunch of raving mad notes about the Magnus Institute. It likely won’t achieve anything in the long run but it will make for a deeply inconvenient time.

~*~

I’ve managed to procure the most recently signed employee contract. There’s absolutely nothing about not being able to quit. There’s nothing about not being able to kill the Institute Head without dying yourself, either, not that any of this comes particularly as a shock. If the terms were clear from the beginning, no one would sign. 

The exact terms have to be spelled out somewhere. The contract is doubtlessly the product of the Web, and the nature of it demands that it adhere to some sort of predetermined set of rules. It also demands that there be some sort of binding agent. The most likely candidate is a Leitner, but I haven’t found one yet that matches this exact ability. The contract’s paper, too, is normal. I watched HR load the printer from a stack of paper that came from normal resupply. Unless Elias has managed to switch it without my seeing, it can’t be that. 

Without the exact terms or the means of binding,  finding a loophole becomes that much harder. If I knew the terms, I may be able to find a way of leaving without violating the contract’s boundaries.

~*~

The Magnus Institute Employment Contract

This Employee Agreement (the “Agreement”) is made this 15th of May, 2009, by and between Sasha James (“Employee”) and The Magnus Institute (“Employer”) (each a “Party” and collectively the “Parties”). WHEREAS the Employer wishes to obtain the benefit of services provided by the Employee, and the Employee desires to render such services in exchange for the terms set forth. IN CONSIDERATION of the promises and other good and valuable consideration, the Parties agree to as follows:

1. Employment.Employer shall employ Employee as a Junior Analyst in the Department of Artefacts' Storage on a  X  full-time ___ part-time basis. Employee shall remain in the employ of his/her/their Department until such time of his/her/their termination/resignation (see Section 3), retirement (see Section 7), or transfer (see section 4).

~*~

You received a Direct Message from Martin Blackwood. 

Martin Blackwood: hey sasha it’s martin. I just wanted to see how you are doing? Let me know if you want me to bring you any tea or food or just come and sit for a bit. It’s not like I have plans or anything. 

Martin Blackwood: finding out about the horrible truth of the universe really kills your social life, huh? 

(Read 5:25 P.M.)

~*~

The effects of the contract are only triggered by unapproved absences. When the Head of the Institute personally approves the absence, then the negative side effects of being away are not triggered. I’ve managed to stay away far past when the contract would normally kill me simply because Elias approved my leave. 

~*~

3. Termination/Resignation of Employment. Any termination or resignation of the Employee’s employment with the Employer must be managed directly by the current Head of the Magnus Institute. Any official notice of Termination or Resignation must be accompanied by Addendum Form G35 “Change of Status” and the signatures of the current Department Head, the Employee, and the current Head of the Magnus Institute. All Changes of Status are subject to the Terms and Conditions found within the Managing Guidelines of all Department Heads and the Managing Guidelines of the Current Head of the Magnus Institute. 
4. Transfer: Transfers between Departments are permitted but are not guaranteed. Transfer between Departments can be done (1) at the request of the Department Head(s); (2) at the request of the Employee; or (3) at the request of the current Head of the Magnus Institute. Any official notice of Transfer must be accompanied by Addendum Form G35 “Change of Status” and the signatures of the current Department Heads, the Employee, and the current Head of the Magnus Institute. All Changes of Status are subject to the Terms and Conditions found within the Managing Guidelines of all Department Heads and the Managing Guidelines of the Current Head of the Magnus Institute. 

~*~

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected], [email protected]
CC: [email protected]
Subject: let me go you miserable goddamn bastards

(2 minutes ago)

i’ve tried to write my fucking resignation letter seventeen fucking times. i can’t get the damn words out but you can bloody well figure out the gist. my fever hasn’t dropped below 103 in the past three days and if you think i’ll die without taking a pound of flesh as i go then you’re sadly mistaken. let me go now and i won’t burn the fucking institute to the ground on my way out. 

get fucked, 

sasha james

Sent From My iPhone

Attachment: fuck_off_and_die-17.pdf

~*~

You received a Direct Message from Danny S.

Danny S.: Hi Sasha! We haven’t met formally yet, but I’m Tim’s brother, Danny. I’m the guy who the clowns want to skin?

Danny S.: yeah. 

Danny S.: so anyway.

Danny S.: Tim tells me that you’re exploring the bounds of the contract? Which is--wow, I’m so sorry for what you must be going through, but also good because I want to learn how to break it too. I’m in a bit of a sticky situation, though, because Tim and Jon won’t let me leave the flat while. You know. Clowns. 

Danny S.: yeah. 

Danny S.: anyway, I was hoping to set up a sort of exchange of information? anything you learn about the contract or about the institute or anything you think is relevant. i’ve got a sort of unique source of information of my own that i can bring to the table. i’d prefer not to talk about it over text, but maybe we can set something up if you’re interested? lemme know, yeah?

Danny S.: And, uh, maybe don’t tell my brother about this. He can get overprotective 

Danny S.: haha you know how siblings are

Danny S.: but really dont tell tim

(Read 10:04 A.M.)

~*~

Successful Contract Escapes: 

• The Entire On-Record Staff of Artefacts Storage, 1983. All resignations. Two deaths since, one from a car accident, the other from a stroke. None would answer the phone when I called and one threatened to stab me to death when I knocked on their front door and mentioned I was from the Magnus Institute. I have decided to honor their wishes and leave no additional mention of their name in any Institute-related record. 
• Eric Delano: Archival Assistant, Method Unknown. No record of termination or resignation. He just disappears from all Institute mention one day. 1988. Murdered three weeks later. 
• Jackson Bronx: Library Assistant, Termination, 1998. Died of a heart attack five years later.
• Margaret Jameson: Researcher, Resignation. 2004. Still alive, living in Germany. Remembers nothing particularly unusual from the resignation process. Both Elias and the Department Head signed without protest.
• The Entire On-Record Staff of Artefacts Storage, 2001. All resignations. There’s been no deaths but there has been a disappearance. From what I’ve found, it was self-inflicted. All of them remember Jon Sims, moreover, and none are particularly inclined to talk with him. But from what I’ve managed to glean, there wasn’t anything particularly unusual about the resignation process. They just all decided one day that it wasn’t worth it and it was time to quit. Elias accepted their resignations without protest. Their Department Head wasn’t able to protest. He died a month earlier. The official cause is a workplace accident. 
• Adam Wilcox: Janitor, Retirement, 2005. Died of natural causes three years later. 

I undertook somewhat aggressive tactics to encourage resignation in my youth. None of it yielded any measure of success. Statistically speaking, at least one resignation should have happened, even if it had not been directly caused by me. It is likely, then, that the contract binds all departments, not just the Archives. 

So what lets some people quit and not others? Why was all of Artefact’s Storage able to escape?

~*~

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected], [email protected]
CC: [email protected]
Subject: Re: let me go you miserable goddamn bastards

(4 hours ago)

Automatic Reply.

Thank you for your email. I have no idea if I’m out of office or not. Check the Archives. If I’m not down there, I’m likely out of the country committing international crimes with Elias’s full knowledge and complicity. I refuse to be beholden to a goddamn email inbox, so please expect a reply never. 

If you are an outside entity and the inquiry is academic in nature, I highly recommend you delete my email address and all contact information for the Institute. If you are an Institute employee, you have my sympathies. If you’re emailing me about anything important, like the apocalypse, there are better ways to convey this than email. If you’re looking to cause the apocalypse and monologue about it, I’ll see you at my next kidnapping. If you’re looking to stop it, I’ve likely already supernaturally divined whatever it is you want to tell me. Just to be certain, however, please write your Statement down and hand deliver it to me personally. Do not give it to Elias. He is a prick and does not care if the world ends. 

I might occasionally check my email if I’m not dead, maimed, kidnapped, or unconscious in a ditch somewhere. However, even then it’s highly unlikely I’ll ever reply, so I don’t recommend holding your breath. We all have to live with life’s little disappointments. 

If you are sending me cat videos, expect a reply imminently. 

js

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
CC: [email protected], [email protected]
Subject: Re: Your Previous Correspondence

(1 hour ago)

Ms. James,

We’re so sorry to hear about your recent illness! Elias has been kind enough to contact us about your sudden hospitalization and kept us updated on the situation. We have filed your sick leave and updated payroll.

We also understand that you are on heavy medication and aren’t, well, yourself at the moment. You have long been a valued employee of the Magnus Institute, and we will of course overlook any unfortunate products of your necessary medical treatment. However, as a friendly reminder:

1. The use of expletives in official institute correspondence is strictly forbidden as per the Official Employee Handbook, Section 37 Subsection G. 
2. Should any resignation (which, of course, we hope not!) be filed, all that need be done is to file Addendum Form G35 “Change of Status” as well as your official resignation letter. It is not acceptable to do so in email format. Any violations in contractually agreed-upon resignations will be noted in any reference letters you might request.
3. Any threats against the persons or property of the Magnus Institute is a very serious infraction and will be noted as citation in your official personnel files. In light of the extraordinary circumstances, we are willing to let it pass without notation. However, we recommend that all further mentions of “taking a pound of flesh” and “burn[ing] the… institute to the ground” be avoided. 
4. This is a friendly reminder that the dress code is to be abided by. This is not in reference to your previous email, but rather to a persistent trend we’ve noticed in the Archives Staff in the recent days. Upon your return, please remember to dress in accordance with the guidelines outlined in Section 3 Subsections 1-15 in the Official Employee Handbook. 

We hope you feel better soon! Please get some rest and refrain from sending any email from your official employee address until you are off your current medication. 

(Also, Jonathan, we know you can read this thread. We have sent you numerous notices that your out-of-office email is only for when you are actually out of office, and your current automated reply is not appropriate. Please remove it at once.)

Sincerely, 

Amy Baxter
Human Resources
The Magnus Institute, London
Vigilo Opperior Audio  

~*~

You received a Direct Message from Tim S.

Tim S.: Hi Sasha! How are you feeling? I had a bit of a weird question--did my brother text you at all? He says he didn’t but I wanted to make sure

Tim S.: id really appreciate it if you don’t text him back okay

(Read 2:43 P.M.)

~*~

From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Appropriate Email Ettiquette

(15 minutes ago)

Ms. James, 

I understand that there is an adjustment period for transfers, but I assure you, there are much more appropriate venues in which to file any complaints. Should you wish to discuss any adjustments to your new position, I recommend that you do so in person. 

I have already spoken to Jonathan about the importance of easing the transition for any assistants, and the consequences of particular methods of leadership. I highly recommend that you do not make a repeat performance of your past email. Your future with the Institute demands it. 

As to your resignation, I have not accepted it. All resignation letters must (1) clearly state in the body of text your actual resignation, preferably accompanied by your final date of work and (2) be accompanied by Addendum Form G35 “Change of Status.” At bare minimum, should you decide your tenure at the Magnus Institute has come to an end, please do deliver to me a written or verbal resignation. 

I understand that adjusting to new work environments can be difficult. I have high hopes for your future in the Archives. Should you need some encouragement, please set an appointment with myself or Jonathan to discuss other paths careers in the Archives have taken. 

Elias Bouchard
Head of the Magnus Institute
Vigilo Opperior Audio

~*~

You’ve received a Direct Message from spooky oogie eyeball man. 

spooky oogie eyeball man: Excellent work with Elias. It takes some real skill to make him go so purple in the face. I’ve recommended you for a raise. 

spooky oogie eyeball man: why is my name that 

spooky oogie eyeball man: danny set this up for me

spooky oogie eyeball man: how do i change the name

(Read 12:09 A.M.)

~*~

If we rely on the nature of the Web, we can assume that Elias is bound by contracts in turn. But to what degree? He is bound to the requirement that Department Heads sign off on transfer and hiring requests. If we had the original terms, or the binding agent, we might be able to know to what degree he, too, is bound. 

Edit: August, 2013. Elias has orally promised to protect the brother of the newest Archival Assistant, Tim Stoker. Should he break his promise, it will tell whether the terms of the contract are plainly enumerated somewhere, or if he has been orally binding people somehow this entire time. 

~*~

Sasha more collapses into the chair in Jon’s office than sits in it. It’s a Saturday, but it seems to have made no difference to Jon. He’s seated solidly at his desk despite the weekend, and there’s a stack of files before him. 

“Blood pressure?” he says, sympathetically. “And elevated heart rate?”

“Fucking shut up,” groans Sasha, and she closes her eyes. The throbbing in her head begins to slowly abate for the first time in days. “Does that cause permanent damage?”

“To normal humans? No idea. Tea?”

“I’ve had your tea. It’s shit. Give me coffee instead.”

He shrugs. “Can’t say it’ll be much better.”

It’s not. But it is prepped precisely to how she takes it, and she has never, ever told him that. 

She drinks it anyway. It’s too watery, not nearly strong enough, but it’s warm in her hands and her throat and she’s grateful for any sensation but pain. It’s been days since she’s felt anything but pain.

“You’ll feel better in a few hours. Maybe a day. There’s a cot somewhere in the stacks you can rest on.”

She nods gratefully. She takes another sip. “Why do you think the contracts are the product of the Web?” 

“What?” He sounds startled. “Because they are, I suppose.”

Sasha cracks open her eyes just enough to glare at him. He looks unabashed. 

“Look, what you have to understand is, these things aren’t magic,” he explains, gesturing broadly and vaguely. He looks rather disgruntled at the thought. “Not the way that--that stories or books think of it. They’re not some multipurpose force. They’re simply what they are. What they can do is limited to what they are.” He shrugs. “The Eye Watches. It doesn’t bind. It doesn’t limit behavior. It observes behavior. So it’s not the Eye binding us; it’s the Web.”

“The Web,” she repeats, slowly, tasting the word on her tongue. “You said they were spiders.”

“Spiders,” he says, settling back in his place across the desk. “And manipulation. Control. The fear that your actions are not your own. Being bound.” He shrugs. “It’s the only thing that could have bound us so cleanly. So. It’s the Web. Elias must have an, an artefact or a book that he’s figured out how to use. Haven’t been able to find it yet.” 

She hums to herself, setting the coffee on the table before her. “I’ve come to a decision.” 

“Oh?” 

“I’ll be resuming my regular hours come the start of this upcoming week.” Her headache throbs sharply in reminder of the alternative. “But I’m not happy with it.”

“I’d be worried about your mental health if you were.”

His face scrunches as he says it, and for a moment, Sasha can remember why they were friends for a bit. The cheeky asides, the occasional conversation while one of them lent a hand--they had fun, the two of them. For a time. She misses it. Almost. 

“I’ll be coming up with a list of questions,” she warns him. “And I’ll expect answers.”

He shrugs, non-committal. Not an assent. Not that she’d trust that the answers are true ones. She hasn’t proven that premise yet. She likes Jon still, despite herself. She just can’t trust him. She can’t trust any of them yet. 

But the best way to know your fellow players’ cards is to just… have them show you their hand. And Sasha would be a fool to isolate herself when she could keep an eye on them firsthand. 

She can still work with the others. She can still play with the team. She can still be useful. And while she works with the rest, she can keep an eye out for the game being played behind the scenes. She won’t be foolish enough to assume there isn’t one. She isn’t the sort to make the same mistake twice. 

Chapter Text

Danny is a firm believer in working with what you have. What he has, unfortunately, is not a lot, because Tim and Jon both hate fun and good ideas and did not appreciate Danny when he told them as much. 

They won’t let them leave the house. 

Which, he gets. Clowns. Skinning him. That’s the exact thing they’re trying to avoid. But they won’t even let him come to the Institute with them, or anywhere else for that matter. Something about “literally evil bosses” and “eldritch designs,” but… Danny’s not Tim. He simply will refuse to sign the contract and not be trapped. 

Tim had not found him compelling. In the slightest. Jon had just pinched his nose tightly and counted to ten out loud, and then got up and left Mike’s apartment for the night without another word to either of them. 

Which means Danny has extremely limited sources that he can use for his plans, and he has many of them. Plans, that is, or plans in potentia. Most of which involve freeing Jon and freeing Tim and freeing everyone else in the groupchat, and then merrily escaping into the world which has not been ended by means most foul. And then, he gets Jon’s email. Preferably some coffee. 

No one will tell him anything. 

Tim has put a moratorium on providing him with information on the basis that information will give him ideas, and ideas will give him plans that he is then going to carry out, without pause or any regard for his safety, which is extremely unfair and incredibly true. So. No one will snitch to him, because his brother seems to think being a couple years older amounts to having the authority to keep him from dabbling in eldritch machinations.  

Desperate times. 

Mike Crew isn’t much of one for talking, until you get him at ease. Then, he’s happy enough to share his own thoughts on the going’s on. Mostly, his thoughts consist of the fact that Jon is really bloody annoying, and he’d hope Grimaldi would skin him and be done with it were it not for the fact that the only one more annoying than Jon is Grimaldi itself. The Circus, he reports, would be utterly insufferable if it actually managed to off an archivist. Would never shut up about it, which Mike simply could not bear. 

“An archivist?” asks Danny. “There’s more than one?”

“Only ever one at a time,” says Mike. “But Jon’s not the first. There was this old bat running ‘round before him, tough as nails. Name was Gertrude. She hadn’t an ounce of mercy in her. She’d rip your bloody head off and go about her business, calm as anything. Bet it gave her real trouble, trying to teach Sims how to play the game. Don’t think he ever quite managed it.”

“Jon knew her?” Danny frowns. “But he wasn’t the Archivist when he met her.”

“Oh, the Eye is picky about it. There really only is one at a time. Sims didn’t become it fully until Gertrude died. Couple years back or so?” Mike shrugs. “Eye folk are running their own bloody soap opera over there. Word is, they used to mind themselves. Only ever about watching it all go down. Now you can’t get any damn thing done without an archivist poking their nose in it.”

“But Jon was there before he was the Archivist,” presses Danny, leaning forward. “He was normal? Human, that is.”

Mike snorts. “You’d have to ask the older crowd to see if there’s bloody anyone who recalls a time where Jonathan Sims was normal. He’s been around just as long as me. Wasn’t human before he was the Archivist. Just something else.” He shrugs again. “Like I said, it’s different with the Archivist. Eye--fuck, if I didn’t know better, I’d say the Eye loves him, and things like that don’t love. Not really. But him? Long as near anyone can remember, Sims has had the Eye latched onto him like a mollusk. Doesn’t matter what his title was.”

Danny settles back in his seat with a frown. “You said he’s been around as long as you, at least. How long have you been around?”

“Me? Oh, I made the jump in ‘98.”

“Really?” He startles slightly. “You don’t look that old.”

Mike Crew smiles. It’s full of bright white teeth. “Perks of the job. Forty but I look like I’m in my twenties. We avatars keep a bit better. Some of us do, anyway.”

“Huh.” 

Danny mulls over this for a moment. Jon doesn’t look old. Jon looks--frankly, Jon looks like he’s in his mid-twenties and having the absolute worst time of his life. Danny had thought he was around his age. 

Which was his mistake, he supposes. Nothing about Jon works like normal. Besides, if Jon has been around as long as Mike, if not longer, then he couldn’t be Danny’s age or he’d have been a little kid when he turned. 

Jon won’t share anything about--well, anything. Nothing about how he came to be at the Institute, past the vague admission that he was being chased by something bad. Nothing about how he Became. Nothing about anything, which is a problem, because the only damn way they’re ever going to figure out how to release them is if they figure out how they got trapped in the first place. 

He needs to figure out who Jonathan Sims is before he has any chance of figuring out how to set him free. And for that, he’ll need to be able to investigate. 

~*~

The thing about being a police consultant is that there isn’t really a way to justify it when your only job qualification is being particularly adept at things of an occult nature, and also it’s harder to explain it when absolutely no one has offered you the position. It’s even harder to explain when you’re not, per se, supposed to be on the crime scene, and you are, strictly speaking, only there because you’ve recruited a corrupt officer to help you murder other supernatural beings, and it’s even harder when you’re only getting away with this because the government unofficially would prefer supernatural beings ripped to pieces and six feet deep when you, yourself, are a supernatural being. 

Jon goes to every single crime scene expecting to be shot. 

Granted, he doesn’t go to most crime scenes, but the ones he goes to are generally an all-around terrible time and he hates every moment. Police officers eye him like they’re imagining him bleeding out into the sidewalk. He has so many reasons to be police brutalized and they only need one. 

Daisy calls him that morning. She tells him that a woman is dead. She tells him that she’s missing her skin. Jon goes to the crime scene. 

Other members of the force treat him with all the dignity and duty due to someone who is, inexplicably, the plus one of Daisy Tonner: They pretend he doesn’t exist and that they can’t see him, and this keeps Daisy from killing them and keeps them from being associated with Daisy. Jon appreciates it immensely. It helps with the conviction that he’s about to be shot. 

When he gets to the department store, he’s noticed. It is not by Daisy. 

Basira steps in his path the moment he makes it to the perimeter. “This is one of yours, then?”

Jon blinks innocently. It does not work. Daisy once told him that him trying to look innocent actually gives cops an impression that he should immediately be arrested. “Uh… Pardon?”

“Come off it, Sims,” says Basira. She’s frowning at him. “You know what I mean. Daisy calls you and then the two of you run off together and no one asks any questions because it always ends up Sectioned.”

Jon tries to step around her. Basira matches him, step for step. 

“Have you tried talking to Daisy about this?” he tries, after failing to duck past her arm. “She’s your partner.”

“Yeah. She tells me the same thing every time. To steer clear of you.” She gives him a hard look. “You make her worse.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do.” After a moment, she steps out of the way. “Higher ups made the call an hour ago. It’s a Section 31. Daisy’s case now. She’s waiting inside for you.”

Before he can push past, Basira grabs him by the wrist. “I won’t let Daisy get hurt,” she tells him, her voice low. “Understand?”

“You think I can hurt Daisy Tonner?” asks Jon, askance, and he gestures to his twiggish everything. 

She lets him go with a click of her teeth. 

Jon walks inside. The officer managing the scene politely pretends he does not exist. 

They’re clearing out fast. Rats on a sinking ship. No one wants to get Sectioned, which means everyone wants to leave the scene before they see something they can’t explain. It’s Daisy Tonner’s scene now, and Daisy Tonner has a very long leash. The only eyes they want on this are blind ones. 

By the time Jon makes it to Daisy, they’re the only ones left in the room. 

He stops when he sees the mangled body. “Oh--ick.”

“You said circus, right?” says Daisy, standing from her crouch at the corpse’s side. “And skin? This has both.”

“Circus?” asks Jon. 

“Store promotion. Nights at the Circus. Someone’s been messing with the ringmaster display.” 

“For how long?” 

“From the reports, since the night after you picked up your little brother duo.”

Jon lets that settle for a moment. He tries not to look at the body. 

The mark of the Stranger is everywhere. He can feel it, in the gaze of the eye, in its intrigue. There is something happening here. Something novel. 

“There’s something else,” says Daisy, taking a step closer. “Found this in the victim’s mouth. Decided it was best if it was kept off the record.”

She slips a piece of paper into his hand, crumpled, slightly damp. Jon unrolls it with a grimace. It reads:

Breekon & Hope Deliveries

Missed Service & Drop-Off Request Notice

Sorry we missed you!

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Jon stares at it for a long moment before folding it back up. “So this is a response.”

“Looks like it.” Her eyes flick over the body in a single, calculating motion. She looks hungry. “So this’ll keep happening until we kill them.”

“Or until we give ourselves over.”

Daisy snorts. “So until we kill them. Got any leads on your end?”

“No.” Jon chews his lip. “I think someone’s been taking Statements from the Archives.”

“Someone could do that without you knowing?” asks Daisy, her eyebrows flying high. “People can do that?”

“There were things that could block the eye,” acknowledges Jon. “But none that I know of now.”

“Hmm.” She shakes her head. “Well, that’s all I’ve got. There’s a witness. You taking her Statement?”

The question lodges in his gut like an anvil. On the back of his neck, he feels eyes, watching him. He’s getting hungry. And Elias won’t keep his patience for much longer. 

“Have her write it down.”

~*~

You received a Direct Message from Elias B.

Elias B.: I have a meeting with Peter Lukas this afternoon. 

(Read 10:08 A.M.)

~*~

“He’s gone again?” 

“Hmm?” Tim blinks slightly, glancing up from his book. “Wasn’t in when I got here. Don’t think he ever came in.”

Sasha considered this with a frown. “Where does he live, do you think?”

“Dunno. Didn’t exactly get his home address. Honestly, if I hadn’t seen him out myself, I’d think he’d never left the Archives.” There’s a beat. “That was a joke.”

Sasha isn’t as certain. “He does have that cot.”

“He can’t live down here though. In this spooky place? It’d be miserable.”

She frowns again. “Martin?” she calls. 

In the distance, there’s a crash.

“Yeah?” calls back Martin, hesitantly. 

She steps out further, in the direction of his voice. He peers at her from around the shelf of discredited statements, file clutched in one hand. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, uh. I have a stack of discredited?” He shrugs. “I was going to read them, and, and organize the shelf, or something, but Jon told me not to bother and that we might as well burn them because they’d be more useful as kindling, and he uh. Didn’t seem to like fake statements much so I didn’t push the matter. He told me to just. Put them on the shelf. And that is… what I was doing.”

“Oh. Well, I was wondering if you wanted to get lunch?” 

“Oh.” He blinks. “Uh, yeah. That’d be nice. I’ll just get my coat then?”

“I’ll grab my bag.”

Martin isn’t quite so good at hiding how he feels. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and he's been here longer than anyone. There's no true good source of information about Jon, but if there were, it would be him. 

And wasn't that odd? Wasn't that something she should have noticed ages ago? Jon's worked here forever, but no one could tell you a damn thing about him. She should have noticed. It doesn't make sense that she didn't. 

Martin disappears back around the shelf, retreating further into the Archives. Behind her, Sasha hears footsteps. 

“So that’s how it’s going to be, then?” asks Tim, leaning against a shelf with his arms folded before him. 

Sasha brushes past him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You could just ask him what he knows about Jon, you know,” says Tim, pointedly, and he follows after her. “He’d probably tell you.”

“Maybe I want to ask him over lunch.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Maybe you want to butter him up first.” 

“Maybe I want to get out from under this goddamn microscope for five minutes, did you consider that?”

“I can tell when someone’s working someone else over, Sasha.” 

“Yeah?” She swings her bag over her shoulder. “I know you’re new, Tim, but maybe the best way to make new friends isn’t to throw accusations around.” 

“Funny thing about friends,” says Tim, watching her with level eyes. “They’re not always all that good.”

~*~

It takes Jon an hour to convince himself to cross the street and actually enter the Institute. 

This is hardly new territory he’s forging. He did just this with Tim not too long ago. He just has to walk in, ask Martin for his Statement, and figure out what the hell to do about Elias before he has to take anyone else’s. Elias won’t send Peter Lukas after them for a bit longer, and Jon can put off making any decisions past that. 

Kick the can further down the line. Make it a problem for his future self. His future self can probably handle it. 

Oh, who is he kidding. His future self has only ever been the same as his current self, just considerably more fucked. 

He enters his Archives through the side entrance. 

It’ll be simple. He’s been practicing. He’ll go in, say Hello Martin, how are you, will you tell me about this terrible thing that’s happened to you, see I eat trauma and I need it. And Martin will say, Oh, this confirms everything I’ve ever thought about you. And Jon will say, That’s fair enough, will still need to eat your trauma, however, because I compound my own problems until everything’s unraveling around me and my life is falling apart. There are forms to report me to HR on the desk outside. 

He nearly rams directly into Martin on his way in. 

“Oh--Jon, sorry, didn’t see you coming in--”

“No, no, I wasn’t paying attention, it was my--sorry, are you going somewhere?”

Martin blinks. “Yeah? Sasha and I were going to get lunch.”

Sasha smiles tightly at Martin’s side. 

“Oh,” says Jon. “Um. Could you do that in a bit? There’s something I need to speak to you about.”

“It can’t wait for lunch?” asks Sasha. 

Not unless they want Peter Lukas to eat Tim.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit more urgent than that.”

“Sasha, did you want to--”

“Another time,” says Sasha, and she smiles at them both. “I’ve got some work to catch up on anyway.”

Then, before either of them can say anything more, she turns on her heels and moves further into the Archives, disappearing behind a shelf a moment later. 

Martin stares after her. “I… guess we’ll get lunch another day. Jon?”

Jon leads him into his office. Martin takes a seat at the other side at the desk and Jon remains standing, tapping his fingers sharply against the desk’s edge. 

Martin stares at his hand, then slowly looks up at him. “Is everything alright, Jon?”

There is a threat he found in a dead body in his pocket right now, and he stole it from a crime scene. “Why wouldn’t everything be alright?”

“You seem. Tense.”

“Yes, well. I am always tense. So I fail to see it’s relevance.”

“It may be better if you just tell me what this is about,” says Martin, pointedly. “And we can just handle it.”

“Right, right, you’re right.” He winces. “The, uh. The Statement? Your. Statement. I need it.”

“Alright.”

“It’s just, you see, I have to--what?”

“Alright?” Martin nods. “Do you want to do it now?”

“Um. That would be ideal?” He clears his throat. “Are you.. Are you sure?”

There’s an odd look on Martin’s face. “I don’t want you to starve.”

“Oh.” Jon doesn’t quite know how to answer that. He doesn’t. Instead, he sits in his chair heavily, the edge of hunger fuzzing at the corners of his mind. “I--Thank you, Martin. Really.” 

There’s a tape recorder between them. Jon hadn’t put it there, and neither had Martin. It clicks. 

“Statement of Martin Blackwood,” says Jon, and it falls away, the Institute and the worries and the goddamn sword of Damocles hanging over them both. “Regarding an elevator ride. Statement begins.”

~*~

Fear is a skittering thing. It lives beneath her skin, crawls around, and Sasha has become increasingly used to it finding its home in the back of her neck. She pushes herself into the bathroom, locking the door firmly behind her. 

She’s frightened. Jon frightens her. And she hates it. 

Did he know that she was going to look into him? He must have, right? He--the Eye, this goddamn Eye, it’s been watching her since she took the job, she feels it every time she’s near the Institute. Sometimes even when she’s away. It drapes over her when she’s almost asleep, drags its gaze over her silhouette, and it’s all Sasha can do to lay there and wait there and let it watch her. 

She needs to step back. Look at this objectively. Jon could have had her in the Archives years ago. She had the damn form signed and on his desk, and he refused to even look at it. It’s a point in his favor. 

On the other hand, he must know more than he’s telling them. He has to. He knows bloody everything. 

He must have known that she was going to be talking to Martin about him. The Eye was watching her when she said it. It’s--this entire place is a goddamn funnel, it sucks out every ounce of knowledge and gives it to the Eye, and it thrives on them not knowing their heads from their ass. She can’t make any moves without it knowing. She can’t do anything without Jon knowing. 

She drags herself to the sink, flicking the tap on with shaking hands and letting her hands hang beneath the stream. She digs them through her hair, drags it down into long, wet clumps, and stares at her reflection, and it stares back at her. 

She needs to calm down. She needs to figure out which part of this is her, and which part of this isn’t. She can’t trust her own thoughts, which means she can’t trust anything, which means she can’t trust that she can’t trust anything. 

Her eyes are rimmed with red. Her hair is tangled, frizzed, with little droplets strung off its ends. 

“Look at you,” she tells herself, softly. “You look like you’re going mad.”

Behind her, a door creeks slowly open. 

“Oh,” says a voice--no, a scream, frozen in amber so that it would keep. “Imagine that.”

~*~

Mike has found the company surprisingly refreshing. 

He never was much of one for company, even before the change. Everyone had always seemed so… small to him. Inconsequential in the grander scheme of it all. Oh, people like to make noise about it, talk about the inviolability of life and the priceless nature of the soul, but then they turn around and kill people so they only have to pay an unlivable minimum wage, so they can keep their slave labor and sweatshops, so they transmogrify mankind into a spreadsheet of balances and calculated expenditures and acceptable loss.

And Mike gets it.  Hell, he found himself spending a good deal of time on one end of the scale, and staying alive meant making sure it never tipped out of his favor. People have been making existence into a game of acceptable losses since the second they gained enough sentience to pick up a rock and lodge it in their neighbor’s head. At least Mike is honest about it. 

People they’re… they’re real, they just don’t matter. They’re small, is the thing. They disappear in the blink of the eye and they don’t make a single lasting mark on existence’s fabric. Ticks on a spreadsheet. Another goddamn rock in the ground. Everyone dies. Only idiots like the Archivist pretend like that’s a tragedy. 

So no, he was never much of one for company. Ants chittering with other ants. Pointless. He liked his peace and he liked his void, and he never was much of one to seek out disruption. 

When Danny Stoker came to stay, however, he… didn’t mind it. Not really. The frequency of the Archivist, that was a pain in the ass, but Danny himself? Surprisingly good company. 

The thing is, he reminds Mike a bit of himself. 

Not exactly, mind you. Doesn’t have the edge that Mike had. He’s going to need it, if he’s going to live through this. You don’t get to live in their world if you’re not willing to kill to do it. He tells Danny as much, and Danny angles the conversation away in a manner that would almost seem natural, had Mike not had so much practice doing exactly that. 

He remembers it. Still. Being on the running, trying to find your footing, asking questions to anyone who might know the answer. He’s seen his fair share of people in the same position as him--hell, he’s done his fair share of putting people in that position. He’s never cared if they live or not. Either they survive on their own merits or die on the same. Mike hadn’t any handouts. He made it because he did what was necessary. 

In the end, Danny’s life will be decided by the same. The Archivist can only do so much. He’ll live if he chooses to live, and if he pays the price to do it. Mike won’t help him with that. Only choices that matter are the ones you make for yourself. 

But a friendly nudge. A friendly nudge might be something he can offer up willingly enough. 

“You said you skydived, right?” says Mike, interrupting another one of Danny’s questions about their world. He has a good deal of them, which Mike takes as a good sign. Isn’t waiting around for the Archivist to save him. He wouldn’t have a chance in hell if he were that lax.

Danny blinks. “For a bit, yeah.”

“Do you miss it, at all?”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “I loved it. Haven’t had the chance in a while, and not likely to get another soon. I’ll go again when this is handled.”

Mike hums once. He flicks his eyes over Danny’s seated form, and decides that sometimes a nudge can be more of a shove. “I want you to try something out, okay? Don’t tell the Archivist.”

Danny looks puzzled. “Okay…”

And he drops him into the Blue. 

Danny tumbles in without a scream, without a sound, his eyes go wide and his body goes still, but Mike knows he’s falling into infinity. He isn’t afraid. Not really. Mike has had enough good meals to know when eating is too lean on a victim. 

It’s a good sign. 

“I hope he doesn’t get you killed,” he says, into the empty air. 

Chapter Text

Daisy wouldn’t say she believes in destiny. In fate. It implies some kind of higher power, some kind of cosmic force puppeting all she does and all she is, and Daisy has answered to herself and her alone for as long as she can remember. Fate can get fucked. 

She is, however, a believer in certainty. In paradigm shifts. Some days, you can be going about your business, walking down the street and minding yourself, and life comes barreling at you like a mack truck and levels you without so much as honking its horn. 

Sometimes, things happen, and it sets you on a new path with all the certainty of destiny. 

It is not destined that Daisy Tonner kills Jonathan Sims. But it has all the goddamn certainty of it. 

The first time she sees him, he’s sitting on the tarmac of a parking lot, legs criss-crossed under him like a child, arms handcuffed behind his back. The flash of the police car sends drags of light across his face, red and blue, and there’s something, something about him, something Daisy needs to carve out and eat. 

At his side, there’s another guy. Done up in torn black jeans and a strategically ripped band shirt. He’s also got a shiner, so maybe it’s not strategic. Maybe he’s just a shit fighter. He’s sitting next to his much scrawnier, much more tired-looking companion, legs kicked out before him, hands cuffed just the same. Sims is wearing a shirt that’s very obviously his. It’s too big for him by half, depicting some heavy metal band and torn at the sleeve. 

As she watches, he leans over and whispers something in Sims’s ear, and Sims barks a laugh. 

He’s got the shittiest dye job Daisy has ever seen. 

A moment later, the guy with ripped clothes looks up, locks eyes with her, only to quickly look away again. It’s too late. She saw the recognition in his eyes. He saw the murder in hers. 

He whispers something again. 

Sims blinks. 

She leaves them sitting on the tarmac, heads bent together, and marches off to find out whoever was in charge before she got here. Now that she’s here, it’s her case. It’s a Section. She can tell by the look of the guys on the ground. 

The man in charge is not Sectioned. Detective Gilbert, with all the paunch and grizzle of someone nearing retirement and wanting to make it over the line without ever having to sign one of those damned forms. He visibly relaxes when he sees Daisy.

“Detective,” he says, in the way that means this is Daisy’s case now. 

It’s a stage play, a dance, a clever lie they all tell each other just in case someone ever asks. Any judge who stares down at them over the edge of their nice, safe, comfy little courtroom bench is going to ask what was said, what was done, what procedure was followed, and every cop in the room is going to be able to rattle off the lines to a script that was followed in word but never in spirit. 

No one ever goddamn asks. Not really. 

“Detective Gilbert,” she replies, in the way that means she wants him off her scene as fast as he can pour himself into his cruiser. “What do we have?”

“A book,” says Gilbert, with a grimace. “Weird one.”

One of those fucking Leitners, then. Daisy’s shown up to the scenes of a few. Usually, best thing you can do with those is to get a mop and start cleaning blood. If there’s enough left for that. 

“Where is it?” 

“Gone.” 

Daisy’s head snaps up. 

“Taller one set the bloody thing on fire,” says Gilbert, nodding to the two guys on the tarmac. “They were fighting about it with someone about it all before we showed up, but they aren’t saying anything about who. Don’t seem too concerned about getting taken down to the station.”

He says it in a way that means they both know the boys on the tarmac won’t make it to the station.

“Got ID off them. Short one’s name is Jonathan Sims. Taller one is Gerard Keay.”