Chapter Text
The year was 1989, and there was nothing odd about the perfusion of tape recorders that followed Martin Blackwood and Jonathan Sims to their Chiswick townhouse. It was, perhaps, a lot, and it was odd that all of the tapes seemed to be blank, but if anyone asked, Jon was quick to inform them that he was a recording professional. That wasn’t so odd, and there were plenty of stranger things on the street. In fact, the exact nature of Jon and Martin’s relationship was subject to more neighborly gossip than the fact that all of said gossip was caught on tape.
Neither of them thought too hard on the fact that whether they were, well, you know, (gay?) was the talk of the cul-de-sac. They had bigger problems, including the hole in reality that sat a little ways from Oxford. Including the unknowable creatures that leaked from the floorboards and crawled out broken windows. Including, currently, the ten-year-old boy that sat across from the strip of grass the realtor had generously termed a lawn, reading a book too large for his scrawny form, wrapped in a scarf despite the late spring heat.
“I still think this is a bad plan,” Jon informed Martin as he sipped coffee at their kitchen table. He didn’t expect the conversation to change from last time, but it was a comforting madness to go through the motions. He could anticipate each of Martin’s points, which he would silently agree with but proffer his own counterarguments that he equally believed.
I know that you feel that way, but frankly I can’t imagine it’ll do much harm, even if it doesn’t do much good. “You’ve said. It’s just—really, I don’t think it’ll hurt anything, and it could do something good. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?” Martin settled across from him, none-so-subtly eying the boy visible from their kitchen window. In their world, or at least the world they’d come from, Martin had never met him. Here, now, the boy was so disjoint from the turning in Jon’s stomach that he hadn’t really met him, either.
“It could be a massive waste of effort. We could be inviting more problems,” Jon protested, wearing his own groove in the familiar argument.
Honestly, I think there’s so many problems as it is that we won’t even notice. And since we’re not making efforts in any other direction, this is our best bet. “I know. But let’s face it, we’re two people—don’t make that face—we’re two people against dread forces unknown. Suffice to say any problems we cause will be miniscule. Plus, we don’t have a better plan. If we figure something out, it shouldn’t be too much of an issue to switch directions.” Before Jon could crystallize his own arguments into words, Martin looked at him with a look of puzzlement. “What do ten-year-olds even like?”
Jon barked a laugh. “Well, in our world, he liked tea and books. And throwing people into endless voids.”
“I can do tea and books. Be nice, Jon, I’m sure he was—well, not perfectly normal, but about as good as the rest of us.”
"He took the air out of my lungs! He threatened to splatter me against his couch!” Jon balked. The tumbling feeling of vertigo echoed in his stomach. Given the events of the rest of the night, he couldn’t claim too much resentment for Mike Crew, but nor could he claim any love for the thing underneath the dirt of Epping Forest. Or, more accurately, the thing currently glancing at the sky like it might tear open and collapse on top of him.
No, not thing, child. There was time.
“And I’m sure you two could have talked it out if Daisy hadn’t shot him. You seemed pretty alright with Simon.” Simon Fairchild, the con man, of course, had died a completely normal death in the 1950s here. All of Tintoretto’s apprentices had died far earlier—one, tragically, falling off a ladder while working on a painting. Too bad. Heard he was really good at painting the backdrops.
"You seemed pretty alright with Jude,” Jon countered. This was another well-worn argument, who was willing to kill who in a world that was as inaccessible to them as fiction.
"You seemed pretty alright with Callum, who I would like to remind you was significantly worse by now. Come on, I can see him shake from here. No time like the present.” Whether it was intended as an end to the discussion or an actual desire to do something with the boy sticking his hand out to the clear blue sky on the off chance of catching droplets didn’t matter. Martin picked up a poetry anthology and his mug of tea and set off out the front door, and Jon had no choice but to follow.
As it turned out, Mike’s tendency towards silence was either inborn or otherwise developed separate from the thing that chased him. When they had initially introduced themselves to the Crews, he’d peered at them from behind Mr. Crew (lovely man, but the polar opposite of the son he adored) and only offered a small “hi” when prompted by his mother. Now he looked up at them, then hid his face behind a meteorology text that still carried the library sale sticker.
"Hello!” Martin called. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?” He settled on the front stoop and sipped his tea. Jon sat next to him, playing the skulking boyfriend role he had so perfected. Like in any good trap, it had to appear that it was up to Mike to make the next move.
Mike lowered the book just enough to look at the sky, then ducked back away. The only indication that he was shaking his head was the slight flutter of uncombed hair behind the covers.
“Oh?” Martin glanced at the picture-perfect sky with theatrical intentionality. “Blue as the eye can see, not a cloud in sight,” he declared after his examination.
“The weather can change quite fast,” Jon pointed out. It wasn’t supposed to be his line, but he wasn’t supposed to have any lines at all. The point of the day’s exercise was to acclimate Mike to their presence as trusted adults who could be told about anything, including, say, a Lichtenberg creature that stood outside his window and threatened him with the utter consumption of his soul. An itch in the back of his mind told him that the plan was already lurching off the rails, though.
Separation from the Eye was never complete—how could it be?—but it had left him less certain of the things he was supposed to Know. They no longer came as clear, cogent facts. Instead, the state of the universe felt more like a detective’s hunch. Possible, probable, even, but never certain. The natural consequence of the entity still feeling out which of the thousands of universes it wanted to crawl into, he supposed. One day it would reach him, but at the moment he could only wonder why the Crews’ door would be locked.
Martin shot him a questioning look, then settled into reading his anthology. Jon took that as his cue to lean back and drink in the morning sunlight. It had been three weeks, and there was still something he couldn’t describe about feeling real sun on his face. Not the Extinction’s desiccating rays or the Desolation’s searing daylight, but the kind of tentative Chiswick sun that might pull a cover of clouds over itself later for fear of having been out too long.
The rattle of a locked door broke him out of his sunlit trance. When he opened his eyes, he saw Mike gripping the doorknob of a house that would, in another universe, one day crumble to bricks. A small noise somewhere between a whimper and a hum of dismay came from between his pressed lips.
No, this was not the plan. The plan was a slow introduction as Mike became aware of the thing that had hopped universes, had broken out of long-burnt books to hunt him. The plan was not for it to get here so soon. And the plan was not to do what Martin did next.
“Are you alright?” he called, getting to his feet. “Do you need help?” Whether the distress in his voice was genuine or due to a bad idea failing wasn’t clear, and Jon hated himself for trying to distinguish between the two. Of course Martin would be concerned if a child started white-knuckling his own doorknob.
Mike looked at the sky again, his pale eyes growing wide despite the cloudless expanse. Another garbled noise escaped his throat as he turned back to Jon and Martin. “Can I?” he choked out at last, pointing to their still open door with one trembling finger. “Please?” He ducked from some unseen force, and whatever color might have been in his cheeks drained to white.
“By all means,” Martin replied, gesturing inside.
That was all it took. Mike bolted across the street and was up their porch and in the house before Jon could even process what was about to happen. He peered out from behind the couch.
Jon had heard of couples having conversations with their eyes. He had understood the concept, but never interested in doing it himself. First of all, he had quite enough of Eyes and their connotations, and second of all, words worked well enough for him. Now he regretted not brushing up on his lexicon of furtive glances as Martin stared at him, he stared at Martin, and Mike stared at the empty sky behind them. Someone’s going to think we kidnapped a child, he attempted to inform Martin by widening his eyes ever so slightly and nodding toward Mike.
Martin blew air into his cheeks, released it slowly, and half-turned to the boy in their living room. The meaning of this, if there was an intended meaning, was entirely lost.
Should we close the door, or will that make it worse? Jon inclined his head toward the door and raised one eyebrow.
Martin shook his head. That much Jon understood, though he could only hope Martin was replying to the question he was trying to posit. Sick of this gesture-free game of charades, Martin left the door to Jon’s discretion and went to the child now cowering behind their couch. “Are you alright?” he repeated, softer this time. “Can I get you some tea?”
That was enough to break Mike’s thousand-yard-stare. He watched Martin with guarded curiosity before hunger must have gotten the better of him. “With biscuits?” he asked, voice so quiet Jon could barely make it out a mere handful of meters away.
“Sure, I think we’ve got some chocolate biscuits hiding somewhere. Why don’t you take a seat while Jon gets the door?”
At least he knew what he was supposed to be doing. He closed the door and told himself that if asked, Mike would say he went willingly. With that, he followed Martin into the kitchen. “What now?” he asked when he was relatively sure that Mike was out of earshot or, if not, far enough to not make out the gritted-out words.
Martin was still filling the kettle. He flipped the lid close and set it on the burner, where stray drops rolled off the sides and hissed in the propane-blue flames. “Tea, I suppose. Your coffee should still be warm if you want to grab that instead.”
“I figured that much, but what about after that?” He had, admittedly, forgotten about the coffee, but he wasn’t about to cede that point when he still had an argument to make. “This is a very suspicious setup, Martin. This is how children get killed.”
"Are we planning to kill him?” Martin asked as easily as if he were asking about the weather. Easier, given the circumstances.
“Of course not!”
“Then it’s not an issue. Think of it as a blessing—we’ve been moved to Phase Two and we didn’t even have to go through the effort of Phase One.”
“We never planned a Phase Two,” Jon grumbled. They had discussed Phase Two, but assumed that Phase One would take them long enough to not have to worry about it. Phase Two was intricate, delicate, and relied on information gathered in Phase One. “What, are we supposed to just tell him not to be afraid of storms? That feels a little unfair for a boy who was hit by lightning.”
“Phase One-point-Five,” Martin corrected. “We let him talk about it, we empathize, and we hope that things don’t proceed too fast.”
In that, at least, they had the state of the universe on their side. The Fears had not come out evenly or at full power. In their last universe, it would be another six or seven years before anything of note happened with Michael Crew, and in the last universe the fears were well established. Then again, the Lichtenberg Figure had managed to arrive in record time, so perhaps it would be better not to rely on the benefaction of nightmare creatures. “Phase One, but now with tea and biscuits,” Jon said.
“I was planning to ask him what he was running from,” Martin clarified. “We don’t know how often this is going to happen, so I don’t want to lose an opportunity. One-point-Five.”
The kettle began to grumble, a noise so commonplace in the household Jon would have tuned it out if it weren’t for the quiet whimper from the living room. Martin and Jon exchanged glances, and this time the meaning was clear. Thunder.
“Can you…?” Martin whispered, pointing toward the door.
‘Can Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, provide comfort to literally anyone?’ was not a question Jon was keen to answer. At the same time, it didn’t look like he had a choice. “Sure,” he lied. He assured himself that they could go through the song and dance of silent conversation once there were tea and biscuits to have it over.
Mike, who had made it to the seat of the couch in their absence, was now worrying a throw blanket that he seemed ready to hide under at a moment’s notice. He didn’t seem to realize Jon had entered the room, though his gaze was set somewhere through him.
“It’s just the kettle,” Jon explained, taking his place in the armchair opposite Mike. The rumbling grew in pitch, and Mike squeezed his eyes shut. “It’s alright, just the kettle—it’ll start whistling in a second.” As if on cue, the noise clarified into a single, shrill note. Mike cringed, then opened one eye. The kettle cut off with a choked cough as Martin turned off the burner. “I’m not sure we have anything other than black tea. Is that alright?”
“We’ve got peppermint!” Martin shouted from the kitchen.
“Peppermint?” Mike asked hopefully.
“That’s one vote for peppermint,” Jon announced. “I’ll just take my coffee, if that’s alright.” The coffee he had yet again forgotten.
The coffee was not warm when Martin brought it out, balanced on the tea tray with two steaming mugs and a small assortment of biscuits. In fact, it had managed to dip below room temperature, which felt insulting. Still, Jon drank it tiny swallows, their frequency making up for a general lack of enjoyment and the silence that suffused the room as Mike cradled his cup and watched Jon watch him.
In a good, easy world, when Mike broke the silence he would have opened up about his suddenly experiencing what should have been a lifetime’s worth of supernatural trauma. However, Jon had neither come from a good, easy world, nor entered one. Instead, after looking between Jon and Martin like they were two prize doors on a game show, what Mike said was, “Are you two in love?”
“Um,” was both of their initial response, followed by, “Why do you ask?” from Jon and, “Well, that’s a very interesting question, ah, hmm” from Martin. Neither looked at each other, though Jon could feel heat creep up in his face as red tinged Martin’s cheeks.
Mike did not immediately explain why he asked, nor did he reply to any of the various hemming and hawing noises Martin made following his question. Instead, he dunked a biscuit in his tea with all the concentration of a raccoon washing a pilfered piece of meat. “I loved a boy once,” he said once the biscuit had nearly dissolved to mush.
“Oh?” said Martin, sounding somewhere between relieved and even more confused than before. Jon decided to leave this to him. Perhaps he would lose some boyfriend points over it, but helping a child through a nascent crisis of sexuality was firmly outside of his wheelhouse.
Mike nodded. “Yeah. Then I got hit by lightning.”
Well, at least they were getting somewhere. Jon leaned across the couch to whisper, “Dominic Swain, I’m guessing,” into Martin’s ear.
Martin didn’t respond to his not-actually guesswork. “I’m sorry to hear that. The lightning, I mean. It’s always good to have someone to love.”
Mike shrugged. “I think he’s scared of me now.” He tossed the blanket over his head and wrapped himself up in it, blissfully unaware or uninterested in social norms that suggested one not turn into a sheet ghost in front of strangers. Another chocolate biscuit disappeared under the folds. “I miss him a lot.”
“Does he live around here? Maybe you could invite him over,” Jon suggested. He scraped the back of his mind for memories of Dominic Swain’s statement, anything that might suggest a place to find him or if he’d even be interested, but his mind only offered Gerry’s painting of an eye, watching as a Lichtenberg figure cut across black ink.
The sheet ghost shook its head. Tiny hands appeared for just long enough to grope for the mug, then took the prize under the throw as well.
The silence returned like a tide, though now without quite so acute a sense of being watched. Jon finally swallowed the last, grounds-filled teaspoon of cold coffee and set the mug aside. Martin took out his book and began reading again, albeit at a different point.
The putter of a car perhaps fifteen minutes later was the first thing that cued Mike to pull the blanket off his head. He craned his neck to look out the front window.
“Just a car,” Martin assured him.
“’S Mum,” Mike replied, as if offended by the concept of his mother’s car being considered just another vehicle. He looked down at his cup, then up at the window, then down again. He puzzled at the cup for a moment before whatever it was seemed to click and he looked at Jon and Martin. “Thank you for the tea.”
“Not a problem.” Martin stood, stretched, and went to the front door. “You’re welcome here any time.” He raised his eyebrows at Jon as he opened the door.
“Oh, right, any time,” Jon agreed.
Mike nodded either his thanks or his assurance that, well, of course he was welcome any time. In a single swallow, he downed what remained of his tea, then put the mug on a nearby shelf before running through the still-open door.
Both of them waited as Mrs. Crew made some small noise of surprise at the locked door, took out her keys, and ushered her son inside.
“We just had a remarkably pleasant conversation with Michael Crew,” Jon noted.
“The Spiral got through the hole,” Martin noted.
They waited a little longer as Mike’s face appeared in one of the windows. For the first time since they’d met him, he gave them a smile before ducking away.
By all means, it was a start.