Chapter Text
December 15th, 2014. Pittsburgh, USA
The world from the hospital bed was smudged like someone had wiped a camera lens with greasy fingers. The days blended together in yellowed splotches, feverish and oily.
She sat by the bed sometimes, reading statements. Other times she didn't.
"Your mother had to leave," the nurse would say. "I'm sure she'll be right back."
He wanted to tell her his mother was dead. It seemed important, somehow, but he fell asleep before he could get the words out.
He knew he was going to die before he Knew it and certainly before the nurse told him. Her face had been swollen and wet, the edges of her nails torn apart.
"You're headed to a better place," she said. He asked her for another Jell-O Cup.
The fear did come eventually. It happened when The Archivist was gone, a sudden certainty that this was his last sickly slip into unconsciousness.
A terrible, traitorous, cowardly part of himself tried to cry out for her .
He trapped the noise between his teeth and smothered it.
With the last vestige of his stubborn will, he was silent.
And so Gerard Keay ended.
December 15th, 2015. Pittsburgh, USA
Gerard's first thought when he awoke was that being dead felt oddly like being alive. It was colder, certainly, and there was a strange wet open feeling, but beyond that it was identical. If he concentrated he could even convince himself he still had a body.
Purgatory, then? If this cold stinging was all he got for his time on earth then he supposed he'd gotten off fairly easy. He could hear heeled footsteps, marking neat routes around him. They had an echo-y metallic quality. It seemed purgatory was like a sightless doctor's office. Or a sightless morgue. As long as it was sightless Gerard was on board.
He drifted like that, listening to steps and vaguely registering a bit of silvery wet pain, until his reverie was shattered.
"Ma'am, you cannot be in here," the voice was a man's, authoritative and just a little scared. He's afraid The Archivist will kill him. She is considering it. The Eye screamed into his head. Finally, Gerard Keay considered (accepted?) that he may be alive. Groggily, he opened his eyes to find a morgue, and a few feet above him, clutching a bloody knife, Gertrude Robinson.
Perversely, he was happy to see her. She had come for him after all. Refused to let him die alone. And then he saw the look on her face. It was the same look he had seen her wear when she talked about Jan or Michael Shelly. A dangerous, emotionless pragmatism. With a horrifying clarity, Gerard put his hand to the cold wet pain on his side. It was a rectangle of almost separated flesh. Page sized. Hate flared in Gerard's heart, sudden and sickly sweet.
"I've already called the police. Please put the knife down and step away from him." The man at the door was the mortician. He is the one who put the tag around your toe, The Eye chirped. Gerard thought he looked scared.
Gerard stared up at The Archivist. Even injured and weakened, he figured he could take her. Perks of fighting the elderly. She stared back, her eyes glowing slightly in the low mortuary light. At last, she set the knife down and calmly walked past the mortician. He seemed to consider grabbing her, but her blood drenched hands deterred him.
And so, The Archivist disappeared into the night.
"Are you ok?" The mortician asked. He took a few steps towards Gerard before seeming to think better of it. Instead, he started rifling through cabinets. Gerard cleared his throat, it felt like it was full of needles, but he managed a yes.
"We really thought you were dead," the mortician said. "I checked for a pulse you know? When a patient is in hospice you worry about sedatives, if someone is susceptible they can be knocked out for hours and hours, low breathing, reduced heart rate." His words tripped over themselves, spurred by adrenaline and fear. "We'll just wait for the cops to sort this out, you know they're quite good at finding people when it comes to more serious cases, so whoever that was..."
Gerard stopped listening. The cops. How was he going to explain himself to the cops? The obvious answer was that he couldn't. He closed his eyes. He had never wanted to die before, but that quiet, that sightless rest... He felt paper thin, like a stray finger of pressure, would tear a huge hole in him. He decided he wasn't going to spend the night in questioning.
The mortician was still talking. He had a wife at home, two kids.
"What's your biggest secret?" Gerard Keay asked.
"I've been embezzling from the mortuary," the man responded. It blended so smoothly into the rest of his stream of consciousness you would never guess it had been supernaturally divined. That is until he reacted, turning to Gerard with a wide-eyed look, suddenly silent.
Gerard in turn suddenly felt quite a bit better. The hand on his side, still pressed to the page of skin The Archivist had tried to steal from him, warmed as the flesh underneath began to knit itself back together. He found it in himself to sit up--properly stare down the mortician. David Hatfield, The Eye supplied.
"Well David," Gerard said. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to call the police and tell them you made a mistake. There was no woman in the morgue and certainly no bodies that came back to life. Then, you're going to give me some clothes to borrow and we'll forget we ever met each other."
"And if I don't?" David asked. He had pressed himself against the far wall, a blanket he had retrieved from the cabinet clutched to his chest. Gerard resisted the urge to sigh. He didn't enjoy threatening random civilians, especially when they forced him to be crystal candid.
"Then we can have a long chat with the police about embezzlement laws in the US."
The mortician took a moment. Then he nodded. Gerard held his hand out for the blanket, and David complied. Covered, Gerard chanced standing. He was a bit wobbly but not in any danger of falling so he followed David back to his office. He Watched him make the phone call, and then hunt around for spare clothes. Guiltily, Gerard noticed that every second he spent with the man only made him feel better, stronger. He took off as soon as he changed.
It was only then, wandering around the darkened streets of Pittsburgh, that Gerard realized he didn't have anywhere to go. All of his personal property had been tossed at his "mother's" request. He had considered asking David for cash but that seemed a bit much, even for him. He Knew, of course, what had happened. He had seen it enough times. Avatars would die and then come back....changed. Less human. Maybe he was finally a proper monster.
It didn't bother him as much as he thought it would. The patch skin side burned with each brush of his shirt. It was late, snowing. David's coat wasn't nearly as thick as his trench but Gerard hardly felt the cold.
Eventually, he found himself downtown. He and The Archivist had eaten at a quaint French restaurant there. In almost every other city, The Archivist had insisted on fast food. Eating on the way to one library or the other. Pragmatic. Pittsburgh though, was different.
We might as well enjoy ourselves on Bouchard's dime, she had said. Gerard hadn't questioned it.
He'd had his first seizure the next morning.
All around the square, Christmas decorations shone from the shop windows, gaudy and cheerful. He walked from display to display. So many of them were families. Little wooden dolls with yarn hair and knit sweaters. One showed a mother bending to wipe fake snow off her son's face. The boy had blond hair and glasses. When was the last time I needed my glasses? Gerard wondered. Not since he was 11. His vision had simply gotten better. The doctors had said it was a miracle. Gerard knew, even then, that it was the exact opposite.
He wondered if the doll mother cared about her legacy. If she would bind her son into a flesh book. Gerard's eyes clouded with angry tears. He blinked them away and his gaze shifted, suddenly showing his reflection in the mirror.
He looked odd. Someone had buzzed his hair and removed his makeup. There were layers of thick cream foundation over his visible tattoos. Add to that the borrowed clothes, a tan and yellow suit, and Gerard looked like a completely different person. Was this what he would've looked like in the book?
And then he Knew, simple as breathing, that The Archivist was waiting for him at the motel. Through the eyes of a small stock photo on the bedside, he saw her, sat on the bed, tapping her foot and looking at her watch. He had never been able to do that before, but any fear he may have felt was washed away by the red-hot anger of seeing her like that. Waiting for him to crawl back to her like a lost dog. Assuming Gerard would set aside everything because he had nowhere else to go. Just like her .
The motel was only a few minutes from where he was. Jaw set, he started walking. He must have made an odd picture, half man half corpse, tearing down the snowy sidewalk in a thin suit jacket.
When the motel came into view, it was like someone had poured gasoline on the embers in his chest. He made a beeline to the door he was looking for and inside it, he found a screwdriver and pliers rather than The Archivist.
Then, janitor's closet door slamming shut behind him, he hotwired Gertrude Robinson's rental car and took off--rubber burning and 800 dollars cash sitting pretty in the glove compartment.
February 28th, 2016. London, England.
Gerard takes a drag of his cigarette. It had burned through the filter and he felt his throat fill with the acidic bite of tar.
He sighed and added it to the small pile of butts growing at his feet. He twisted his boot over it for good measure, grinding the paper and ash into the wet cement.
He knew he was being ridiculous. All he had to do was open the door, Gertrude never locked it. He just needed to turn the handle and then he'd be there, five feet from her office. He was going to do it now. No more stalling.
He lit another cigarette and leaned against the far wall of the alley, glaring.
The backdoor clicked. He recognized it as the sound of someone opening it from inside. A piece of him clenched up, already halfway out of the alley, but Gerard squared his shoulders. He wonders if she'll be surprised to see him or if she came out because she Knew he was out here.
But the person behind the door wasn't The Archivist. It was a man—short and reed thin. He was on the older side judging from the streaks of grey in his tidy dark hair, and dressed formally.
He seemed surprised to see Gerard, and even flushed a bit. That's when Gerard noticed the cigarette twirling sheepishly between his fingers.
Gerard slumped back against the wall. The man is tense, something akin to a glare building between his eyes.
"Need a light?"
The man properly scowled at that but softened nigh immediately.
"Yes," he grumbled. "I'm supposed to have quit but…" he trailed off, squinting at Gerard.
"Your job?" Gerard supplied. He has sympathy for anyone working for Bouchard, even if it's not in the archives.
"Yes," the man said. He slinked over to Gerard, offering his cigarette to be lit. Gerard complied and they smoke in silence for a moment. The man is of The Eye, Gerard can feel it clinging to him like a film even before he Knows it.
"I'm Jon," the man said finally, extending one of his hands to Gerard. Gerard shook it.
"Gerard," he said.
Jon exhaled sharply. It's not quite a laugh but he smiles anyway. Gerard tilted his head in question but Jon just waved him off.
"It's just a funny coincidence. Don't suppose you've encountered an evil book recently?" He grinned and Gerard was struck with a feeling so powerful he can't quite discern what emotion it was supposed to be.
He has no idea, about any of it, and he's already marked for The Eye. The urge to help him hit like acid reflux, but Gerard has gotten good at taking his antacid.
"No, I'm here to see an..." Gerard faltered. Old friend? He didn't know Gertrude that long and, well, the large rectangular scar on his side is just a bit too fresh for them to be friends . "Someone."
If Jon picked up on the odd turn of phrase he was polite enough not to mention it. Instead, he nodded.
"Not to make a statement I hope," he said. Again, he grinned.
"God no," Gerard said. It's pure instinct from years of avoiding bad dreams, but it makes Jon laugh. It's a thin rickety noise that matches him perfectly, and Gerard finds himself snorting beside himself.
They spent a few more seconds basking in that shared laughter before Jon discarded the end of his cigarette and started to straighten his collar.
"Well it's been a pleasure, Gerard, but I'm afraid I can't hide from my work all day."
Gerard nodded and pushed himself off the wall.
"I think I better find who I'm looking for as well," he said. Jon hummed in assent, pulling a small ring of keys from the pocket of his slacks. Gerard tried not to roll his eyes as Jon fiddled with the door they both know is unlocked, and within seconds they were both inside the archives.
Gerard can't help but notice that it's in a state. Boxes and loose statements are piled on the old metal assistant desks. It's disorganized, but not in the way Gertrude usually keeps it. His best guess was that she was introducing yet another filing system to spite Bouchard.
Gerard expected Jon to disappear up the stairs towards research—or maybe accounting?—but instead, he made his way to The Archivist's office. When he got there, Jon half turned and startled.
"Gerard?" I thought you had…" he bit his lip. "Do you need help getting upstairs?"
"What?"
Jon's expression hardened. "I said , Do you need help getting upstairs?" He snapped, voice suddenly cutting.
"No," Gerard scoffed. "Do you?"
"Look I don't know what sort of game you're playing but my assistants are in the next room." Gerard realized with a start that Jon was shaking ever so slightly. He is lying. He is wondering if you actually are Gerard Keay, murderer.
Gerard closed his eyes, willing The Eye away. He took a deep breath.
"I'm not trying to upset you," he said evenly. "I'm looking for The Archivist."
Jon scowled. The shaking didn't ease.
"You're looking at him," Jon snapped, tilting his chin up defiantly.
Gerard's stomach lurched. He pushed past Jon and opened the door to The Archivist's office. He half expected to see her anyway. She would be wearing that big pastel pink cardigan that made her look so bloody harmless and waving a new statement about the circus.
But Gertrude Robinson wasn't there. In her place was an untouched cup of tea and a shiny new nameplate that read "Jonathan Sims".
Jon stepped inside behind Gerard. He kept his distance but Gerard could tell he'd stopped trembling.
"How did she die?"
"She might not have," Jon said. "Officially, she's missing." His tone was measured, politely condescending.
"No. No, if you have the job she's dead." Gerard said. He knew his mouth was moving but it felt far away.
"Well, I don't know how sound that reasoning is–"
"When did you start?"
"Late March."
A little over four months. That was all the time he'd taken and she had gone and died. Something settled in his chest, dry and sharp. It pricked at his lungs when he took a deep breath.
"Fucking Robinson," Gerard spat, spinning around to go back to the archives proper.
For whatever reason, that was what shattered Jon's complicity. He planted himself between Gerard and the door, arms crossed.
" What are you doing here? "
The compulsion was weak, a barely there hum in Gerard's teeth. He let it wash over him anyway. Nostalgia, Gerard? Weren't you here to have it out with her?
"I worked with Gertrude. We had a falling out in late December. She tried to bind me to a Leitner. I came here because our work is important and," he clenched his teeth. He wasn't ready to admit the rest to himself yet, but compulsion is a funny thing and it seemed that if he was in for a penny he was in for a pound, "and because I don't know where else to go."
That seemed to be enough to satisfy The Eye, but Jon was still staring at him.
"A Leitner," Gerard could practically see the wheels turning behind the new Archivist's eyes. "You are Gerard Keay, then?"
This time the buzzing was even weaker, Gerard just nodded.
"I'm in the statements," Gerard said. It's not a question but Jon nods in turn, muttering something about Ex Altiora.
The two men stared at each other in the doorway for a moment longer.
"Are you going to let me through?"
Jon flushed and stepped aside. He looks at the floor, lip caught between his teeth. Gerard took the opening to slink into the archives but he makes no move beyond that.
In the mess and quiet of the Archive, it hit him: he was properly alone for the first time in his life. Her voice reached him across the years, vicious and mocking, You wouldn't know what to do without me. He shook his head. He wanted to believe it isn't true but he was here, wasn't he? He had come back to The Archivist in the end.
Still, the question was clear. What was he going to do now? Gertrude would want him to stop The Unknowing--she also might want him to die. Did he care what she wanted? Resigned, Gerard started to flip through the scattered boxes of statements. Dropping any that felt like the circus in a haphazard pile on the floor.
"Sorry, what are you doing?" It was Jon. He looked scandalized by Gerard's new organization system. Gerard resists the urge to put his head in his hands and sigh, or scream. He sets down the box he's been working through.
If he can't have his Archivist he might as well deputize the new one. And so Gerard Keay set about explaining the way of the world to Jonathan Sims, archivist of two weeks.