Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was bees, this time. Honeybees, by the look of the shiny, sticky mess on the few small patches of Jordan's skin that weren't hidden under the swarming mass of insects. Part of a hand, an elbow, part of a stocking foot. The hand was puffy and red, dotted with stings.  Jordan ran, trailing buzzing clouds until he fell, exhausted and screaming at Jon's feet.  This can be the last time, Jon wanted to say.

But even if he could speak, no sound could be heard above the buzzing of thousands of bees.  Jordan curled his body as tight as he could, lying on his side on the dewy grass. The bees had left his eyes clear so he could see Jon, staring back at him, rooted to his spot no more than a meter away, so that if he could move, he could reach out and touch the man. The bees swarmed around Jon's head, but did not land or sting. He shouldn't be trapped like this, but even after the failure of Jonah's ritual, even after they had destroyed him utterly, leaving no one between Jon and the Eye, he was still trapped here, forced to watch, a helpless conduit feeding the Eye both Jordan's horror and his own.

Chapter Text

Oliver Banks climbed the last flight of stairs to the third floor of the Magnus Institute, following the sound of voices and the text from Jon letting him know that today's tasks included clearing hazards from all three floors and the archives before the cleaners were to arrive.

The two of them were standing just inside the doorway of a large, ornate office with a huge round window overlooking the street. Oliver rapped twice on the doorframe to let them know he had arrived.  Jon and Martin both flinched violently at the sound. Oliver winced at the End-touched wave of terror from both men, while Jon whipped around to stare at him, the bright green glow in his eyes fading as he recognized Oliver.  He scrubbed his hands over his face before putting on a thin smile. "Ah, good! You're here." He then turned away to perch next to Martin on the end of the desk and murmur something too low for Oliver to hear.

"I feel like I may have misstepped," Oliver said.

Jon squeezed Martin's hand before turning back around. "He just needs a moment. We both have issues with knocking. Eldritch horror related."

"Ah. Noted. So, when are the cleaners arriving?"

"Tomorrow morning. Early. A dozen of them," Martin said, having recovered enough to turn around on the desk.

"I'm feeling a little territorial about that," Jon told them both. It had the light, but tight sound of an admission that Jon was hoping they would take to be a joke, even though it wasn't.

Martin chuckled. "Thought you might." He motioned to Oliver to take the chair nearest the desk, then took Jon's hands in his own. Oliver pretended he didn't find the gesture endearing. "Seriously. How can the two of us make that easier for you?"

Jon leaned into Martin's side. "I'll be fine."

Martin shook his head "Jon."

He relented with a huff of breath. "I need to see the whole building myself, first. And I think I need you with me when they're here. One of you at least. I don't trust myself around people, yet."

"Crisis cleaners are more likely than the general population to have Statements to take," Oliver agreed. "So, what's the goal here?"

Martin said, "Just a quick look through, but we want to find anything that might be dangerous and get it to artifact storage. Which is going to be off-limits to the cleaners." He tore off a large garbage bag and shook it open, then pointed to each of the four boxes lined up in front of the desk. "Things that go to artifact storage. Things we can safely sell. Things you need for financials and whatever. Human remains that aren't cursed. And finally, actual garbage can go in the bag. We'll leave most of it for later."

Jon sat down on the floor to scrawl labels on the sides of the boxes with a marker. Jonah Magnus had spared no expense in furnishing and decorating the room. The hardwood floor--cherry or at least stained to look like it, Oliver thought, was covered with a plush, deep green rug with the ever-present eye motifs worked into the paisley border. Barrister cases lined one wall, open bookshelves another.  A pair of Chesterfield armchairs with a small oval table between them nestled nearest the large round window, and on the opposite wall, a massive executive desk rested with a very modern, very comfortable looking chair behind. Artifacts, some expensive looking, some definitely cursed, sat on the shelves among the hundreds of books.

Martin studied the bookshelves lining the walls. "I suppose we could just leave the books until we have a library staff."

"Cursed books only, for today," Jon reminded. 

Martin hummed. "All right, but then we should guess how many. Closest guess gets to..."

"Out of the three hundred eighty-two books in this room, thirty-five are cursed, twenty-four from Leitner's collection."

"You're no fun at all," Martin complained without heat.

Jon stuck his tongue out at Martin.

"Just for that, you go through the shelves for the Leitners and Leitner-adjacent books. I'll start on the things that aren't books. Desk is yours, Oliver."  Oliver settled into the leather office chair and rolled back to give himself better access to the shelves. Jon and Martin's banter had a new relationship feel to it that he had feelings about, but he wasn't sure what they were. Not annoyance, quite, not exactly amusement--almost wistfulness. He didn't miss Graham often anymore, but when it occurred to him, he felt the loss keenly.

"Gloves, Martin, Oliver," Jon said.

Martin rolled his eyes at him and held up his already gloved hands. Oliver shook himself free of his momentary reverie to collect a pair of white archival gloves from the desktop and worked his hands into them.  He opened the flat drawer in the middle of the desk. "Do you have a spot for office supplies? The man had an impressive number of fountain pens." Not to mention paper clips, thumbtacks, and gum erasers.

Jon said, "Put them in the sell box if they're worth anything. I feel like keeping the lights on is going to be a challenge."

Oliver was glad to have a bit of reassuring news for the two of them. "It's not as dire as I feared. The Fairchilds aren't withdrawing their support for the moment. They want to 'see how it shakes out' before they make any long-term commitments, though. The Lukases aren't likely to make any decisions quickly--that would require them to talk to each other."

Martin snorted a laugh. "That's--yeah. That's what I remember from working with them. It was like trying to do business with glaciers."

Oliver caught himself smiling broadly at Martin, then stifled the expression when he caught the worry on Jon's face. There was something going on there that hadn't been shared with him, and he hoped it wasn't something that would ruin their working relationship when it had barely begun. He emptied the drawers into the appropriate boxes, mostly dividing between the sale box and the box of things he'd have to deal with later.  Once the desk seemed empty, he prompted, "You should have a Look, Jon. In case there are hidden compartments."

Jon tucked a small, stained softcover volume into the Leitner box, then sat back on his haunches to stare out the window. Spots of lime green eyeshine reflected off the glass. "False bottom in the lower right drawer. Notes on the body-hopping ritual and an artifact I think may be associated with it? Space behind the upper left drawer. Revolver and ammunition. Another false bottom on the left. Blackmail information, Fairchilds, Lukases, several MPs and members of the House of Lords."

"You're taking all the fun out of it," Martin complained.

"We'll never get through the whole building today if we stop to read everything," Oliver said in Jon's defense.

"There are a lot of human remains in here," Martin remarked from his spot by the barrister cases. "I mean, we knew about the bones, but I just found a box of--assorted mummified bits? Fingers, toes, ears--oh, come on, Jonah, why would you keep that? Where did you--" He held the fancy leather box out to Jon, who jerked away.

"Yeah, that's exactly what you think it is. I'm going through the remains this week. I can get provenance so we can store or dispose of them respectfully, and I think I can get a meal out of them. More than reading an old statement, less than taking a live one."

"Should I get a box and label it 'snacks for Jon'?"

"Please don't," Jon said while pretending to be deeply engrossed in the bookcase.

"Box of eyes," Martin said, holding out an ornately carved wooden box.

Jon held up his latest find. "Teleportation Leitner.  Sends you to a random spot on the globe, according to the notes."

"Hmm. Better hope you can swim. Oooh! Jackpot!"

Jon tucked the Leitner into the box. "What is it?"

"Bonds. Stock certificates. some gold coins and jewelry.  Deeds for a couple of plots near Oxford and Devon. Some bundles of Euros." He passed the leather portfolio to Oliver, who put the papers in a box to go through later and the jewelry in the sell box. It was a pleasant way to start the afternoon, reminiscent in some ways of doing inventory at the crystal shop with Jane, before. Oliver wondered if he was allowing himself to relax and enjoy the company of these two in part because the vines around them were in their pasts, not their futures, and he was beginning to suspect that neither of them was precisely mortal any longer. Jon seemed to be aware that he was at least very difficult to kill, but Martin--that was a topic he might have to broach at a later time.

They finished packing the more fragile and valuable baubles from the shelving and moved the boxes back into the hall. After a quick detour to the second floor to take the cursed items to Artifact Storage, they regrouped to tour the rest of the third floor.  Jon felt--uneasy. This whole place, all three stories, was his. His own, in a way that something as mundane as a deed couldn't begin to convey. His in the way that his legs were his, or his eyes. And he'd never really looked it over in detail.

He'd been up to the third floor before on a few occasions when Jonah had wanted to have uncomfortable conversations full of unnerving praise and veiled (or not so veiled) threats. Four times at the beginning of his tenure as the Head Archivist, to attend department head meetings before it became clear to him that his role was very much not to add to discussions of how to improve communications between the library and the research department, or how many people needed to be scheduled on shift in Artifact Storage at any given time. He had been in a total of two rooms up here, three if one counted the men's lavatory across from the opulent conference room that was always either too hot or too cold. 

Jonah's office had two doors, the one that led to the long hall that bisected the East wing of the building and another behind the desk that led Jon didn't know where--until he Knew. Jonah had a flat up here where he had stayed a bit more than half the time rather than returning to his home.  "Oliver, there should be a key in the top drawer. green plastic marker on it."

Oliver rummaged in the go through this later box for a moment and came up with it. "There are two copies of this key. One was on the body."

The body. Right. He should have asked about that. "You collected his personal effects, then."

"Of course. They're in the archives break room. I'm using a corner of the table down there for the moment."

"Right." He was about to ask what had been found on the body, but the Eye filled him in before he could. Set of keys, some to parts of the Institute. House keys, keys to a malachite green Rolls Royce, a couple of sets belonging to storage units. Small cigar box containing two Cuban cigars.  Two heavy rings, one silver, one platinum, with emeralds and small diamonds inlaid. Travel toiletries kit. Palm sized leather bound notebook with a Cross pen. Wallet containing ID, cards, cash. 

Jon reeled under the rapid onslaught of numbers, addresses, and amounts. He snatched a piece of scratch paper off the desk to jot down the PIN numbers for the cards and the locations of the storage units, then handed the page to Oliver.  "The car can be sold, of course. It's not like I'll have a use for it. Unless you want it, Martin?"

"Ugh, no. Too much upkeep."

Jon took the key from Oliver and fit it into the ring of Institute keys before trying the lock. The door swung open on a flat furnished in a similar style to the office. Also like the office, it had escaped the depredations of the Hunters and the Not-Them--probably because it had been unoccupied. There was a living room with a small kitchen and dining area off to one side.  The furnishings were all high-end and so pristine it looked like they were barely used. Martin took a turn around the room, frowning.  "Not comfortable sitting where his sorry ass has been. Can we replace the chairs and table and keep the entertainment system system because, wow."

Jon hummed under his breath. He could almost hear Oliver adding up the estimated value of the items in the room. "I've never seen the value of having this much electronic entertainment at home--but--"

"But now that you're stuck here indefinitely?" Olver prompted.

"Now that I'm stuck here, the prospect of watching movies on a laptop doesn't appeal as much as it used to."

Martin scoffed. "Does that constitute a promise to actually leave off working long enough to sit with me and watch a movie?"

Jon sighed. "Your choice. This weekend."

"Lord of the Rings. ALL of them. We've earned a binge."

After a moment, Jon nodded. "All right. Yes. We probably won't be able to replace the sofa by then, though."

"Put a blanket over it, and we'll call it good for now." Martin wandered back further into the apartment. "Come look at this! I think the en suite is larger than my old flat."

Jon and Oliver followed him. "Not quite, but," Jon said. "Is that a hot tub with a whirlpool? And an enclosed five-head shower. And the water closet is in its own separate little bit. How--precious."  Jonah had been living like this while Martin had been sleeping on a cot and washing up in an emergency shower for how long? 

"The shower and bath are enormous," Martin crowed. You could fit four people in them. Or at least three." He diligently started to sweep Jonah's toiletries off the counters and out of the drawers into the garbage bag.

The master bedroom was also ostentatiously large. There was a king-sized bed that, even though Jon had firmly decided they would be moving into the flat today, they would not be sleeping in. The walk-in closet was full of another few months' utility bills worth of bespoke suits.  The guest bedroom next to it was smaller but comfortably appointed with a queen-sized bed, an empty dresser and writing desk, and its own smaller bath and WC.

Oliver interrupted Jon's goggling. "There isn't time to clear everything out today if we're going through the whole building. We can leave this space as it is for now. The cleaners don't need to come in here."

"Right. Right. But." Martin opened a few more doors. Linen closet. Coat closet. "Maybe having to live in the Institute won't be quite so bad if was can make this flat ours."

Jon felt a smile crinkle his face and didn't suppress it in favor of being serious, just this once. "Yeah. It will be nice to live somewhere pleasant, for a change. So, on to the rest of the third floor before lunch?"

"Onward!" Martin agreed.

They checked each room on either side of the long hall. The conference room was in disarray, but didn't have anything in it that might harm the cleaners. The ladies' lavatory, however, had clearly been used as a refuge, unsuccessfully, given the spatters of blood and damaged stalls. A Statement, soaked into the walls of the place pressed up against the edges of his mind so forcefully he couldn't shut it out. A tape recorder on a stained sink clicked and whirred. Jon fought the urge to speak the framing words aloud. Finally, defeated, he mumbled, "Statement of Deloris Hooper, Accounting Department of the Magnus Institute. Statement ambient in the North Ladies Lavatory of the East Wing of the Magnus Institute, September 28, 2018. Statement recovered October 23, 2018 in situ by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist."

I was listing accounts payable for the week and cross-checking against the funds in the budgets by category when I heard screaming coming from down the hall. There haven't been more than a few incidents--five, perhaps?--in the twenty-five years I've worked here that have reached the administrative floor. Usually, any hazardous events are confined to the first and second floors or down in the basement. Everyone knows not to go into the West Wing, and anyone who does go back there knows to keep the doors shut tight. So I stayed at my desk for half a minute longer than I should have, making sure my work was put away before I joined the others to peek out the door at the commotion.

There were two of them, a man and a woman. The man was much older. Each one had a large knife and at least one gun, along with some other weapons tucked into their belts. They were dusty and spattered with blood, and they seemed to know their business, walking so that they covered each other. For a moment, I thought they had been sent to help us, but then the woman turned to look at us through the long glass window by the door. She smiled. It was a cruel, toothy sort of a smile. She pointed her gun and shot out the window. We all scattered. I tried to remember what I ought to do. Mass shootings are an American problem because Americans are crazy and love their guns too much. They aren't supposed to happen here.

The two of them came into our block of offices, still shooting. I'd gotten down behind the reception counter until they passed, and then I snuck out the door and ran across the hall to the ladies' room. I figured I could climb up on one of the toilets and stay there and they might not look hard enough to find me. I tripped over someone I didn't recognize--there was a lot of blood, and I didn't want to look too closely. I was the only one in the bathroom.

I crouched on top of the toilet seat and tried my best not to make a sound. I could hear them out in the hall, saying this room or that was clear. The ladies' room door opened. I held my breath. A voice, a cold, woman's voice, said, "I can hear your heart beating."

She shot right through the stall. I felt like I'd been punched in the side, hard enough to knock me off the toilet and onto the floor. I could see blood spreading on my blouse and slacks, running down my leg. There was a sudden, chittering noise--whistling and a rustle like a thousand wings. I heard the older man yell, "Bats! Go, go, go!"

She left. I heard their footsteps pounding down the stairs. I could hear voices in the hallway, it couldn't have been more than a few seconds later, friends, colleagues, speaking urgently about first aid kits. They didn't think to check the lavatory, and although I could hear them, I couldn't make a sound loud enough for them to hear.  They were so close. I was so close to being saved.  If I could have been.  If not, It would have been nice to hold someone's hand, see a friendly face instead of cold tile and a closed door. It was very cold. I don't remember closing my eyes, but my vision went dark anyway. I could hear for a while longer. I wanted to call out, but my voice was gone. I think, the way you miss the moment you fall asleep, I missed my End.

"Statement ends."

Jon shivered. Martin was wrapped around him from behind, ready to steady Jon when the Statement let him go. He wasn't ready to speak with his own voice just yet. That had been unexpected. Deloris wasn't someone he knew well. He knew very few people well. But he'd seen her in passing and spoken to her once when she'd come down to ask about all the fire extinguishers they'd purchased. She was another life for him to remember with regret, another in a long list of lives to atone for. 

At least he wasn't hungry anymore.

Chapter Text

After Jon had taken a Statement from the unquiet dead in the admin wing, Martin and Oliver took up positions in front of and behind him for the rest of their examination of the building, intending to make a sort of Jon sandwich to keep him from encountering anything else spooky. Martin was privately glad that Jon had found a live--after a fashion--Statement to tide him over, as it was still unclear how often he was going to need them now. Martin was betting on two to three times a week, which already felt insurmountable. 

The west wing of the third floor was unoccupied. As far as Martin knew, no one had been up here in a decade or more. The door leading off the stairwell was tightly closed and locked. A sheet of paper had been taped to the door with the words: "Under Construction: Do Not Open" written on it, the tape brown and crinkling, the paper itself yellow with age.  A flicker of movement caught his eye, coming from the seam where the door closed. He bent to look close. Cobwebs wafted in the airflow from the ventilation system.

Euggh. "Jon," he said, as casually as he could manage. "I'm sure you're excited about seeing this bit of the Institute, but maybe just, stay back with Oliver for a bit, yeah?"

"Why?" Jon crowded forward. "If you think there's something dangerous in there, I should be up front to, ah, deal with it."

"Right. Okay." Martin turned the key in the lock and pulled. The door stuck a bit, then came free with a sticky, ripping sound. The doorway was filled with spiderweb, so thick he couldn't see into the space. Beside him, Jon squeaked but held his ground, and Oliver bent down to rummage in a bag of supplies. Spiders crawled among the threads. A few more adventurous ones spilled out onto the walls and floor of the stairwell. Suspended among the webs were half a dozen tape recorders, two of which clicked on while he stood in the open doorway.

Martin turned around. Jon looked apoplectic, his face dark and eyes bright with anger--a few ghostly green eye-shaped shadows flickered in the air around his head. "The Mother of Puppets. How long has she been here, pulling the strings, keeping us all in line." He went to his knees, the anger dissipating into despair. "I really thought we might be free." His head hung loose on his shoulders. Martin got down to his level, trusting Oliver to keep an eye on the spiders. He could hear the hiss of insecticide spray, the cloying, floral scent sticking to the roof of his mouth and making him want to gag. 

He knelt in front of Jon, knees touching knees, foreheads pressed together. "We'll figure this out, Jon. I promise."

"Shall I close the door?" Oliver said.

Jon sighed. "Yes. For now. Martin, did you reach Jordan Kennedy?"

"I left a message."

"I want them gone. Out of here. She can spin her webs in the tunnels, but I want her out of my Institute."  His words ended in a snarl.

As long as Jon could stay angry, he could hold the terror that was trying to grip him at bay, and Jon was livid. How dare Annabelle fill his Institute with spiders and webs? He half stomped, half stumbled down the stairs to the second floor.  She'd threatened him. She'd told him his decisions were his own while implying that she had influenced every choice he had ever made. And now she was taking up space in his domain. His home. He stalked into Research with Oliver and Martin close behind him, found his old desk, and thumped into it.

There was a tape recorder in front of him. He swung his arm at it and knocked it off the table. "Fuck!"

The tape recorder was running.

If the Eye was going to listen to Annabelle with its tape recorders, why couldn't it have told Jon what it found out?  "What do you Know about the Web?"  He shouted at the ceiling, but the Eye could not be Compelled.

Martin and Oliver stood on either side of the desk, waiting for him to finish his tantrum so they could all get to the business of sequestering the hazardous artifacts and books in Artifact Storage.  After a minute, Martin rested a hand on his shoulder. "We will deal with this, Jon."

Jon groaned and grabbed his head to work his fingers into his hair. "I know, I know, it's just--I shouldn't have underestimated her." He pushed himself up out of his chair.  They did have to get the entire building searched in time for visiting hours at the hospital. "Let's get this done."

Research took up the west wing of the second floor.  All they needed to do was check the desks for artifacts left behind in the scramble and move them to Artifact Storage in the east wing. That, at least, turned out to be a simple enough task. There was only one questionable item, an amulet that looked Vast aligned to the Eye.  Martin boxed it up and they brought it with them while walking through artifact testing rooms with cinderblock walls and more offices and conference rooms. 

They checked the office space used by artifact storage--where nothing untoward had been left since anyone who lasted any amount of time in that department knew to secure supernatural items they handled.  They entered Artifact storage itself together, just for safety. The coffin loomed in the corner, unlocked and beckoning. Jon felt it tugging at him. He could go back inside, just to retrieve Daisy; that would be the right thing to do...

And then he was on the floor next to the coffin with his hand smarting from splinters in the lid and Martin sitting on his chest. "You," Martin said, gripping Jon tightly before clambering back to his feet with Jon tucked very tightly to his side, "Are not allowed in this room without an escort who is twice your size."

"So either of the two of you, then?" Jon gasped.

Oliver gave him an almost parental frown. "I'd very much prefer you didn't come in here at all as long as the coffin isn't secured."

"Right. First floor, then?" He was not looking forward to the first floor. The library had been hardest hit in the attack and was the site of most of the deaths.

Martin shook his head. "I don't think we need to risk you stumbling upon another Statement right now, Jon. Straight to the Archives with you and we'll be down shortly."

He looked to Oliver for help, but he just shook his head. "I'm with Martin. Take some time. We can handle this."

"Fine. Just be safe.  There shouldn't be any Leitners there, but there's always the chance of a mis-shelving."

"I should be able to identify the worst of them," Oliver assured him. "Go on. We'll see you soon."

Jon turned away from the ruin of his library and headed back down to the archives to work. In the break room. Where it was cluttered but clean.

The library was the kind of horrifying mess that would have sent Martin running for a rubbish bin a few years ago. It didn't help that a lot of the red-brown stains splashed across the furniture and pooled on the floor belonged to people he knew from his time there. There had been six deaths here. Basira had never included their names in any of the information she'd provided for them while they were in Scotland, so he hadn't known until yesterday that a couple of people he'd considered friends back then hadn't survived.

He hadn't exactly had the time to mourn them either, with everything else going on and with having to keep it together for Jon, who had it so much worse. He walked mechanically through the stacks, into the small offices and study rooms, opening every drawer and cabinet to check for anything that might be a hazard to the cleaners.  Oliver followed behind, accepting suspect objects and placing them in boxes to be taken to artifact storage. He was kind enough not to speak while Martin worked.

It took a couple of hours to get through both wings and Reception, and by the time they were done, Martin was, too.  Disposable gloves had kept weeks-old blood off his hands, but the knees of his trousers were smudged dark from kneeling on the stained carpet. He ought to check on Jon--It wasn't good for him to be alone this long, but it was also getting close to visiting hours, and he'd promised to go see Renee, and he wasn't sure he could do either one of those things now. He wasn't sure he could stand up under his own power.

"I should change," he told no one in particular, though Oliver was standing only a couple of meters away.

"I'll be right back," Oliver said.

Time flowed like syrup while he waited, but when Oliver returned with a cup of hot tea and a fresh pair of trousers Martin's memory of the time spent waiting collapsed like the end of a dream. It was becoming harder and harder to dislike the End Avatar's calm demeanor, which managed to seem both stern and faintly amused at both of them. Martin lacked the energy to leave the untouched study room he'd collapsed in, so he settled for turning his back to Oliver to change his trousers. 

Once decent, he lowered himself back into the chair and took a sip of tea, which wasn't bad, though it was a little less sweet than he usually took it. It was warm in his hands. "You make it difficult to keep disliking you."

"Good, I suppose?"

Martin stared at the fluorescent lights reflecting on the rippled surface of the tea. "I wanted to hate you."

Oliver took the admission as an invitation to sit. "Why?"

"You brought Jon back. When I couldn't."

"Ah." He expected Oliver to correct him, maybe even laugh at him for his stupid jealousy. Oliver just waited for Martin to continue.

Martin sighed. "I wanted to hate you, but you've been the only person who has been decent to him--to us--since we've been back, and I can't help being a bit mad about that."

Oliver huffed something that wasn't quite a laugh. "I could try to be more unpleasant, I suppose."

"God, no. Jon needs people he can trust. More than just me. I'm very grateful. I just don't want to be. I was getting quite comfortable with resenting you and it's hard to let go of that." He looked down at his laced fingers. "So. Just something to keep in mind, I suppose. If I get short with you."

"I'll keep that in mind." His smile, when Martin looked up, was almost teasing.

And now Oliver didn't even have the decency to be properly defensive. It was infuriating. It was endearing.  It was--honestly kind of hot. Or that was just Oliver being hot. Martin reminded himself that he had a partner he loved deeply, and he didn't need to be noticing the way Oliver's hair rested against the angle of his jaw or the firm muscles of his chest and arms. Martin took a deep breath and another long drink of tea. "We should see how Jon is holding up, then I'll head over to visit Renee."

Martin had rather hoped to delay his visit with the Stranger's victim until he had settled himself a little more, but when he and Oliver made it back to the break room, Jon was asleep on the couch again. Martin tucked a knitted blanket over him, though it wasn't particularly cold, and stepped back out into the archives bullpen with Oliver. "I'm beginning to think he's catching up from all those years he spent not sleeping at all."

"Perhaps," Oliver allowed. "I'll keep an eye out and watch the phones in case any of Jon's--what are we calling the people he's sharing nightmares with?"

"I'm not sure.  Jon has them written in as 'dream victims' in his to-do list, because he refuses to cut himself any slack, even in his own head."

"Whatever they are, in case any of the three we haven't heard from call back." Oliver carefully moved a few of Jon's stacks of papers and set the cardboard box full of papers he was supposed to organize on the table. Martin hesitated in the doorway. "Go on, Martin. I'll look after everything here, and I'll text you if I need anything."

"Right, right," Martin said, forcing himself to turn away. It wasn't quite jealousy, or avoiding the visit he was afraid he'd make a botch of, though those were part of it. Jon just looked so fragile asleep like that, likely to break into a nightmare at any moment, and Martin didn't want to leave him. He shrugged on his jacket, picked his way through the mess of the archives to the side door, and left before he could change his mind.

There is a ward at St. Thomas, ten single rooms plus a two-bed intensive care unit, that does not receive float staff. Ever. Lesere Saraki was on the list of staff who could work there at need, as was Dr. Elliott from University College, and a few others. They got the weird cases, the ones medical science could not explain. Body-dead but brain-alive archivists who lay perfectly preserved and unchanging for months, for example. It wasn't clear that Jon could have gotten bedsores in that state, but Ms. Saraki had ensured he was turned and cushioned properly regardless and for that, Martin was grateful.

Ms. Saraki hurried toward him with a genuine smile. "Martin Blackwood. I'm glad you could make it. May I ask how things worked out with Jonathan?"

Martin felt a blush warm his cheeks. "He's good. Better than we could have hoped for.  I mean, anything would be better than lying mostly dead in a hospital bed, but."

"But?"

"We're together now." He caught himself smiling.

Ms. Saraki spread her arms just enough to show Martin a hug would be welcome, but not so much that he couldn't pretend he hadn't seen the gesture.  Martin let himself accept the gesture.  She gave hugs that made him feel like he could handle visiting Renee in Jon's stead.  He hoped Renee wasn't too disappointed. Ms. Saraki guided him toward her room with a light touch to his elbow. He could see that two other rooms were occupied by the lights over the doors.

Renee sat propped among pillows and bolsters with a laptop and headphones. She looked up when they entered. "Hey," she said.

"Hi, Renee. Sorry I'm not--" He felt his shoulders slump and half-expected some bitter, snappish retort.

"Hi, Martin," she said, pronouncing each word slowly and carefully. "I'm glad you came." he recognized her smile, even as it sat on a face with mismatched parts. The Lonely tugged at him, encouraging him to feed her feelings of insecurity.

He told it that it could fuck right off.  "I want to tell you something about Jon. He's a prickly sort, but when he decides someone is his, he doesn't throw them away, even if he gets stuck living in a moldy old archive built as a temple to an eyeball god by his evil ex-boss."

Renee looked at him with a completely different pair of mismatched eyes. "What about you?"

He made a point of looking her in the eyes despite the shifting kaleidoscope of her face. "I love him. And I want to do right by you both. So. I know you're worried about the future, but you can put to rest any fear that you'll have to figure it all out alone."

"Alone," she chuckled sadly.

"I mean, right, but, you know."

"Yeah." she shifted position in the bed, one of the limbs under the sheets suddenly larger and longer.  "If I could just--" The voice came out deep and gravelly and she coughed. "Stop. It!" she hissed.

Ms. Saraki stood at the end of the bed, tablet in hand. "Mind if I sit?" she said. "We have some things to discuss."

"Okay," Renee said, hesitantly.

"So. You'll need to have a wheelchair-accessible entry to where you're living. The Magnus Institute is notoriously not accessible."

Martin winced. "There's an entry into the archives by way of the courtyard around the back. We're planning to set up a temporary space there until we can get the lift in.  we're long overdue for an accessibility retrofit. I won't sugarcoat it, though.  We've got to get an architect to figure out where to put the lift, get consent since it's a Class two-star listed building, and get builders willing to work with us. It could take a year or more."

Lesere frowned. "Under more regular circumstances, I'd say we ought to find you a better living situation. But you need to be where your support people are and until we know whether any of your components' families are going to be helpful, Mr. Sims and Mr. Blackwood are what you have. We're planning on releasing you in three or four days, once we're sure you're stable, but you need occupational therapy, physical therapy, and therapy to help you process the experience and your components as well. I've been compiling a list of people for a while now. I should be able to find at least the therapist and the PT pretty quickly."

"That's surprising," Martin said.

"Better Beholding than The Lightless Flame. It took me almost a year to understand what was happening to me, and what I'd been--given--by that young man with the tattoos.  I've put the little bit of extra insight I've been granted to good use, I think."

"Jon will be happy to hear." He would worry himself sick over Saraki's attachment to the Eye, more likely. "Could you see if you can find a separate therapist for him? Someone who can help him work through complex, extended trauma."

"When we released him before he wasn't interested."

"He didn't have me to talk him into it, then."

"Good luck," Ms. Saraki said, sounding like she didn't expect Martin to have much success. "Now, Renee, I'd like you to prioritize deciding when and if to get in touch with your families. This may mean working on being able to access and separate the different sets of memories you have, so I'm going to see if I can get Parker Lind. She specializes in plural systems and, while you don't have typical DID, I think some of the techniques used to help systems will be useful to you."

Renee made a face and scrunched up smaller in the bed. 

"It might even help you learn to control how you manifest physically."

The grudging shrug they got was probably the best they were going to get, Martin thought. Renee looked just about done being dealt with like a problem to be solved. "I think we should be done with making plans for now," he said. Here was the part when his mother usually kicked him out. "So, you want to play a game? I've heard The Stanley Parable is good and doesn't require more coordination than either of us has."

She shrunk a little in the bed. "You're kidding. You want to spend your afternoon playing a video game with a--with whatever I am?"

"I want to get to know you. And I think having a distraction could make that a bit less--heavy?"

A lock of red hair tumbled in front of her eyes. She blew on it. "All right, I'll bite. But I should tell you two of us have played it."

"Which two?"

"Cole and Mia.  They were a couple. I still feel them trying to be that, in my head."

"Why can't they be?"

"I--I mean, aren't all the people I used to be supposed to go away so I can be the person?"

"I think that's for all of you to decide together. But as long as Mia and Cole don't mind and can keep from dropping spoilers, I think we'll be okay."

"Good.  I'll queue it up."

It was a good game for low-stakes talking. The puzzles would wait for them to talk through their decisions and get distracted, but there was enough mystery to give them something to think about besides themselves. They played for an hour or so until Renee was genuinely ready to sleep some more, and then Martin stole away before he could get caught up in more of the logistics discussions that poked unpleasant holes into where his memories of the care home lay. 

Chapter Text

In the three weeks Jon and Martin had together in Scotland, Martin had learned to sleep through Jon's early morning puttering, and Jon had learned to putter quietly. He perched on the edge of Jonah's ostentatious and not especially comfortable leather couch, idly reading over the wish list they'd made together last night. Furniture and housewares catalogs littered the coffee table, marked with sticky tabs. They'd found that they didn't have quite the same taste in home furnishings, but that there was enough middle ground to agree upon a sectional couch suited for sitting up or lying about, along with some deliberately not-matching chairs, including a gliding rocker Martin noticed Jon kept going back to with a wistful expression, then dismissing as not appropriate for a grown adult with a professional position. "You don't have to be professional at home Jon," he'd tutted, and Jon had relented. The rocker would be delivered next week.

The twilight outside lightened. At seven, Martin's alarm clock went off and Jon listened to the pleasantly domestic sounds of Martin showering and moving about the bathroom. He appeared, dressed in a turtleneck and jeans with an age-softened jumper over the top. He planted a casual kiss on the top of Jon's head before heading to the kitchenette. 

Jon tidied the coffee table while Martin made the morning tea. It was, he knew, a ritual Martin liked to keep for his own, making their morning tea in silence, the simple, repeated actions easing away his remaining drowsiness. He joined his partner at the small dining table to find three cups arrayed in front of him. Jon gave him a puzzled head tilt as he sat. Martin pointed. "Almond milk, rice milk, and just sugar. I looked up the gentlest of the not-milks."

Jon gave each a sniff and took a sip of the tea with almond milk. It wasn't the same as the real thing, but it had a pleasant flavor he thought he would get used to. There was also a bit less milk than he was used to. The Eye filled him in with Martin's plan to start with a teaspoon and gradually increase the amount if Jon managed to tolerate it. "It tastes lovely," Jon said.

"And you'll let me know if it upsets your stomach?"

Jon chuckled. "Yes, Martin."

"Will you try to let the cleaners do their job without shadowing them all day?"

Jon shrugged. "I'll try, but I make no promises when they get to the archives."

Martin pointed at him with a triangle of toast. "You're a proper cat you know."

"I resent that."  

"Only because you know I'm right. I've half a mind to get you a little bottle of perfume so you can mark your territory."

Jon let a smile cross his face. "We could get one, you know."

"What? A cat?" Martin gave him a stern look that shattered into giggles. "Let's wait until the new furniture comes at least."

Jon pushed his lip into an exaggerated pout, prompting Martin to lean across the table to kiss the expression off his face. A part of him realized they were reaching a bit, trying for a light tone to the morning so hard it skirted the edge of dishonesty, but Jon basked in the illusion of normalcy regardless. 

Martin took the dishes to the sink. "What's your plan for the day?"

"Thought I'd pace the break room until Tessa gets in, then a little getting murdered."

Martin laughed. "No. Really. I'm planning to set up a meeting with Diana, Sonja, and Sunita for the end of the week to go over some plans for reopening on a limited basis; then I'll fix up the break room so there's room for Tessa to work while the cleaners are in,"

"I--um."  There were so many things to think about, and he didn't have a simple, well-defined job anymore. In fact, other than "exist as the Archivist within its Domain" he wasn't sure he had an actual job description. "So. Do you have any suggestions? Shit." He listened to Martin's answer so at least the compulsion wouldn't be wasted.

"Start with a list of changes to the building interior and a list of priorities, then get a list of architects in the area and ask Eyeballs McNosey who it trusts with poking around its Institute.  If Tessa doesn't murder you, and she won't, see if you can have her call the other nightmare-bound people and get them to sign contracts." He shook his head a little. "And make an appointment with one of the therapists Ms. Saraki found for you."

Jon opened his mouth to apologize and beat himself up a bit as he deserved, but Martin shook his head. "I don't want to hear it, Jon.  So. You can't phrase anything as a question at all anymore, even casually."

"Guess not." He slumped miserably in his chair. So much for normalcy.

"I don't take it personally when it's not about something private, Jon, but keeping a lid on might help with the whole not getting murdered thing." He took an appraising look at Jon and hauled him to his feet. "Ups a daisy, love, wallowing in guilt is not on the agenda for the day."

"Right. Of course." Jon straightened his clothes and attempted to regain his dignity. At least Martin seemed more amused than upset by Jon's slip.

"You can make it up to me by doing all the things on the list you compelled out of me. Especially the last one."

The cleaners arrived in force at eight o'clock sharp, with a team of twelve in three white vans. Martin left Jon at the top of the steps, just outside the Institute doors, and jogged down to meet with the woman in white coveralls who appeared to be in charge of the army of cleaners. "You ready for this?" he asked her. "It's bad in there."

"One word, Mr.--"

"Blackwood."

"One word, Mr. Blackwood. Worms."

Martin grimaced. "Got it. Right. Sorry you had to deal with that, for your sake, but for ours I'm rather glad. If you see anything that looks cursed, or, or any ghosts, leave the area immediately."

"We've got it covered, Mr. Blackwood," she assured him. "I brought people familiar with the spooky side of crisis cleaning." She looked up to where Jon stood with his arms crossed, watching the crowd with wide eyes and nervous fingers. "Come on down," she called up to Jon. "I promise we don't bite."

Martin shook his head. "He can't."

"Can't manage the stairs, eh? Then we'll make our introductions up there."  She marched confidently up the stairs, followed by her mop-and-bucket equipped entourage. Martin trotted around behind to stand by Jon. "Maisy Donovan."

"Jon Sims. I'll be in the basement. If you need anything." To Martin's eye he looked like he was itching to escape.

"So, top to bottom, then?" Maisy continued brightly.

Jon clarified, "Third floor, administrative wing only. The west wing needs an exterminator first. Everywhere else except the archives break room. I'll be there with my staff."

"Don't you worry, we'll take good care of the place."

Martin caught the green glint in his eye when he fixed her with his gaze. "See that you do," he said, ominously, then ducked his head in mortification and scurried back inside.

Miasy Donovan goggled. "What the hell was that?"

"Thought you said you were used to the spooky," Martin challenged. "It's fine, he's just possessive of his space."

"It's all right love, he doesn't scare me," she said. "If you don't mind me asking, what's his deal?"

"He's bound to the Institute. Can't leave, and I think he sort of--feels what it feels? So you know, be gentle, I suppose?"

"Looked solid to be a ghost," she mused.

Martin nodded. "More of a demon than a ghost, I suppose, though he's a good man, for all that. He's just been through a lot."

"You're sweet on him," Maisy observes with a sly grin.

"He's my partner, so yes. Shall we head inside?"

"Of course. Come on everyone, let's get moving!" she said, then led her crew into the mess inside.

Jon took the stairs carefully so as not to make his bad leg worse. It ought to have been a cane day today. It certainly would be tomorrow. When he opened the door to the archives, there was a woman seated on one side of the big double desk Tim and Sasha used to share, plucking through the mess of papers and Fleshy detritus gingerly with thumb and forefinger. She turned to look at him and her eyes widened with fear, then, after a moment in which they stared at each other without moving, her eyes narrowed and her expression grew stiff and chilly. "Jonathan Sims," she said, sharply.

"Ms. Winters. I--" he stammered.

"Shut up."

Jon closed his mouth. He turned just long enough to close the door behind him, then stood in front of it, facing her without looking directly at her. The bullpen was in less disarray than it had been yesterday, but it still showed signs of the battle that had taken place here.

She continued, "I need you to know what it was like. So I'm going to talk and you're going to listen. Then, when I'm done, I have some questions."

"Don't," Jon started to say.

"Why not?" she snapped. "You need to understand what you did to me. What you took from me."

Jon shook his head and raised his hands in a placating gesture. "If you tell me, it will happen again. Beholding feeds on your fear. And mine. It will make you relive the dreams while you tell me about them."

She got up out of the chair and stalked toward him to poke her finger into his chest. He looked down at the finger but didn't move away. "So, what, then, you just get off without any consequences? You hurt me. You were in my head. In my dreams! And you just watched, like it was fun for you. Was it fun for you?"

"No," Jon said. It wasn't a lie, quite. "At least, not intentionally. The Eye controls my dreams. I am as helpless to change anything as you are."

"Other than your pajamas," she noted.

"I forget that you can see what I'm wearing." It was a good thing he ran cold at night.

She backed off, but only slightly. "Why are you in my dreams?"

"Anyone who gives a Statement belongs to Beholding. If they aren't employed by the Institute, they appear in my nightmares. Or I appear in theirs, I suppose."

"Then why did you take my Statement?"

Jon crumpled a little more. "At the time, I didn't know. I didn't know the nightmares weren't just the Eye tormenting me until after the Unknowing."

"They said you were in a coma. For six months. The dreams didn't stop."

"I was, for all practical purposes, dead. Beholding kept me around for its own reasons. I "

She planted her hands on her hips, studying him. Judging him. "Did you stop taking statements once you knew?"

Jon sighed heavily. "I tried."

"You tried," Tessa repeated after him, challenge in her tone.

"This body isn't human. It is sustained by the Eye, mostly through the Statements. If I don't feed it, I die, slowly. I did try starvation as a strategy. I didn't have the willpower, in the end." There was a letter opener in his top desk drawer and knives in the break room kitchenette. It wouldn't kill Jon to be stabbed, though it would hurt.

"I slept well, last night. First time in a year."

"I'm sorry," Jon said uselessly.

"How do you sleep?"

Jon sighed. "Badly. When I sleep. I tried just not sleeping.  When I was trying not to take Statements."

She nodded, arms still folded across her chest, thoughtful. "And how did that work out for you?"

"About as well as not taking Statements."

Two sets of footsteps thumped down the stairs leading to the bullpen. Tessa took a step away from Jon as the door opened. She gave Martin and Oliver a quick look, then said, "Who are you two?"

Jon introduced them, glad of something to talk about besides his violation of her dreams. "This is Oliver Banks, our chief financial officer, and Martin Blackwood, my partner. We're still working out what his position at the Institute will be."

"Looking after you is a full-time job," Martin told him. "Ms. Winters, I'm glad you made it in. Did the contract do its job?"

"It did. My nightmares were all my own." At Martin's aghast look, she added, "They were also shorter and much less detailed. Hardly nightmares at all by comparison."

"I had a look at your resume. It looks like you would be most at home in the IT department."

She shook her head. "I'd like to work down here, where I can torment Jon properly," she said, in a tone that might have been kidding.

Jon interrupted, "Ms. Winters, you need to know that Archives positions are different from all other positions at the institute."

"And how's that, other than having to put up with you?"

Jon waved his hands helplessly, trying to shape his explanation into something she would understand. "The Archivist is a metaphysical position in relation to Beholding. Older than the Institute by a wide margin. Possibly dating to the invention of writing. Archival Assistants cannot leave the position as long as the Archivist lives."

"That's--job security, I suppose. All right if I decide later?"

"Quite all right. At present it's only the four of us, anyway."

Martin interrupted gently, "If you don't mind, the most helpful thing you could do right now is contact the other nightmare, ah, victims to inform them that our software patch works, so to speak."

"Don't want to get shouted at over the phone?"

"Just hoping you can convince them to take the offer better than I can," Martin said. "The goal is to stop people from having the nightmares, Jon included."

"It's fine, I did tech support in uni. I'm used to getting yelled at over the phone."

Jon and Martin had both chosen to ignore the distinct possibility that he would end up needing more Statements, and more live Statements, without the residual fear from the nightly parade of horrors. It would be all right. Or it wouldn't. Worst case scenario, he could be encased in concrete like Monster Pig.  They could replace the table in the break room with a big block of concrete with him inside, and everyone could take their lunches on him. He doubted Martin would approve of the direction his thoughts had taken, but Jon felt the need to consider all outcomes, including worst-case scenarios. Especially worst-case scenarios. 

Tessa was staring at him. "You still in there, Sims?"

"Sorry. Thinking. It seemed important to you that I understand exactly how badly your dreams affected you. If you make a written statement, the retraumatizing effect is--it's not as bad. And I can read it later. So I understand. But full disclosure it will also. Feed me. Or at least Beholding." 

"Was kind of hoping to shout it at you, honestly. Seemed like it would be cathartic."

"I'm sure you'll have plenty of opportunities to shout at me."  

Martin appeared to decide that they needed to move on. "Look. The bullpen is a bit--Fleshy--at present. Would you mind if we all retired to the break room? It's a tight squeeze but it smells a bit better."

"There a phone in there?" Tessa asked.

"There are four workspaces crammed in there, but yes, there's a business phone. Oliver should be in by now. You should meet him." Martin ushered them both toward the break room, then handed Tessa the information on Jordan, Naomi, and Jess. "If you get Jordan Kennedy on the line, let him know we have a serious spider infestation on the third floor." He hooked Jon by the arm and dragged him out the rear door to the courtyard. "Let's give them a little space. So. I've got our meeting set up for Monday. Sunita, Sonja, and Diane are all interested in returning, miraculously enough."

"Right. I should." Jon turned back toward the Archives.

Martin caught his elbow lightly. "The courtyard is part of the Institute, Jon. And Oliver and Tessa are both professionals who do not need constant supervision to keep them from blowing up the microwave or jumping on the couch."

"And that's why we're having a meeting outside when it's eight degrees out and threatening rain."

"Executive meeting. Tessa seems--a lot."

Jon shook his head. "I think she'll be okay.  Probably best someone's around to keep me in check, since you and Oliver apparently like me."

"Oliver likes you?" Martin said a bit sharply.

"Well, I assume so, or he's very good at being kind to people he hates--"

Martin scrubbed at his hair. "Oh. That kind of like. Sorry, still working on that jealousy thing."

Beholding decided an embarrassing airdrop was in order. Jon winced. "He does, though. Like me. Like that. Apparently." Martin reddened in a way that was simultaneously adorable and a little disturbing. Jon rushed to finish what he was going to say. "He likes you too. Like that."

"Well. That's a. Thing."

"Yes. Quite." Jon rubbed at the sudden warmth on the back of his neck. "I had been hoping to, possibly, invite him to join us for the Lord of the Rings marathon this weekend. Should I--I wonder if I should reconsider."

"I think. I mean. Hm." Martin stared down at their clasped hands, clearly avoiding Jon's eyes. His ears, though, were deep pink. "I mean. We could invite him anyway. Both of us? Do you know if he's hedging his bets, or--?"

"Beholding has nothing to add, I'm afraid. I think it's enjoying watching us squirm."

Martin dropped back against the door to thump the back of his head against it. Twice. "I don't know how I feel about him, Jon. I mean, I still feel angry and jealous every time I look at him, but also there's this--spark? I don't know. It's hard to explain when you don't feel that way about people."

"I'm asexual, not aromantic, Martin."

"Right, right. But I mean, do I like him that way or does being hot under the collar translate for me into being hot under the collar, if you know what I mean?"

"Um." Jon took a moment to translate. "You think you might mix up being angry and being--attracted. Because, because you and I--"

"Well, yes. Maybe?" Martin scrubbed at his face. "Sorry. But--but you like him too."

"Um. Yes. I mean, I think I could like him that way. It feels--nice--to think of him that way. As being a bigger part of our lives." The brief fantasy Jon had of snuggling up between them, safe and warm and held surprised him with how much it appealed. He arranged himself against the door next to Martin and tilted his head so it touched his shoulder.

Martin sighed. "We should talk about, well. Have you ever thought about it?"

"What, having more than one partner? Martin, I'm still surprised two separate people ever saw anything worth caring for in me, a decade apart. It never occurred to me, honestly."  Jon rubbed his thumbs across the backs of Martin's hands. "I would like to know what you think."

Martin tipped his chin up to meet his eyes. "I need you to know that you and me. We're a permanent thing. Whatever might happen with Oliver, I'm not going to leave you for him."

Jon wanted to say that hadn't even occurred to him, but that would be a lie, and he had promised not to lie--both Beholding and Martin felt the same about Jon lying. "Okay." Jon said instead. "I won't leave you for him, either. Though I can't imagine why you would think that."

"Coma." Martin reminded.

"End Avatar," Jon countered. "Just doing his job."

"Right. So. This weekend, unless he wants to bring it up, we just have a nice, long movie marathon to see if we can stand each other when we're not working."

"Good plan. And, um." Jon chewed his lip. "If he approaches one of us while the other isn't there, we tell him we need to all talk about it together, and if he doesn't want to do that, then it's a no-go."

"Fair enough. See, we are capable of talking things out like adults."

Jon stifled a chuckle. "I should hope so. We're going to be doing it for a long time if I have anything to say about it."

Chapter Text

Any good exterminator knows that when one arrives at a place of business, it's best to park round the back.  The woman on the phone, Tessa, said that the infestation was spiders, an almost unbelievably severe infestation of spiders, and Jordan immediately thought of the Vittery case. That one was still bouncing around the rumor mill, getting more and more elaborate with each retelling, even though it had been bad enough without the exaggeration if the official reports were accurate. He grabbed a canister of pesticide and adjusted his coverall and cap. The back door was plain, fire-rated wood, locked, with a doorbell and a sign that said, "Please ring, do not knock."

Jordan rang the bell. A moment later a round-faced woman with a ponytail opened the door. "Jordan Kennedy?" she asked.

"That I am."

"I'm Tessa. Sleep well?"

"The last two nights have given me back years, I think," he said. "Thanks for convincing me to go through with the employment contract. Where's the eyeball overlord?"

"Hiding in his office, though he told me to fetch him if you wanted to smack him around a little."

"That's--considerate, I suppose." He wasn't looking forward to encountering the man again in person, for fear it might trigger an attack of phantom insect feet crawling all over his body, under his clothes, into his ears and--enough of that, he told himself firmly. 

Tessa led him inside. "Frankly I think he's making a bit of a contest of the self-loathing. You know, 'No matter how much you hate me, I can hate myself more.' It's annoying as hell."

"I can imagine. Shall I head upstairs to have a look at the spider situation?" He had a look around the archives on his way to the stairs, taking it slow, his attention focused on the corners, looking for signs of termites or other infestations. There were no cobwebs, though the entire space was thoroughly cleaned the day before yesterday, or so he'd been told.

Tessa chewed her lip and looked over at an office door with "Archivist" on it. "About that. I know we've been joking around about you beating him up over the nightmares, but how uncomfortable are you with seeing him in person?"

Jordan paused in the middle of the floor. "I don't know. How many eyes does he have in real life?"

"Just the two, but they are a bit. Much. He wants to go up with you. He's afraid there might be something supernaturally hazardous up there."

The door to the Archivist's office opened. Whoever had opened the door didn't emerge, instead speaking through the partly opened door as if he were hiding behind it. "Giant spiders twice the size of a person would be on brand for The Mother of Puppets, I'm afraid. I'd like to be there for protection."

Jordan scoffed impatiently. "Come on out, Mr. Sims. I'd rather not talk to a door."

"Right, right," the door said, then a slight man emerged, closing the door behind him, then turning to face Jordan. He held a cane close to his body, clearly leaning on it a bit for support even while standing still. "Jon Sims."  The man met his eyes for just long enough for Jordan to notice that they were a decidedly unnatural and extremely familiar shade of green. His heart rate kicked up, but he managed to force a smile around the sudden urge to run for his truck.

"You don't seem like you'd be worth much against a giant spider," Jordan said.

Sims tugged awkwardly at his earlobe. "Not physically, no. But that's not generally the approach that's most effective against these sort of, ah, threats."

"Gonna go all eyeball monster on it, are you?"

"So to speak," Sims said, primly. 

"Right." Jordan gestured to the stairwell. "After you, then."

If he hadn't suggested Sims precede him up the stairs he likely would have lost him.  They made their way up the stairs, Sims not seeming to have much strength to spare for conversation. On the second floor, he stopped to rest. "I don't always," he said, as though apologizing for the cane and his slowness. "There's been so much to do, and I rather overdid it this week."

"How'd you figure it out?" Jordan asked while they were stopped.

"What?"

"That hiring us would stop the dreams?"

"Oh. That. Martin never had them. Nor anyone else at the Institute." He hauled himself back to his feet. "I didn't realize they weren't just my own nightmares until a few months ago. Should have known, though. Obvious in retrospect."

Jordan huffed a laugh. "A lot of things are."

Sims didn't bother to disguise a tired sigh at the looming stairs to the third floor.  He started up, doggedly, and Jordan followed. 

Jon was looking forward to thoroughly routing the Web stronghold on the third floor, which had been featuring in his personal nightmares the last couple of nights, replacing Tessa, Jordan, and Jess. He suspected Lionel would tire of being the center of Beholding's attention every night soon, but there was only so long the Eye could toy with him on any given night--which meant Jon had space in his nightly lineup for some nightmares of his own. Strangely enough, he'd awakened better rested than he had in quite some time as well.  He'd prodded Beholding about the spider situation, but while the Eye felt uneasy with the presence of the Web in its domain, it was either unable or unwilling to confirm the form it might have taken whilst hidden in the disused wing of the building for a decade or longer.  He walked up to the door to the infested wing. "So, expect a lot of spiders."

Hold up, Sims," Jordan said, tapping him on the shoulder. Jon turned around to see the exterminator holding out a respirator. "Put this on."

Jon took the respirator from Jordan, looked at it, and handed it back.  He shouldn't need it, given he didn't actually breathe, and it looked like it might obstruct his vision. 

"I'd really rather you wear it," Jordan said.

"I'm clinically dead. I don't breathe."

Jordan pushed the respirator back at him. "The pesticide is an eye irritant. And I am not having your Martin coming after me if you get hurt."

"Fine." He supposed it was the least he could do, given he owed Jordan badly.  The Eye instructed him on how to put on the respirator, with its attached goggles, properly, but his scarred right hand wasn't flexible enough to tighten the straps. 

Jordan reached around his head to pull them tight. "Not pinching anywhere?"

"No. All right, I'm going to open the door. Stay behind me.  Do not move ahead of me under any circumstances." He pulled hard on the door. It made a sticky tearing sound, as though it was being held closed with velcro, but it wouldn't open. Jon tugged harder. "I think it may take the both of us." He made space for a second pair of hands.

Behind him, Jordan said, "On three. One, two, three!" A hard jerk and the door flew open, releasing a horde of spiders. A couple of tape recorders fell out of the door as well, both running.  Jordan sprayed around the doorframe while Jon swept the webs out of the doorway with his cane.

Going in was a very bad idea, but both Jon and Beholding needed to know what was lurking in his Institute. Behind him, Jordan pulsed with fear held tight under an armor of professionalism and situational awareness. Jon walked forward slowly, Watching and listening, while Jordan sprayed insecticide liberally in their path. Spiders of all shapes and sizes, though none beyond the realm of natural plausibility, skittered away from them. Every couple of seconds, a tape recorder, freed by Jon's cane or Jordan's spray, would clatter to the floor. There were hundreds of them, mixed up with cassettes suspended in the webs with magnetic tape pulled out and spooling among the thinner strands of spider silk. He heard a familiar scraping sound behind him. His usually quiescent heart seized in his chest and he whipped around, brandishing his cane. 

He had never seen all of Mr. Spider before. The thing was tall enough to brush the ceiling, with legs that reached into the doorways on either side. On its head, just above the several eyes, sat a little red bowler hat that would have been comical if the creature weren't so deadly. Massive, dripping chelicerae hovered one on either side of Jordan Kennedy's head. "It's behind me, isn't it?" Jordan whispered.

Jon nodded.  He met the largest and most forward-facing of the creature's eight shiny eyes. It spoke first, proving, he supposed, that it could speak. "You may go, Jonathan, if you go now. I have no need of you yet." The chelicerae dipped down to brush Jordan's shoulders and he flinched, flooding Jon with terror that was not his own, pouring it into the reservoir of strength behind his eyes.  

"Not without Jordan," Jon said. 

"Tasty, isn't he? Kind of you to lure him here for me," the spider said, with a caress across Jordan's neck. "If you'd rather, I'll let you watch me wrap him up and drain him. Alliances are often made over a shared meal."

He could not watch someone he had sworn to protect die because he had rashly led him into a trap. "Let him go." 

"What is he to you, Archivist? He gave you a Statement, once, then you fed on his dreams until you nearly broke him. Why the sudden sympathy for your food?" As it spoke, it continued to stroke Jordan's face and neck, over his shoulders, and onto his chest. Jordan stood, sweating and pale, looking like he might cry. The canister at his side rattled with his shaking.

"He is Mine," Jon said, as firmly as he could manage.  In his peripheral vision, he could see Jordan adjusting his grip on the sprayer. "What is your interest in me and my Institute?" Jon said, pushing hard against the Web's defenses.

It wasn't enough to fully capture the creature, but it did stiffen for a moment as it fought off the compulsion, and Jordan thankfully took advantage, spraying the thing liberally in the eyes.

"Run! Don't look back!" Jon shouted. Jordan ducked under a pair of spindly limbs and made for the door while the spider hunched forward to scrub at its many eyes. Jon heard the clatter of Jordan's boots on the stairs and relaxed, if only slightly.

Mr. Spider regained its composure quickly, though its eyes were obscured by hundreds of its little minions holding puffs of silk, which they scrubbed across its eyes for a few seconds each until they fell dead and were replaced by others, making it look a little like the creature was crying spiders. "My plans for you? That's for me to know and you to find out when the time is ripe." It moved to block Jon's escape route more thoroughly. Spiders rained onto him from above and worked their way into his hair and under his collar. He tried to come up with a next step, a way out, but he couldn't think through the sensation of tiny legs on him. "It's too bad you let our snack get away. It's not so easy to be brave when you're not being powered by someone else's fear, is it, little Eye?" Jon took the question to be rhetorical, mostly because he couldn't respond through the chattering of his teeth. "Would you mind trying to move? I'd like to see how the children are coming along."

He started at the suggestion, trying to step backward and brush the spiders from his face, but he found they had spun threads to hold him right where he was. Panic sent him thrashing, which tore a few threads but not enough to free him, and the ones torn were quickly replaced. "Comfortable?" Mr. Spider asked, again rhetorically. "Now, as to what I want. There is a Ritual that went, shall we say, poorly.  You will tell me exactly what is needed to put it to rights, and then you will fulfill the role for which I chose you when you were just an annoying little boy with an insatiable appetite for books."

Jordan flung himself down the stairs, canister clanging against the railings, bolted through the archives bullpen, and threw open the break room door. "There's a giant fucking spider up there, and it's got the Archivist!" he gasped.

Martin was out of his seat before Jordan even finished speaking. "I knew we should have all gone up together. Damn that man and his martyr complex!" 

A tall, black man with box braids pulled into a ponytail stood quickly, but without panic. "Don't rush so much you hurt yourself, Martin."

"Bite me."

A strange look passed across Oliver's face for a moment, then he turned back toward Tessa. "You stay here and keep an ear out. If we're not back in one hour-"

"If we're not back in one hour, call Basira Hussain and let her know what happened," Martin said.  He caught Jordan's eye. "If you're not coming with us, we could use the insecticide."

Jordan's hands were still shaking. "He could have eaten me. The spider said it would share."

"And?" Martin prompted.

"And he helped me get away instead. I don't know how much use I'll be, but I know how to use pesticide better than either of you." He was mad. This whole thing was mad. Jonathan Sims had tormented him in his dreams for the better part of a year, and here he was, running up the steps behind two other guys with vibes almost as spooky as Sims to do battle with a giant man-eating spider on his behalf. What else could he do? Jordan Kennedy was no coward.  

They stopped at the top of the stairs. The door remained open.  Dead spiders littered the floor whilst a few wobbly survivors made their way off the landing toward the stairwell, where they, too, would quickly succumb. Martin flicked on a high powered torch and shone it in through the door. The light made it a few meters in before it was swallowed up by thick mats of spider silk. Neither Sims nor the monster spider were anywhere to be seen.

"Wait here," Martin said, and promptly disappeared in a sudden swirl of fog.

"What just happened?" Jordan asked.

Oliver smiled grimly. "The Lonely. It's a sort of space alongside reality. He should be able to move about without being seen."

"Right." He should have known he was walking into comic book logic with this job. "What about you? Any special talents I ought to know about?"

"I can sense the approach of death, and hasten it in some cases."

"So, is..."

"Jon is alive and doesn't appear to be in any immediate danger of death. Mr. Spider wants him alive."

Martin swirled back into existence beside them, though his form remained hazy. "It's got him hung up at the end of the hallway. Wants him to give it the Ritual."

"What ritual?" Jordan asked.

"A Ritual to create hell on Earth," Martin told him.

A nervous laugh found its way out of Jordan's mouth. "What, like Parliament being run by the Tories?"

"I wish it was just something like that." He turned to Oliver. "But we broke the Ritual. I don't think he can put it back together, not the way it was."

"I'd trust that for the short term, but we need to get him out of there before the Eye or the Web find a loophole," Oliver said. "Isn't there a fire escape on that end of the hall?"

"There is, but the Spider will have anticipated that we'd try for that." Martin kept peering down the hallway, worry plain on his face.

"It's a lot less to fight through than coming in from the front," Jordan offered. "So. I have some thoughts."

"Go on," Oliver said.

"First off, how indestructible is Jon, really? How aggressive can we afford to be?"

"We're not going to hurt Jon!" Martin shouted, then dropped his voice to a whisper and ushered them all down to the second-floor landing.

Oliver leaned back against the wall, considering Jordan and Martin. "How badly would Jon be willing to be hurt in order to escape that thing?"

"Jon would die to keep it from making him destroy the world." Martin slumped onto a stair. "We haven't exactly tested the limits of his--durability. We also have to keep in mind that injuries require Statements to heal, so anything we do to him--he won't be the only person paying for it."

"Let's head back down to the Archives to plan our next move. We'll only get one shot to pull him out, most likely," Oliver said, leading the way back down the stairs. "What other allies do we have?"

"Allies who can actually help? Basira, maybe. I burned our bridges with Georgie and Melanie and they wouldn't bring any supernatural tricks to the table anyway. Daisy's gone into the Buried. God. Helen?"

"Who's Helen and why are you saying her name like that?" Jordan asked.

"Helen Distortion. I don't think she'll help us, though. A thing like she is would benefit from the Web's scheming."

Jordan considered their options. "So. We've got the building clean and empty. I say we tent it and fumigate the whole thing, top to bottom. We give it 2 hours to suffocate everything alive in there, and then, we pull him out and revive him if he needs reviving. He said he doesn't really need to breathe, so he should be fine."

They reached the bullpen and pulled up chairs. "How long would it take to get the tent up and the fumigant in?"

"A whole team out here? About eight hours to--"

"No." Martin shook his head for emphasis.

"No what?"

"We're not leaving him in there for eight hours before we even start to kill that thing. Besides, we don't know if that great bloody spider needs to breathe air either."

"We do know it can be slowed down by pesticides though. Maybe something stronger, we flood the whole area and drag Jon out, get him into a decon shower."

"What can we get our hands on quickly?"

"Permethrin. It will be more effective if we can get it through the carapace. If it were a normal-sized insect, I'd say we go with diatomaceous earth in a duster, but I'm going to say we want to sandblast the bastard." Just saying it made him feel a little better.

"Right. You source the insecticide, we'll head out and rent a sandblaster. Can you be back within the hour?"

"I'll sure as hell try."

Chapter Text

Martin paced the courtyard for the entire hour and twelve minutes it took for Jordan to return to the Institute with a truck bearing a pair of two hundred liter barrels of pesticide and an orange canister on wheels with a hose and nozzle attached.  He ran up to grab the canister from Jordan as he lowered it off the truck.  Oliver eyed the fire escape dubiously. "It held when Georgie and I used it before, but that was from the second floor, and we weren't carrying a fifty kilos of sand."

"Eighty kilos of sand, steel, and motor," Martin said. "And I'm no lightweight."

"No, you're not," Oliver agreed with a look that skirted the edge of flirtatious.

Jordan took another ten minutes assembling a decontamination shower. Martin found the exterior water supply--there must have been landscaping back here, once, rather than gravel with crabgrass and dandelions poking through--and hooked everything up. He hated every second of delay, but he knew they were going to be spraying chemicals in mass quantities up there, and he didn't want Jon's skin to melt off or whatever might happen to him if his eyes were damaged. Could Jon even live without his eyes anymore?

Martin and Oliver met at the bottom of the fire escape once everything was assembled. Jon had been up there for an hour and a half. So much could happen in an hour and a half. "If I'd just been able to pull him into the Lonely with me, but the spiderwebs--they're not just physical. They work against the other Fears."

Oliver patted him firmly on the shoulder. "We've got this. We'll get him out."

Jordan joined them.  "So, we can run the hose up to the third floor.  There's enough of it to drag all the way through to the front if we need to, but I worry about what might happen if the hose is punctured." He paused to hand Martin and Oliver heavy hoods with panels for them to see through. "You do not want blasting sand in your eyes or lungs."

Martin looked from Jordan to Oliver and put on an authoritative face he didn't quite feel. "So, here's the plan. I'm going up first and taking the sandblaster since I'm the only one strong enough to get it up there. Then I'm going to sidestep into the Lonely and go inside to confirm where Jon is. That will get my weight off the fire escape. You two follow.  You focus on the spider and I'll work on getting Jon out."

"It's good he was wearing the full professor getup today," Oliver noted. "The pullover and suit coat ought to give him some protection.  Do you have an extra hood for him?"

"I do," Jordan said.  

Martin caught the hood Jordan tossed to him. "Let's go." He winced at every clang of the nearly two-hundred-pound sandblasting canister on the narrow fire escape, knowing it had to be audible to the giant spider and that every bit of delay gave it a better chance to prepare itself. Could the Web Know what they were planning? It probably had spiders eavesdropping everywhere, so they had to assume it did.  He left the sandblaster on the landing for Oliver and Jordan, then forced himself to imagine his life without Jon in it. If he failed and Jon was destroyed beyond repair or taken by the Web, it would be all Martin's fault that he was left alone.  He couldn't see a life without Jon, only gray fog. He reached out, and his hand sank into the bright red door. Holding his fear tight, he sidestepped into intangibility and drifted through the closed door.

He hadn't remembered that he couldn't operate a torch while intangible, so he had to wait just beside the door, a ghost in the dark, listening to the clang of shoes on the steps of the fire escape, the scuttling of thousands of tiny legs, and a faint, desolate whimper he could do nothing to comfort without giving his position away.  But that whimper gave him what he needed: distance and bearing to Jon, who had been moved into a room at the end of the hall rather than in the hallway itself--a slight complication that meant they would have to move further into the building than he'd like. A sudden scrabbling drowned out Jon's fainter sounds. The spider was in the room with him, and moving. 

The door banged open, and light flooded in. Jon shrieked, once, then choked and gagged. Martin peered through the haze surrounding him and caught sight of the spider working its way around Jon, who desperately spat spiders onto his pullover, then clamped his mouth and eyes shut tight. The respirator had been pulled off and lay discarded on the floor.  Martin drifted toward Jon while Oliver and Jordan got into position, each aiming a nozzle at the Spider. 

Martin gathered up the hood in his hands, took a steadying breath, and emerged into the room, tearing chunks out of the webbing as he solidified. He jammed the hood down onto Jon's head just as a spray of webbing welded his feet to the floor. Within a second, spider silk covered the little window in the front of the hood and he was blind, but he kept slapping and tearing at the webbing holding Jon in place until he, too, was stuck fast, dangling from Jon's side.

Oliver stepped onto the fire escape the moment Martin disappeared. With the sandblaster at the top of the fire escape they didn't need to add more weight than they had to.  Jordan followed him a few steps behind.  When he reached the door, he fumbled for the key he'd pulled off Jonah's keyring and jiggled the door open. It tore free of the spiderwebs on the other side, leaving feathery ends hanging off the edges of the door.  He heard a sudden, panicked scream that sounded like Jon.

Oliver cleared a path with gloved hands, then battered his way in with the sandblaster's bulk. Martin, ghostly still, waved at them, then disappeared into a room off to the side.  Jon had been trussed up in the middle of the room with his arms behind his back and his legs webbed together. The Spider was beside him, but rapidly crawling around behind. Martin solidified, shoved the protective hood down over Jon's face, then started tugging at the webbing surrounding Jon until he was stuck fast himself, the two of them tangled together in a mass of web with Jon's body folded in half over Martin's.

Oliver raised the nozzle of the sandblaster and took aim, first clearing more spider web, then rushing forward to aim his nozzle at the creature's eyes and mouth. It squealed horribly and struck out with the closest two of its legs, sweeping Oliver off his feet. He could feel pesticide raining down on him from Jordan's sprayer. A pair of legs wrapped around his body to pull him toward the bulbous abdomen of the creature. Oliver aimed the sandblaster at the joint where the nearest leg joined the body and released a stream of fine grit that cut through in a few seconds, causing the leg to fall to the floor and the spider to roll, pinning him between itself and the wall.  He worked to wriggle free of the crushing weight, sure he'd broken at least a couple of ribs. As soon as he dropped free, he rolled onto his back to aim his spray up at it.  The spider writhed, flinging its bulk against Oliver, Jon, and Martin and knocking the nozzle of the sandblaster off its aim. The faint gasps of terror from Jon turned to screams of pain.  Oliver and Jordan couldn't completely shield Jon from their attack on the spider, but at least the combination of insecticide and fine sand dissolved the webs holding him and Martin fast. 

The spider flailed and backed into a corner as the poison began to take effect. It might not be enough to kill the thing, but they couldn't wait to be sure, not while they were bathing in insecticide. "Grab Jon!" Oliver shouted at Jordan, then he crawled across the slick, stinging floor to finish clearing the webbing from Martin.  They stood in the doorway for a few terrifying seconds, listening to the massive spider twitching behind them while Jordan half-carried Jon down the fire escape, then Oliver spun and slammed the door shut behind them. Martin took the steps so fast Oliver was afraid he might fall.

By the time Oliver reached the ground, Jordan was already tugging Jon out of his ruined clothes.  Martin undressed quickly and without concern for modesty, then lifted Jon into his arms and carried him into the decontamination shower.

Oliver stripped off as well, leaving his sodden clothes in a pile on the gravel, glad that he'd remembered, in all the rush, to tie up and cover his hair. Jordan was out of his white jumpsuit and in street clothes. "How much did you get on you?" the exterminator asked.

He had been so focused on the task at hand that he hadn't noticed the itching sting where insecticide had soaked into his clothes. "Not as much as those two, but enough."

"Right, go in and wash off as much as you can in the sink while you wait for the shower. I'll do the same when you get out. My jumpsuit's watertight, so I'm pretty clean."

He made his way to the break room sink, leaving damp footprints on the hardwood floor of the bullpen on his way, then scrubbed himself down with sodden handtowels. Water puddled on the floor beneath him, but he wasn't concerned about the mess.  The more water he used to dilute the pesticide, the better.  His ribs stabbed at him, but they were already hot and tingling where they had begun to heal. Above them all, Mr. Spider hadn't been killed, and from what Oliver could tell, it would recover from the assault quickly, perhaps within days. After a few minutes, Jordan made his way to the break room sink. "How are you feeling?"

"A bit queasy, but I suspect that's just the smell." He ran more water onto the cloth he was using to clean up. "I'm like Jon, in case you didn't know. I died already, several years ago. End avatar."

"So another monster. What do you do to people, then?"

"I can sense the approach of death. Hasten it, sometimes."

"Great," Jordan said tightly. "What about Martin?"

The divide between alive and not was somewhat more diffuse for Avatars of the Lonely. "Martin is technically alive. More or less." Jordan dropped into a seat at the table, shaking his head. "What about you?" Oliver asked. "I mean, are you contaminated?"

"My exposure was minimal--I've got gear and know how to use it. Get on outside. You still ought to get that stuff off you, alive or not."

Oliver obeyed the exterminator's instructions. There was something vaguely indecent about standing outside the decontamination shower while Jon and Martin were inside. It wasn't the fact that behind that flimsy yellow curtain, both men were naked. That was to be expected under emergency conditions.  It was the sound of Jon's broken sobs and gasps of pain and Martin's murmured words of comfort that felt to Oliver like they should not have been witnessed. Water pooled around the shower and ran in rivulets across the courtyard. It was pleasant outside at least, sunny and fourteen degrees according to his phone, but not exactly the weather for a cold outdoor shower.

The timer went off. Oliver offered towels through the narrow opening in the curtain, keeping his eyes averted. After a minute, Martin, one towel wrapped around his waist, emerged, holding Jon in a bridal carry. Oliver caught a glimpse of a narrow, purpling bruise forming a long arc down Martin's side. He moved to help the two of them, but Martin waved him off. "You take your fifteen minutes. We'll see you inside."

Martin lay Jon on a sheet Jordan had tucked in over the break room couch. His eyes were open, but he wasn't responding to Martin yet. The exterminator hovered, nervous and clearly needing something to do to keep himself from thinking about the events of the morning.

"How is he? Do we need to call A&E?" Jordan asked.

"A&E aren't likely to be much help. We need to get him warmed back up. There are more blankets in the far left cabinet. Just a moment." Martin waited until it was clear Jordan found the blankets, then darted out the door, wrapping his fist in the towel around his waist, just in case. 

Tessa looked up when he entered the bullpen and blushed to her ears. "Is naked men wandering through the bullpen one of the perqs of this job?" she teased.

Martin wanted to be annoyed, but he found himself glad she was becoming comfortable enough to tease them. "Lionel Elliott's number is on the list I gave you. Can you call and let him know Jon's hurt?"

"Of course. How bad is it?"

"Not sure, yet." He ducked back into the break room before she could respond. Martin had managed to look Jon over some while they were in the shower. There were fresh ligature marks where webbing had stretched tight across the skin and two long, narrow bruises, one running up one thigh and onto his abdomen, the other cutting up his right arm at an angle from the elbow across his shoulder blade. 

Jordan had started packing blankets over and around Jon while telling him Martin would be back in a moment. Martin tucked Jon up next to him and wrapped the blankets back around them both. His side was beginning to throb where the sandblaster hit him.  "Did we kill it?" he asked.

"It was still twitching when we left. I mean, there's a lot of insecticide up there, but I'm no expert on supernatural monster spiders." Jordan pulled up a chair. "We could set up a pump and fumigate the whole wing, but if what we did doesn't get it, I doubt more will do any better."

Tessa appeared in the doorway. "Dr. Elliott's on his way." She looked more closely at the two of them. "I'll get the tea this time, I think. How is he?"

"Not good," Martin told her. "Not talking yet."

"Taste of his own medicine," she said brusquely on her way to the kitchenette, then added more gently, "How does he take his tea?"

"Chamomile this time I think, with honey, no milk."

"And you?"

Martin sighed. "Same but with a bit of milk, thanks."

Tessa puttered about the kitchenette, filling the pot with filtered water and setting it on the small stove to heat. Oliver appeared in the doorway shortly after, dressed in a clean change of clothes and carrying clothes for Jon and Martin he'd clearly collected from the flat on the third floor. Jon was curled in Martin's arms, his own arms folded protectively across his chest and his legs pulled up tight so he resembled a shivering bean. Martin rested his chin on the top of Jon's head.

When the tea was ready, Martin worked an arm free. Jon flinched, and his eyes popped open, brilliant green and faintly glowing.  He started to breathe deliberately, slow, deep breaths matching Martin's, interspersed with deep coughs. The clothes were within reach at the end of the couch, so he snagged a tee shirt and jumper for Jon, who fumbled with them for a moment before working his way into them. Martin grabbed his own, careful to keep the blanket over their lower halves, then held the tea for Jon until he was ready to drink.

Jon stared into the cup for a minute before taking a sip. "Not," he paused to cough, then took another sip before trying again. "Not bad. Not as nice as yours, Martin, of course."

"Are they always like this?" Tessa asked.

Oliver nodded solemnly. "They're even sappy when they argue."

Jon handed off the cup to Martin, his eyes still glowing green. "Beholding wants a report for the Archives."

Martin expected the click of a record button to alert him to a suspiciously convenient tape recorder but heard nothing. "I think the spider stole all the tape recorders."

Jon hummed thoughtfully, then frowned. "There should be one in the tea drawer."

Oliver collected it, checked for a fresh tape, and turned it on.

Jon sipped at his tea and looked around at Tessa, Oliver, and Jordan. "Sorry," he said. "I'm waiting for my throat to heal a bit."

"Tessa, you're welcome to stay for this, but you don't have to. Jon's retellings can be a bit intense," Martin warned.

"Is it going to give me nightmares?"

"If it does, they'll just be ordinary ones, not the supernatural kind," Jon said.

"I'll stay," she said.

Jon continued, "As you wish. Jordan, if you're willing, would you provide a Statement of your part of our encounter? It may illuminate details that could help us." 

"No spooky nightmares?"

"Only the ordinary kind, if you're inclined to that sort of thing. It would also help with my injuries. Beholding exacts its price."

Jordan swallowed hard. "Right. I'd like some time to decide."

"Understandable. I will provide my account first, then. Statement of Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, regarding events transpiring after Jordan Kennedy left Mr. Spider's lair. Statement recorded twenty-six October, 2018, immediately following the incident. Statement begins."

Once Jordan was out and safe, I was relieved. Whatever happened to me, I'd beaten Beholding and the Web's desires to make me behave like the monster I--am. Mr. Spider, the same Mr. Spider who has dogged me since childhood, demanded the Grand Ritual from me, the one Martin interfered with. According to the Web, it's my whole purpose, the reason I survived my childhood encounter.

Like Jonah said, everything that has happened to me since my father was taken by the Vast and my mother by the Flesh--both of them stolen from me by the Fears and I never even knew--everything led to that day in Scotland. Jonah Magnus was played by the Web, a tool as much as I was, manipulated for centuries to create this place, fill it with links to all the Fears, all to create the circumstances for a Grand Ritual to bring all the Fears fully into the world.

Mr. Spider threatened Martin first, of course. Destroy my strongest connection to humanity and it would only be a matter of time, it said. The Web is patient. It didn't do anything to me once I was tied up but talk and talk and talk, but I could feel the words digging into my mind, making me doubt myself, my intentions, my agency, each word calculated to wear down my resistance. I think, if Jordan hadn't gotten away I might have been lost. But knowing that he had escaped and I hadn't caused yet another death was something to hang on to, I suppose? That and knowing that if I waited, you would come for me.

I was afraid it would kill you, or worse, but I still desperately hoped.

Then I felt Martin arrive.  I screamed when I heard the door slam open a few moments later; I couldn't help it, and the spiders were just waiting for their chance. They crawled into my mouth and down my throat, and I coughed and spat and--ugh--chewed them to get them out of me. I think I got them all. I hope I got them all.  Martin covered my face with some kind of heavy leather hood, so I couldn't See what was happening, and I thought you--I mean Jordan, Martin, and Oliver--you were all going to be eaten or turned into homes for more spiders, and I was helpless, trussed up like a fly in its web. But you stopped it. With mundane insecticide. Jordan, the sandblaster was brilliant. Painful, but brilliant. 

Then Oliver got me out of there and Martin got me cleaned up. And Tessa got me tea. And I feel like maybe we have a chance to get that bloody thing out of MY archive.

We need the book. Mr. Spider is bound to a Leitner. A children's board book. Get rid of the book, and we get rid of him.

"Statement ends."

Chapter Text

"Statement of Jordan Kennedy, regarding an encounter with Mr. Spider on the third floor of the Magnus Institute on October 26, 2018. Statement taken on the day of the incident, by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.

Statement begins." 

I'll get this out of the way, first. When I encountered you in the Archives, before we went upstairs, you scared me much more than any spider problem you might be having. Your eyes on me felt like drowning in tiny, moving bodies, and I was almost back in the nightmares. I know I rubbed at my arms in hopes I could make the feeling go away, and I was irrationally worried that you would judge me for it. I didn't want to be alone with you, but I didn't feel like I could ask for someone else to come with us. 

"So, expect a lot of spiders," you said in an airy tone that did nothing to disguise the tremor in your voice.

When you refused the respirator the first time, you told me that you don't need to breathe, and I seriously considered telling you I was out. I knew you'd been in a coma for six months--the nightmares were worse, then, just so you know, much worse. But no one told me that you'd been all but dead or that you were some sort of trauma-powered zombie.  The fact that you'll do just about anything to keep your boyfriend from worrying about you is cute, though. And useful. And, I suppose, humanizing, in a sense. As was the fact that you needed help to get the respirator on properly. 

It was when we got the door open that I realized that the spiders might be a bigger threat than I'd anticipated. I've never seen so much spiderweb in one place. It reminded me of the rumors that got around about the Hodges incident, and I hoped the two of us weren't going to encounter a bunch of trussed-up, mummified former employees in there. I sprayed around us to keep the bulk of the spiders off, but I knew as soon we were all the way inside that an infestation this severe was going to require the whole wing to be sealed up and fumigated. The spiders themselves were disturbing. There were too many varieties in too small a space. I recognized some that aren't even native to Great Britain cohabiting with ordinary garden and mouse spiders.  I've also never seen a spider infestation that hoarded tape recorders before. Every time one fell to the floor, the clatter made me jump.

I felt something on the back of my neck. "It's behind me, isn't it," I said, and you nodded once and froze in place. Something dragged itself across the back of my neck, then wrapped itself around my shoulders. I didn't dare move. I hardly dared to breathe.

The thing spoke. " You may go, Jonathan. I have no need for you yet," it said in this reedy, prim voice that reminded me, bizarrely, of the father character in Mary Poppins.

Your eyes flashed green and seemed to grow to fill up your whole face, though I don't think they actually got any larger. It reminded me of the way you look--looked--in the nightmares. Hungry. I couldn't look away.  "Not without Jordan," you said, in this voice that was huge in a way that had nothing to do with sound. 

The spider thing prodded at me with its mouthparts. Pedipalps, they're called. I thought I might shake to pieces from the fear alone. "Tasty, isn't he? Kind of you to lure him here for me. If you'd rather, I'll let you watch me wrap him up and drain him. Alliances are often made over a shared meal." I knew that was it, then. I was trapped between two monsters, one to hang me up and drain my body dry, and one to watch, drinking up all my fear and helplessness until there was nothing left of me.

"Let him go!"  You sounded scared now.  For me?

It kept prodding at me, feeling for weak spots, perhaps. A leg untucked my shirt from my trousers and dragged sharp hairs across my belly while it kept speaking to you in that officious voice. "What is he to you, Archivist? He gave you a Statement, once, then you fed on his dreams until you nearly broke him. Why the sudden sympathy for your food?" It dragged its pedipalps over my face, but my respirator and goggles stayed on, so then it started digging around under my collar. Spiders kill by injecting venom that liquifies their victims from the inside out. I imagine it was searching for the best spot to sink its fangs into me.  

You were still staring, boring into my brain with those shining eyes. "He is Mine." And I could feel it, this sense of being Seen, understood--protected. I knew that if I made a move, you would back me up. I kept my hands at my sides, but I turned the nozzle of my sprayer so it would hit the thing in the face if I could just get it to relax its hold a little bit.

"What is your interest in me and my Institute?" you said. The thing jerked back. I ducked and turned to spray it in the eyes. You shouted,  "Run! Don't look back!"  You were wrapped up in so much webbing I wasn't going to be able to get you out without getting caught myself. I hated to leave you there, but there wasn't anything I could do without help, so I did what you said. I ran.

"Statement Ends," Jon said. He closed his eyes for a few seconds while the Statement settled into him. The throbbing where the sandblaster had bruised him was replaced by an intense but pleasant warmth. 

"Did it help?" Jordan asked shakily.

"Yes, thank you." What else could he say? Jordan was sitting in front of him, pale and sweating. "I'm glad you're okay. More or less."

"I've never felt anything like that before, not even in the dreams," Jordan said. "That thing, in the dreams, that was the monster, the Fear-thing. I never felt like it cared what happened to me--even though you've told me you were in there, just as helpless as I was. But this time--it was like those were your eyes, no matter how intensely they stared, and you wanted me to be safe."

Jon pushed further back into his nest of blankets. "Of course I did."

Jordan pressed, "You could have consumed me. And it would have felt--good, to you."

Jon had to admit that was true. He had committed to be as honest as he could. "At one level. At another, it would have been awful. I'm not sure I could have come back from it--whole. As whole as I get."

Jordan watched him a little longer, as though he was trying to solve a puzzle. "The spider, the big one. It knew you."

He deserved to know that the spider was there because of him. His fault, as usual. "I had a run-in with it before when I was a child. It--ate someone in front of me. Instead of me."

"I'm--sorry." He continued; his face scrunched into a puzzled frown. "And you stood up to it. It could have killed you because you made it let me go."

"I suppose." He was so tired, and he needed to think about how to find that book.

Jordan stood, stumbling slightly. Martin caught his arm to steady him. "I should go. Other clients, and it's not like I can explain to them why I'm late."

"I'm sure Tessa can help with scheduling a time to set up the integrated pest control system for the archive. That should be a much less hazardous task."

"I should hope so." Martin escorted Jordan out, leaving Jon with Oliver. 

"I like him," Oliver said.

Jon did, too, he thought, though it would hardly have mattered if he didn't. Jordan Kennedy belonged to him, and, whether he liked him or not, Jon had a responsibility to protect him as much as he could.

Jordan's Statement gave Jon the stamina to make it up to Jonah's flat--their flat, which was still full of Jonah's furniture. The bruises had faded to pink lines and barely twinged when he touched them, though the cuts in his arms and hands where he'd struggled against Mr. Spider's webs had yet to fully heal.  He found himself propped at one end of the huge, L-shaped couch with blankets laid lightly over him so they wouldn't restrict his movement. Jon wondered if Elias and Peter had bought it so that they could both sit on it while not being anywhere near each other.

The door chime was constructed of real chimes that rang changes like a grandfather clock. Martin let Dr. Elliott in and offered tea. "Thank you, that would be lovely," the doctor said. "Quite the place you have here. I was a bit worried you were sleeping on a cot in the basement."

"We've both done that before. Never again," Martin said. "Jon's had a live statement from our exterminator, who was with him when he encountered the--ah--spider monster. He's looking a lot better."

"I imagine so. Would you mind getting down to your pants so I can have a look?"

Jon started stripping out of his clothes while Martin made sure the curtains were closed. His stiff limbs protested being forced to move around. Dr. Elliott looked without touching, to start. "One of these days I'd like to come by with a sample kit, get some blood and urine--you still urinate, don't you?" Jon nodded. "Just to get a baseline to compare to if anything changes. May I touch you?" 

Jon nodded reluctantly.

"All right, I just want to move your arms through their range of motion--I saw you wince when you took off your shirt." He took his right arm first, holding it carefully without moving it until Jon nodded, then moved it up and around. He did the same with the other arm. "Good. I'm not feeling any clicking or stiffness in the rotator cuff.  You can put your shirt back on."

Once Jon was dressed, Elliott sat on the opposite side of the couch. "Now. I think I've found you a therapist. His name is Sidney Freedman. He works with complex PTSD in refugees, political prisoners, and disaster survivors, among others. He's just come back from a stint with Doctors Without Borders in Syria."

Jon found himself shaking his head. He couldn't imagine trying to create a story to satisfy a therapist. "I can't. The things that have happened to me--that I've done--I'm not even human."

"I think you'll find that if you are honest with him, he'll work with you, no matter what you believe about your humanity. Martin, I'd like you in therapy as well. I intend to ask Dr. Freedman to suggest someone after he meets once with Jon."

"I don't need--"

Dr. Elliott cut him off. "Yes, you do. It will help. It made all the difference for me. I will see you Monday to approve the space you've set up for Renee and help her get settled."

"Have a pleasant afternoon, Dr. Elliott," Martin said, walking the doctor to the door. 

Movie Night, or Movie Day as it had to be when intending to watch the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy, seemed an act of frivolity they could ill afford with Mr. Spider licking its wounds on the other side of the stairwell, but Oliver had insisted on going ahead. He and Martin were in the kitchen making pancakes while Jon perched on the edge of the couch, working on a plan to find A Guest for Mr. Spider. The smells coming from the kitchen filled him with nostalgia and more than a little envy. The End allowed Oliver to eat real food, even though it provided no energy, so why did the Eye have to be so cruel?

The Eye had no answer for him. Jerk.

Jon realized that Tessa and Jordan were at the door a few seconds before they rang the bell. He met them at the door and swallowed what would have been the fourth reminder that they were not obligated to join their eldritch bosses on a Saturday. They set their movie snacks on the divider between the kitchen alcove and the living room and joined Jon on the couch, Tessa settling beside Jordan at a calculated distance, not far enough to allow someone to sit between them but not so close as to presume on his space.

Jon wondered if he was reading too much into their body language, but the Eye confirmed his suspicions with relish, and since when had it responded to budding romance with nearly the enthusiasm it did to abject terror?

What is more terrifying than the Fear that one you fancy will reject you once they know you well?

Jon thought there were quite a number of things that were more terrifying than that and tried and failed to keep from dwelling on the memory of Jordan's panicked, betrayed expression when Mr. Spider offered to share him. He got up to check on Oliver and Martin in the kitchen just as they were putting out the pancakes.  Martin called Tessa and Jordan to the table and caught Jon's eye. He couldn't help but feel guilty at the drop in Martin's shoulders and his slight sigh, but his partner took his hand and led him a couple of steps away from the table before pressing their foreheads together. "Trouble?"

"I'm all right," he said, which was half a lie, but thought better of it. "Just stay close, if you would."

"Of course." He pulled out a chair for Jon and then sat down beside him. Jon sipped his tea, envy creeping up on him until he blurted, "Why do you get to eat food, Oliver?"

Oliver burst out laughing, but managed to get out, "I don't actually know! Might be something to take up with Dr. Elliott, though."

"Hmm." It took him another moment to realize what he'd done. "I am so sorry, Oliver! I try not to ask questions, but it just slipped out."

Oliver was still recovering from his bout of the giggles. "As questions go, that was pretty harmless, Jon."

Tessa broke in with, "So, the flat belonged to Bouchard?"

"Jonah Magnus, actually. He'd been body hopping for well over a century, a new persona every couple of decades. Elias was just the latest."

"Oh," Tessa said. She seemed to suddenly find her pancakes extremely interesting.

"It's a lot, isn't it?" Martin said. 

She nodded around a mouthful.

Jordan put down his fork. "Wait, so Oliver is attached to the fear of death, and Jon is eyes and knowledge--what are you, Martin? Ghosts?"

"Loneliness. The fear of being alone or that no one cares about you."

"So--you make people feel that?"

"you don't have to--" Jon tried to say.

"Jon. No. It's all right. Jordan and Tessa deserve to understand, especially if they're going to be spending time with us outside work." He took Jon's hand under the table. "I haven't.  Not intentionally. Yet. I suspect that when I was working for Peter Lukas and--and after--I was feeding on Jon."

"I'm sure you weren't," Jon interrupted.

"I'm sure the Eye will tell you," Martin said, and the Eye confirmed Martin's suspicions for him a moment later. Martin caught his wince and continued, "I can tell I'll need something soon, though I've been sustaining myself by--by dwelling on the possibility that I'll lose you."

"Oh, Martin," Jon whispered.

"Oh, Lord," Tessa groaned, but Jon was too busy getting in a quick snog to care.

Oliver snorted. "I told you."

Breakfast petered out over the next few minutes. Martin didn't let Jon help with the dishes out of some sense of fairness, given that he couldn't eat. Tessa and Jordan made their way back to the couch while the Eye tried to help Jon figure out the entertainment system. Unfortunately, being provided with an avalanche of details about the manufacturing process used by the company that made the surround sound system was of no use. Finally, within the dross, Jon caught the single piece of information he needed: Jonah's password. He typed "Beholding" into the field and found Jonah's streaming library, which already contained a copy of The Lord of the Rings, unsurprisingly. Jon wondered if Jonah fancied himself a Saruman or a Sauron.

Oliver and Martin were still finishing up the dishes. Jon forcefully squashed the impulse to eavesdrop. A few minutes later, Martin glanced up to see the movie cued up and ready, then snatched at Jon from behind so they tumbled back into the couch cushions. Martin tossed the remote to Tessa. "I swear, if he misses a line of dialogue, he rewinds, overshoots, and then fast forwards and overshoots again. Just keep the remote away from him at all costs!"

Jon was so busy pouting over not being allowed to control the remote that he didn't notice Oliver dropping down onto the couch beside him, the same distance away as Tessa sat from Jordan. Tessa dimmed the lights and started the movie. The Eye, of course, Knew the story in general terms, though Jon hadn't watched the movie since Uni. He divided his attention between watching Tessa and Jordan's shy flirtation and enduring the Eye's commentary on the special effects. Oliver got up for a moment and sat back down closer than he had been, almost touching. Jon lay his head on Martin's shoulder, which tilted him so his leg rested against Oliver's. Oliver didn't move away.

They really ought to talk about what they might want from each other in a relationship. Oliver might want more than Jon was likely to reciprocate, and that could be difficult to navigate for all of them. Tomorrow. He had promised Martin he would enjoy the day and not spend it all worrying. For today, he would enjoy being cosily sandwiched between the two of them, with two others of his people in his sight. He could almost forget that Mr. Spider was squatting in his Institute, spinning its webs and making its plans. Almost.

Chapter Text

CLIENT INTAKE FORM 

 Trauma-Informed Therapy Associates  

72 Middleton Road 

Morden, England EC1Y 9SY 

  [email protected]  

Date of first appointment: 29 October 2018 

Please take your time in providing the following information. The questions are designed to help me begin to understand you so that our time together can be as productive as possible. All information provided is confidential.  

Referred by:  Dr. Lionel Elliott, M.D. 

Have you previously received any type of mental health services? Yes No  

Describe the services you have received previously. I stopped speaking at the age of four, after my mother’s death. This resulted in a diagnosis of autism with selective mutism. I was subjected to Applied Behavior Analysis therapies for eight years, from age four to twelve, at which time I refused to continue.  

Briefly, what caused you to seek therapy? My partner insists that I could benefit from therapy to process some unpleasant events that have taken place in the past few years. I hope to learn strategies to cope with intrusive thoughts and nightmares.  

When did your problem first start?  The best answer to this question would probably be in late 2015, when I took over the position of Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute from my predecessor. However, there are elements of the situation that date back to my early childhood—but I suppose you hear that often.  

What areas of your life have been affected because of this problem? I am unable to leave my place of work and must live in a flat within the building because I am metaphysically bound to an evil entity that won’t let me leave . I cannot eat human solid food as I once could. I use a mobility aid (a cane) much of the time. My sleep is disturbed by other people’s nightmares. My social relationships are limited both by my physical confinement and by the likelihood that people I associate with will come to harm.  

Are you currently experiencing overwhelming sadness, grief or depression? Yes No  

If yes, for approximately how long?  2 years, but I have been happier this month than I have been for most of the previous two years.  

Are you currently experiencing anxiety, panic attacks or have any phobias? Yes 

If yes, when did you begin experiencing this? Phobia of spiders since age eight, with accompanying panic attacks when I encounter spiders. Panic attacks with a variety of triggers for approximately two years. Anxiety off and on for most of my life, but continuously since I took the Head Archivist position.  

Please describe any major losses or traumas you have experienced:  In brief: I witnessed the murder of an acquaintance by a giant spider when I was eight. More recently, I was attacked and severely injured by a swarm of carnivorous worms, at which time a colleague was killed. My boss murdered a man in my office and framed me for the crime. I have been kidnapped several times, including an incident in which I was held for over a month and, my partner says, sexually assaulted. I am not sure my experience qualifies as such because my captors’ interest in my skin was not of a sexual nature. In a separate kidnapping incident, I was forced to dig a grave for myself and an already deceased acquaintance and barely survived having my throat slit. I had a falling out with a friend, then he was killed and I was critically injured in an explosion. When I awoke from a six-month coma with significant physiological abnormalities my colleagues kept me prisoner at my workplace out of valid concerns that I would harm others and am no longer human .  I was buried alive—granted, I volunteered for that particular trauma. My boss tried to trick me into ending the world committing an act of terrorism and nearly succeeded. Former friends found it necessary to test my moral fibre by subjecting me to a simulated execution. And the building I cannot leave was the site of most of these traumatic events. I think that gets us up to date.  

What significant life changes or stressful events have you experienced recently?  See the above.  If I define recently as occurring within the last month, give or take, I rescued my partner from monsters life-threatening situations twice, I am leading a total reorganization of my place of employment, and I have become engaged to be married.  

What would you like to accomplish out of your time in therapy? Most critically, I present a clear and present danger to others due to my need to consume others’ supernatural trauma some idiosyncracies of my metabolism and related compulsions. I would like to prioritize harm reduction in that area. As a secondary priority, I want to develop skills to help me cope with my own anxiety and panic attacks related to the previously described traumatic events.  

 Family History Where were you born? London, UK  

 Where did you grow up?  Bournemouth  

Please list your parents and siblings. Please use additional space on the back if needed. 

Mother:  Avanthi Sims, died at the age of thirty, when I was four years old, of surgical complications.  

Father: Christopher Sims, Died at the age of thirty-three, when I was two years old, in a suspicious fall.  

Grandmother: Helen Sims, died aged 80 of heart failure seven years ago. She raised me from age four.

I know very little about my parents’ health history, including the reason for the surgery that caused my mother’s death.  

My grandmother died of heart failure and suffered from arthritis for most of the time I knew her.  

Marital Status: Engaged to be married  

Are you currently in a romantic relationship? Yes – one month.  

On a scale of 1-10 (best), how would you rate your relationship? 8  

Physical Health: 

 Please list any medications, herbs, or supplements: I am currently taking a liquid vitamin and mineral supplement prescribed by my primary care provider to provide trace nutrients fear does not provide. No other medications.  

How would you rate your current physical health? Unsatisfactory 

Please list any specific health problems you are currently experiencing: There is some question as to whether I am physically alive, as my heart only beats occasionally and I frequently forget to breathe. This does not make me optimistic that I can change my physical condition . I have an untreated burn scar on my right hand that interferes with using that hand and causes significant chronic pain, as does residual damage to my right knee from the previously mentioned worm attack. I can only consume clear liquids, though I have an appointment with a gastroenterologist to determine if the atrophy can be reversed to allow me to consume small amounts of solid food.  

How would you rate your current sleeping habits? Unsatisfactory  

Please list any specific sleep problems you are currently experiencing:  I appear in others’ nightmares, in which I must witness their fear and pain and am powerless to stop it. My victims are aware of and distressed by my presence. I have frequent nightmares.  

How many times per week do you generally exercise?  Never on purpose.  

What types of exercise do you participate in:  Running for my life. Fighting for my life. Struggling against bonds when tied up.  

Are you currently experiencing any chronic pain? Yes  

If yes, please describe: Right hand, nerve pain and muscle pain due to contractures. Right leg, pain due to soft tissue and joint damage to the back of the knee. Frequent migraines.  

Please describe current use of alcohol, cigarettes, and/or recreational drugs:  I smoke occasionally and drink socially.  

Please describe previous use of alcohol, cigarettes, and/or recreational drugs:  I went to Uni at Oxford. Substance use was an occasional part of that. I used to smoke more heavily, then quit, then started again shortly after taking the Head Archivist position.  

Additional Information: 

 What do you enjoy about your work?  I am utterly delighted that my former boss is finally deceased. I look forward to making the Institute a resource for those affected by supernatural encounters rather than merely feeding on them . I enjoy working with my partner and current coworkers.  

What do you find particularly stressful about your current or previous work?  Being groomed by my evil boss to serve as the lynchpin for a world ending ritual was stressful. My place of work, and prison, is a temple to the Fear of forbidden knowledge, secrets exposed, and stalking.  

What do you enjoy doing in your free time? I enjoy reading, watching documentaries, and spending time with my partner.  

What do you do to relax?  I don’t.  

Do you consider yourself to be spiritual or religious?  Sort of.  

If yes, please describe your faith or belief: If God exists and there is something after this life, then God is a bastard and we will be having words. My existence depends on a supernatural entity, so I suppose I am spiritual, after a fashion.  

What do you consider to be some of your strengths?  I am struggling with this question. I suppose I am stubborn and unwilling to give up.  

What do you consider to be some of your weaknesses?  I am excessively curious. I try to do everything myself rather than ask for help.  I am irritable and snappish, especially when I am hungry or in pain, which is most of the time.  I put my needs above those of others, as evidenced by the fact that I allow myself to continue to exist as a parasite on the living.  

Chapter Text

Trauma was a funny thing. It took a hell with boundaries; a terrible moment, a terrible day, a terrible year, and poured that hell into the rest of a person's life, thwarting their every attempt to escape it. It set fires to smolder in souls. It drove his patients to drink, to drugs, to new pains to drown out old ones. And sometimes it drove men to find an excuse, any excuse, to leave the great city that had once been home and settle in another an ocean away. But Sidney Freedman wasn't in London to psychoanalyze himself.

"And here we are. The Magnus Institute. Not too late to change your mind, mister," the cab driver said as they pulled up in front of a stone building that put him to mind of some of the older buildings on the Cornell campus back in New York. He took the front steps two at a time, tugged open the heavy and badly weighted front door, and found himself in a foyer that smelled not so faintly of bleach. 

A short, slight man sat in a rolling office chair in front of the unoccupied reception desk, holding a rubber-tipped aluminum cane across his knees. He stood cautiously, leaning heavily on the cane, and met Sidney's eyes only for a moment--bright green, unnaturally bright--before fixing his gaze over his left shoulder. "Jon Sims," he said, by way of introduction.

"I'm Dr. Freedman, or Sidney if you prefer," Sidney said, offering a hand to shake. 

Sims paused awkwardly to stare at Sidney's hand, then extended his own. The hand was covered in stiff, shiny scar tissue that kept the fingers from fully opening or closing. Sidney shook it more gingerly than he ordinarily would, worried about causing him unnecessary pain. Jon stammered, "I thought, there are reading rooms in the library. It would be a more neutral place than my office or the flat upstairs."

More impersonal as well, Sidney thought. Sims' body language remained tense and shrunken, as though he was expecting to be struck at any moment. "Lead on," Sidney said, keeping his tone light.

Sims rounded the corner into the skeleton of a library. The chairs were up on top of the tables, the carpet had been torn up to reveal hardwood flooring with staples still embedded in it, and boxes of books sat beside empty shelves. "We're still cleaning up after the incident a few weeks ago," he apologized. Sidney made a note of the slight catch in his voice, a sign of tension or perhaps further trauma. From this angle, Sidney could see a pink, hairless patch on the back of Jon's neck, the hair near it cut short, but not shaved. 

"What sort of incident?"

Sims cleared his throat while he looked resolutely at the floor. "Mass shooting. We lost six people on this floor, nine in all." He spoke quickly and without turning to face Sidney. "The study room is--fine. Nothing happened in there."

"Mr. Sims," Sidney said.

Sims interrupted him almost immediately. "Please. Call me Jon."

"Jon, then. You're clearly uncomfortable here. Would you prefer to meet in your flat or in your office?"

Jon stopped with his hand on the doorknob but didn't turn around. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"I appreciate the gesture, but not at the expense of your discomfort. You're the patient," Sidney insisted. Jon shrunk visibly at Sidney's assertion. 

"I'm the monster. Sorry," Jon rubbed the fabric of his oversized cardigan between his fingers. "There aren't any comfortable choices for me. I suppose the flat upstairs will do. If you don't mind."

"Not at all." He followed Jon up another couple of flights of stairs--and how had this place managed to avoid putting in an elevator in this day and age?  It hurt just watching Jon take each stair individually with a faint hiss and a suppressed flinch when he hauled himself up on his bad leg. He stopped every four or five steps, apologizing each time for the delay. They finally reached the top of a stairwell with three doors coming off it, one of which had a sign on it that said, "Renovations ongoing, proceed with caution," one, more ornate, which bore a hastily printed and laminated sign saying, "Sims and Blackwood Residence", and one which said only "Giant Evil Spider KEEP OUT."

Jon avoided looking at that door. Sidney was weighing the thought of opening it to have a look when Jon hooked his arm and tugged him urgently through the door to his flat, slamming it behind them both. "Fuck," he said. "Do not open that door. Do not approach that door. Do not even come up these stairs without an escort."

Sidney shook his head, wondering what had possessed him to want to open a door in someone else's space, regardless of what was written on it. "Giant evil spider?"

Jon's laugh was sharp and a little hysterical. "Can't have normal infestations in a place like this." He hobbled into the living room, where what looked like a very expensive black leather couch was covered with a patchwork of blankets and quilts, all homey and showing signs of age. A sewing basket sat on the floor to one side. The walls were bare, though they showed signs of pictures having recently been removed. He gestured to the couch and recliners. "Sit wherever you like. Martin and I just moved in. Haven't really made it ours, yet."

Sidney took note of the haphazard piles of belongings on the end tables, the dining table, and the counters. It reminded him of hotel room clutter, born of not knowing yet where things were supposed to go. "Martin's your partner, right?"

Jon smiled. It was the first positive expression that had crossed his face so far. "Yes. He's down in the archives right now--" he stopped himself abruptly. "I shouldn't Know that." And just as quickly, the smile was gone.

Sidney picked one of the two recliners that matched the large sectional. It was covered with a worn plaid blanket. Jon lowered himself onto the sofa, then gingerly slid his leg up to lie straight out across the cushions. He stretched his mouth into what Sidney assumed was supposed to be a smile, but failed to resemble his previous expression in the slightest. "So, the last time I was in therapy Miss Lydia told me all of the ways I was being annoying and made sure that I learned how to behave properly so as to fit in better--for all the good it did me. She used to slap my hands when I fidgeted or spoke out of turn. I'm having a difficult time revising my expectations."

"I assure you, Mr. Sims, I don't work that way. I want to work with you on your priorities and needs. Society can go fuck itself, as far as I'm concerned." He hoped the deliberate use of profanity he had just heard Jon using would drive home his honesty in this. "So, you mentioned your highest priority is reducing the harm you might cause others due to compulsions to consume supernatural trauma." He'd rehearsed that several times to make sure he didn't sound like he was making light of what was clearly a genuine fear, regardless of whether it was rooted in reality.

"I--yes. I wrote a rough draft of the form you sent to show to my partner, so he would realize just how impossible it would be to get anything out of therapy, given that I would have to be dishonest about so much that has happened in the last few years. He told me I should send it as it was, rather than editing out the more esoteric components of my problem."

"I see. So he is also aware of those aspects of your situation?"

"Yes, as is everyone currently employed at the institute." His eyes caught a bit of reflected light and shone green for a moment. "You're still deciding whether to believe me."

Sidney leaned a little forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Do you blame me?"

Jon picked at the loose threads on the blanket. "No. No, not really. I should be relieved that you haven't made your decision already. I am prepared to provide whatever proof you require." And there was that shift into formal language. That seemed to be a tell that Jon was uncomfortable or on the defensive. 

"Your medical records make it clear that something beyond the reach of science happened to you. And I have seen--"

Jon spoke so quickly that he stumbled over the words. "Stop. Don't tell me. If you start to talk about your experience, you won't be able to stop."

"Is that so?"

"Just one of the many hazards of associating with me, I'm afraid." There wasn't even any sarcasm to temper Jon's self-assessment. 

Sidney nodded. "I see. We should probably go over those before I stumble into anything truly dangerous."

"Right. Yes." Jon fidgeted with the head of his cane. "Why did you--I mean, I wonder what ever possessed you to come here from--all the way from America, by the sound of you."

"What were you going to say? Before you stopped yourself."

Jon shrunk against the arm of the sofa. "I was just rephrasing." One hand fluttered up in a helpless gesture. "People have to answer when I ask a direct question. So I don't ask questions."

"Do you think you could demonstrate with a relatively benign question?"

Jon considered. "I'd rather--fine." And again, the suppression of his preference in favor of what he ought to do, but delayed, after the impulsive first response. "I don't want to ask something you wouldn't be able to take back."

"Stay away from matters relating to other patients."

Jon frowned. "You've read my intake form. If it's all true, and it is, what do you think should be done with me?"

What an odd question. But Sidney could see why he might ask, given his history. He felt a kind of tingling pressure running from the side of his head up to his temples and then into his throat. He tried not to answer, just to see what would happen, and the feeling intensified until it skirted the edge of pain. It felt almost like suppressing a cough or a sneeze--unpleasant and ultimately futile. "You need therapy to help you work through your trauma and your ongoing issues with someone who is not directly involved in the traumatic events themselves. I would make sure you have support from many people, not just your partner, people you can trust. It doesn't matter to me one bit whether you are technically human, or technically alive.  Your existence matters as much as anyone else's.  And I would ensure that you have the tools you need to become the best version of yourself you can."

Jon stared at Sidney for an uncomfortably long time, his eyes shining again, the green just a little too bright to be natural. It felt as though Jon, or something seeing through him, knew his every inadequacy, his every hypocrisy. Jon squeezed his eyes shut. "Enough, you have enough," he said. "Sorry. Beholding is insistent. I suppose that your experience just now has caused you to reassess your opinion?"

"Not at all," Sidney said. "Under the circumstances, I hope my answer to your question will help create some trust we can build on."

"I don't trust easily."

Sidney leaned back in the chair with his hands still wrapped around one knee. "I can't imagine why."

Naomi Herne paced the front steps of the Magnus Institute. There was a hastily printed sign next to the plaque bearing the institute's name that read "James-Stoker Memorial Institute for Paranormal Research" in an obvious attempt to distance the current administrators from the previous ones. She'd slept. Four nights she'd slept, and while the trailing, half-remembered edges of foggy nightmares still haunted every night but the first, they were nothing like the vivid terrors she'd endured for years, and she was certain that now she dreamed alone.

That wasn't necessarily an unmitigated good. 

She was being silly. She hadn't come all this way with a carefully written, properly cited proposal to add a wet lab to the research department just to turn around and go back to her solitary job in water quality testing for the government, a job that looked in jeopardy from the Tories anyway. She'd made an effort to stay friends with Evan's friends, and to an extent she had, but her experience after Evan died and the dreams that continually reminded her of it set a hard limit to how close she could grow to any of them. They didn't, and couldn't, understand what she'd been through.

Once she was through the doors she could see evidence that the new administration wasn't holding back in their renovations, though she did notice that the crown molding was still there and some walnut paneling had been carefully stacked to one side. She didn't envy them the hassle of renovating a listed building. Most of the people she could see wore the overalls and bell caps of cleaners and repair people, but she caught sight of a tall man in a black suit with his hair intricately braided and accented with beads arranged into rainbows. She picked her way over the tarps and tools to step directly into his path--she'd learned she needed to be aggressive in her efforts to be noticed since her encounter in the cemetery.

He looked down and smiled, and damn her if that smile didn't make her feel things. It was a pity he was so clearly gay.

"Is Mr. Sims in?" She asked politely. 

"In the Archives.  Naomi Herne, is it?"

He knew her name. "Yes, that's me. I have a proposal for him."

"You can go on down. He's expecting you."

Naomi shouldn't have been surprised that the archives were just as stuck in the twentieth century as they had been when she'd first spoken her Statement into an ancient tape recorder. The place had the same emptied-out, scrubbed look that the upstairs had, with the chairs sitting on top of the desks and industrial quantities of bleach stinging her eyes and nose. There was no one in the large room. The Head Archivist's office door was open, the office itself empty and well-scrubbed. She could hear voices down toward the opposite end of the bullpen, so she followed them around a corner and to the open door of a room with a linoleum-topped dining table that looked like it came from the 1970's, a couple of makeshift desks shoved into corners, and a ratty tweed couch where the man who had taken her statement, then haunted her dreams for years sat half-buried under piles of documents. He appeared to attempting to use throw pillows with clipboards on top in lieu of a desk.

A large man with ginger hair streaked with white sat at the table with graph paper and a ruler, working on what looked like a floor plan. A woman about Naomi's age munched on an apple while glaring at a computer screen at one of the desks. A second door was propped open with a fan in it, blowing fresh air into the room. "This place is even more of a dumpster fire than the last time I came here," she said, more sourly than she'd intended.

Jon Sims was only sporting two eyes at the moment, but when he looked up at the sound of Naomi's voice, his gaze was familiar enough that she twitched away from him. He hunched down into his oversized jumper in response. "Ms. Herne," he said into his lap. The ginger man looked up from his work. The woman in the corner continued to scowl at her screen.

"It's Naomi," she said. "I want to work here. For real."

"I wonder why you would," Sims said.

Naomi pulled out one of the cheap plastic and metal chairs and sat.  "This is going to sound crazy. I tried to rebuild my relationships with Evan's friends. It wasn't the same. The experience I had--I never told them about it, not in any detail--and the nightmares I was having every night, I just wasn't the same person I was when Evan and I were together.  I'm not even the person I was before I met Evan."

The ginger man stood and walked the couple of steps to take a mug and a bag of tips out of the kitchenette cupboard, then filled and started an electric kettle. "You're still Lonely," he said, with an odd emphasis on the last word.

"Yeah. And my job--it's solitary. I went weeks at a time, sometimes, with the nightmare version of Mr. Sims as my only company."

The big man nodded slowly. "That's not good."

Naomi pressed forward. "I need to be around people who understand." She tapped Sims' knee to get his attention. He looked up at her reluctantly. "Here's the crazy part. When you released me from the dreams, and I was finally alone in my own head all night long, I missed you."

"That doesn't make sense," Sims said.

"I think it does," the big man said. He set four mugs in a row on the counter, put a tea bag in each one, and took a carton of milk out of the refrigerator. "You might have been presenting as uncaring and judgmental, Jon, but that deep in the Lonely, all attention is good attention. Or it seems that way, even if it just pulls you in deeper."

"So you think my being here is unhealthy?" Naomi snapped. What the hell else was she supposed to do?

"No, it's likely your connection to the Eye is what kept the Lonely from consuming you entirely." The ginger man passed mugs of tea to Sims and the woman in the corner, whose shoulders dropped a little when she took the warm mug into her hands. "I'm Martin, by the way. How do you take your tea?" 

"Milk, two sugars," she said automatically.

Martin turned back to the counter to doctor her tea. "So, seeking out people who understand what you're going through, that's a healthy response. Besides, real Jon is a lot less creepy than nightmare Jon."

"Slightly less creepy," the woman in the corner said, but the tone of her voice carried a hint of teasing.

Jon made a pretend smile that looked a lot like indigestion. "Could I have a look at your proposal?"

Naomi handed him the sheaf of paper, then picked up the tea Martin had placed beside her. No one spoke while Jon Sims read it, but the silence felt companionable. She thought she might have found three strangers conversing in this small room overwhelming. Martin's gaze settled lightly on Jon, but he occasionally looked over to smile encouragingly at Naomi, while the woman in the corner went back to grumbling under her breath at whatever was on her screen. The first faint smile she saw on Sims' face drew a little more tension out of her shoulders. He smiled again, then nodded, then picked up a pen to circle something. 

After several minutes, he set the proposal on the table, carefully avoiding the damp spots where the mugs had rested. "Ms. Herne, I think this fits quite well into our mission here. When would you like to start?"

"Two weeks. I have to give notice at the lab. I'd rather start sooner, though. It took a bit of doing to figure out what a chemist could contribute."

"It's hard to put a passion project on hold, isn't it?" Sims agreed. "If you agree to limit yourself to ten hours a week until you finish at your other place of work, you can start whenever you like. You'll be working with Oliver in Accounting and Sonja in Artefact Storage, but you are welcome down here as well."

"I expected to get a bit more resistance." Naomi wasn't sure what to do with the pent up energy she'd planned to use in making her case. "Bit of a let down, really."

The ginger man, Martin Jon had called him, laughed. "I know the feeling. Can't just be with people to be with them. You've got to have a reason. Taking care, or picking a fight, whatever gives you an excuse."

"Well," Naomi snapped. "I'll be off, then."

Martin reached out, but stopped just short of touching her arm. "No, no, that's not what I meant at all. You don't need a reason to be here. Stay. Don't let the Lonely convince you you're not wanted."

"The Lonely. Like it's alive."

"Exactly like," Martin said. "It nearly had me, too, for a while. But you and me, we're stronger than it is. Come on, I'll walk you upstairs, introduce you to Sonja."

"I'll take you up on that," Naomi said. She followed Martin up the stairs. For the first time in a long time, she felt just a tiny bit optimistic.

Chapter Text

Monday, 29 October, 2018

"Sunny!" shouted the one person who was allowed to call Sunita Bedi by that name.  Sonja hurried through the construction zone that made up the library and Reception to meet Sunita by the stairs that led to Research. "Tell me Artifact Storage doesn't look as bad as this!"

Sunita shook her head. "No chance I was going in there without a chaperone, but I know Sims didn't let the cleaners in there and as far as I know, it wasn't breached during the attack, so there's a chance everything's fine. Though I wouldn't put it past the artifacts to breed in there, left unattended."

"Bite your tongue, Sonja!" Sunita let her arms fall to her sides for a minute, just looking at her friend and, after Bouchard and Lukas, the Flesh and the Hunters, comrades in arms. She opened her arms. Sonja smiled and pulled Sunny into a crushing hug. "I'm so glad you're all right," she murmured into Sunita's ear. She pulled back to look her in the eye. "And that you're mad enough to come back after everything that happened. So. Did I hear correctly that you're the Head of the Institute now?"

Sunita nodded. "For my sins. I wouldn't have let Blackwood talk me into it if you and Diane weren't coming back, too."

Sonja scoffed, then wrinkled her forehead in thought. "Hell of a thing, that. And quite the email to wake up to last Monday morning. 'If I don't survive the restructuring process--' Sims always did strike me as the dramatic type, especially when it comes to complaining."

"Oh!" she said, loudly enough to pause Sonja's gossip. "He's coming up the stairs." 

Sonja's sigh was a bit more long-suffering than was warranted, really, given that she'd barely worked with the man at all when he was Research or the Archives. "I'm going to tally the damage in Artifact Storage. Don't let that little man push you around. He wants you to take charge, you take charge."

"I intend to, Sonja," she reassured, though she intended to find out just what he expected from her before deciding whether taking charge would mean facilitating his work or keeping him in check.

Sims came into view, and Sonja made herself scarce. Jon looked worse than she'd ever seen him. He was bent over the cane he had taken to using off and on since the worm incident. His hair looked like it had been raggedly chopped off and then inexpertly evened up, the short curls framing his gaunt face in a lopsided halo. "Mr. Sims," she said, settling into her Human Resources persona with the ease of experience.

Sims tipped his head, wrinkled his brow, and looked her, not in the eye, but at her right ear. He nodded sharply, possibly to himself, then said, "Ms. Bedi. I trust you found your temporary office?"

"I did," she said. "Someone brought my things down from upstairs."

Sims nodded. "That would be Martin.  He figured you might not want to be up there so soon after, well." He waved at the mess around them with his free hand. He followed her to the office, the cane tapping on the hardwood floor.  Elias Bouchard hadn't been an easy man to work for even before they'd all found out he was some kind of warlock trapping them in supernatural contracts--not to mention a murderer at least twice over. For his part, Sims was an HR nightmare. The man was obsessive, prickly, and so lacking in social skills that he would likely have been fired long ago if Elias didn't consider serious mental illness to be a desirable trait in an employee. She would not have come back to an Institute with him as the Head, he was simply too volatile, but she liked a challenge, and fitting this strange little man into her team would certainly be that.

For the moment, she needed to make nice with the man. Her temporary office had a pair of leather wingback chairs, a small round table near the window, and a large executive desk with a couple of smaller chairs facing it. Sunita considered taking her place behind the desk, but a glance at Sims' closed, almost hunched posture let her know that if she did that, he'd likely shut down entirely on her and the meeting would be wasted time. She sat in one of the wingback chairs and pulled out her phone to take notes.

Sims sat cautiously. He set a battered satchel on the floor beside him and pulled out a composition book, a small black wrap that he fixed around his right hand, and a pen he slid into a little loop in the wrap. He glanced at her phone and winced slightly, but didn't share whatever was bothering him. "So. Ah. I suppose you have questions for me."

He held himself as though he expected her to attack him. His defensive posture was irritating, because she didn't like the implication that she was the kind of person who would begin a professional relationship on an adversarial note. "How about we agree on an agenda? First, how is this going to work, between you and me?  Who has what responsibilities? Second, I noticed you changed the name of the Institute. Are you expecting our mission to change substantially as well? And third, what is up with the third floor? I hear you're living up there, but that you won't let anyone else up there without a chaperone. It's--weird."

Sims settled back a little in the chair, looking relieved. "Thank you. This kind of thing isn't intuitive for me."

"So I gathered."

He took a settling breath. "The third question is the simplest, if the hardest to believe. I should ask--do you believe in the supernatural?"

She waved a hand lightly. "Well, the Institute exists to study such things."

He frowned.

She clarified, "I've known Sonja for fifteen years, and--look. I don't think anyone could have made it through the last year or so without believing that there's something out there more than what we acknowledge in the light of day."

Jon said bluntly, "There's a giant man-eating spider occupying the west wing of the third floor. It wants me to end the world."

Sunita started to protest, but--"Figures." She studied Sims in his hunched forward pose with his arms tucked in close to his sides. The notebook sat precariously on one knee, seeming to have been forgotten, and it looked as though he would have dropped the pen by now if it weren't held on by the brace. "Why you?"

"Because I can." Sims looked her in the eye for the first time. She hadn't noticed just how green they were, almost glowing from within, as though something else was looking at her through him, something that saw right through every mask and down to the essence of her.  A shudder passed through her that she knew both Sims and whatever thing looked through him could see. She couldn't look away until Sims averted his gaze. "Just don't go up there without me, Oliver, or Martin."

Elias had felt like that sometimes, when he looked at her. "All right, I won't. Sonja, though."

"Don't let her go up alone. Please. I can't lose anyone else." His voice was so shattered at the last, even more so that it had sounded since this conversation began. And it had been. Shattered. Traumatized. She'd heard rumors about him, but most of them had framed Sims as a loose cannon at best and a predator at worst. What the hell had Bouchard been doing to the Archives for the past few years? 

"James-Stoker Memorial Institute," she said, remembering the name change he'd asked for.

Sims blinked back tears, fast and hard. Funny, she'd never thought of him as a person who cared much for other people. "I know it's presumptuous of me to single out the two of them when there have been so many."

"They can stand in for the rest. We'll know." She sighed. "Perhaps we could put up a wall like they do at MI-6." She was half joking, but Sims' sharp, almost convulsive nod made her tap the idea into her phone.

"I can provide you a list of names this week," he said quietly. "So. I can't be the Head of the Institute and the Archivist at the same time, even with what Martin calls my abysmal work-life balance. We still have to collect Statements. Live and written, for the same kind of metaphysical reasons I alluded to in the email I sent last week. I hope we can start providing real support to the people who give them, and use their stories to help us put together a more comprehensive picture of the Fears--of the supernatural entities we are documenting. He paused with his fists clenched in his lap. "I expect to have autonomy in the Archives itself. I choose my staff, organize the workspace, set hours and job descriptions."

"Fair. As long as you don't break labor laws."

He nodded. "I also need to be able to hire a large number of people for extremely part-time positions. I realize this will involve significant HR paperwork, so I expect we'll need someone to manage just those employees."

"How part-time?"

"They'll work for one hour per calendar year and be paid minimum wage for that hour. The taking of statements has supernatural side effects that can be avoided by providing statement givers with employment contracts." He paused. The fingers of his good hand ran nervously along the hem of his suit coat. "Their salaries can be deducted from mine, if necessary."

"I see." She didn't, but it seemed like the right thing to say. "So. You're going all out with this 'the supernatural is real,' position."

"It should be the official position of the Institute, " Another nervous pause. Sims' sagged a little more in his chair. "Especially given that its Archivist is an undead monster who subsists on secondhand terror."

Or a psychotic whose version of raving looked like profound grief, Sunita didn't say. Sims flinched almost as if he'd heard her anyway, and she couldn't quite convince herself that he hadn't.

He sighed. "I'm sorry. It's an unfortunate side effect of what was done to me by the previous Head of the Institute. I do try to keep it reined in."

"What?" Sunita asked, puzzled.

"Knowing things. Reading minds. Compelling answers. I make an effort not to ask questions, but they occasionally slip out when I'm distracted."

"Any other eldritch superpowers I should be aware of?" She deliberately put her stylus back into its slot and set the phone aside, making sure he could see her doing it. Keeping it off the record.

Sims kept his eyes fixed on his hands. "Rapid healing. I might be immortal, after a fashion, though I certainly hope not. And I can, sometimes, destroy other monsters." He held out his left hand. "Know how to take a pulse?"

The nonsequitur took her by surprise, and if Sims' body language had been any different, she might have considered him inappropriately forward. What she saw in his eyes though, was fear. She answered cautiously. "I suppose I do. Why?"

"Try. I'd say try to find my heartbeat, but I don't think either of us want you putting your ear to my chest."

Sonja reached out to take Sims' wrist--the bones fragile under her fingers. She tried in one position, then shifted her fingers. "Apparently I don't know how to find a pulse."

"I don't have one."

"Circulatory problems?"

He shrugged. "You could say that. Since the coma."

Right. The coma. It had been difficult to dismiss the six months he'd spent mostly dead as anything but supernatural. "I thought when you woke up, that all fixed itself."

"It did. Sort of. But I died again last week, and this time, my heart just doesn't bother most of the time."

"So you're a zombie." She didn't know whether to be fascinated or terrified.

"Well, I--you know about the Statements. And the dreams. I know you had to field the complaints. I suppose I should be grateful that my brain-eating is strictly metaphorical."

"Small favors," she agreed.

"Well." That was a lot to take in. "That's useful. I suppose." She looked him over. "I'm glad you've decided to be candid with me. It sounds like we need to make our first priority updating our safety and security protocols, so I'll see what I can put together and stop by the Archives tomorrow to incorporate any suggestions you have."

He took a moment to collect his things. "Thank you. The Archives will be putting together a handbook about the Fears to be distributed to the staff. I hope to have it ready in the next couple of weeks. I would appreciate your assistance as we progress."

Sunita collected her phone and made a note. "I think I can manage to put my two cents in once you have a draft ready."

"Right. Of course. I'll see myself out, then." She walked him to the door, then settled in behind her desk to take some more notes while they were fresh in her mind.  How much of what he'd told her was real, and how much was paranoid delusion? She took a look at the list of employees he'd hired or rehired so far. Aside from Diane and Sonja, he'd hired an Oliver Banks to head accounting and kept Martin Blackwood in the Archives, then added a pest control specialist, a possible assistant for Sonja, and a director of IT. Perhaps they could shed some light on Sims and his unusual claims. 

And perhaps she would get some more information about whatever was going on upstairs without going up there herself and risking being eaten by a giant spider. She moved to ask her secretary to make an appointment with Mr. Banks, realized that she no longer had one, and left the office to see if she could find him herself.

 She'd taken a quick walking survey of the building before the weekend, but the state it was in gave her few clues as to where her employees had set up their workplaces. 

There were a few other offices in the research wing that were in good condition. Two doors down, she found "Oliver Banks" printed on a sheet of A4 paper and stuck to a door with masking tape.

The door was half-open. She pushed it the rest of the way, letting its squeaky hinges announce her presence. "I don't believe we've met," she said to the tall black man who was adjusting the blinds to let in some indirect sunlight.

He turned around and held out a hand for her to shake. "Oliver Banks. I'll be heading accounting."

"Sunita Bedi. Apparently, I'm in charge of this mess, though it seems from the contract that I share that honor, to an extent, with Sims."

Banks nodded gravely. "A metaphysical necessity, I'm afraid. Jon is the Archive, and nothing short of his death can change that."

"Right. I should have expected something of the sort," Sunita allowed. "Isn't he dead already, more or less?"

"You've met with him, then."

"I did. Some of what he had to say was hard to get my head around. But I can't convince myself that imagined what he could do."

"What did he do?" Banks asked, his voice suddenly sharp."

"Nothing I didn't consent to," she assured him.

"You should know that I am also an agent of the End, one of the Fourteen. Fortunately, my relationship with the End is largely passive. I am a psychopomp, capable of perceiving the probability matrix of a person's potential deaths."

"Jon said he'd already died, twice."

"More like four times. Possibly five. The roots around him are quite convoluted. Jon can no longer permanently die. His body is a manifestation of the Fears, and is thus more a simulacrum of a body than it is a true physical form."

"I see. Does he know?"

"He suspects, though not the full extent of it. I would appreciate you not enlightening him on the subject, at least until he is more emotionally stable. Now, I believe it would be wisest for us to stop discussing Jon in absentia. Do you have some time to go over our current financial situation?"

"Might as well tackle all the horror at once, I suppose."

They sat at his work table, and he opened his laptop and waited for it to boot up.  "I am fortunate that I am still able to use a computer. Don't let Jon near any electronics, by the way. He's careful, but he shorted my last laptop just by pushing it out of the way."

Sunita grimaced. That would explain his wariness toward her phone. "Duly noted. So, what sources of revenue do we still have coming in?"

Chapter Text

Imagine a place. A comfortable place, where you can be at home. Where you can all be at home. 

It was hard. Renee took a breath and imagined a space. It was plain, white as an empty page, unbounded, but still somehow claustrophobic. Renee existed so that the body could be moved while the others were agonized fragments, but of the six of them, she was the only one who had never been real. What if, once the others got their act together, they didn't need her anymore?

Imagine a place. Sit on the floor, and now there is a floor. Invite the others into the space.

Coleta and Mia appeared first, holding hands and leaning into each other like a tripod. Coleta had long, raven-dark hair and warm brown eyes. Mia was shorter and much rounder, the mix of Italian and Chinese in her ancestry leading to hair just as dark as Coleta's, but without the wave. Each of them thought the other was the prettiest. 

Bridget followed, fair and ginger and given to scowling to hide when she felt anxious. She looked around the space as if she expected something other than blankness and was disappointed by it.  

Dav, who was decently good-looking, blond, and built like someone who delivered a lot of heavy goods, stood at a little distance with his hands in his pockets and his eyes darting around at each of the rest of them. He didn't belong, and the rest of them knew it. A part of Renee, a mean part that she could almost blame on the Stranger, wondered if encouraging that division between Dav and the others would make sure they needed her to keep them all functioning.

Susan took the longest to appear, but eventually emerged between Bridget and Mia, curled up with her knees to her chest and her coily hair sticking out messily in a sort of metaphorical representation of her state of mind. 

Renee didn't know what Renee looked like. Probably nothing at all.

You're supposed to stake out a space here, she told the rest of them. It's supposed to be possible to make rooms to be in.

A mind-palace, Coleta supplied.

Sort of, but one we all share.

Someone was talking to her. She opened her eyes carefully, trying not to disturb the fragile space in her head. Coleta had a strong will; with luck, she could keep it up while Renee dealt with the reality outside their minds. 

It was Martin. His eyes flicked over her face as though looking for a place to settle, which made her features shift more rapidly, the better to soak up that uneasy feeling he dribbled out for her. Fear would be better, a part of her thought. 

Maybe that part was all that belonged to Renee alone. Maybe it wasn't. 

It felt like a hungry shadow, one that saw the nurses, the doctor, and Martin as nothing more than sources of fear.

Renee owed Martin her life, as much as she owed it to Jon and the doctor, so she'd forced down the urge to push beyond merely frightening them with her strangeness. She'd swallowed the vague threats, and she'd stopped the monster among them from doing any real harm--except to that one mean nurse, and Renee was pretty sure that she would recognize her arm as her own again eventually. If she didn't cut it off first.

She knew she ought to feel worse about that. 

"Is this a bad time?" Martin asked.

"No, I was just. Thinking." Her voice came out slurred, as though she was quite drunk, but Martin didn't comment on it, so he must have understood well enough. The Stranger inside her that hungered after fear, distress, and discomfort had given her some practical empathy on the side, so she didn't even have to look at him to take his emotional temperature. 

He was calm, but he was working hard to stay that way.

"You know we're a good year out from having the elevator installed, so we're putting together an efficiency apartment for you off the archives, which has a ground-level entrance."

"Right. I Rem. Em. Ber." That took a lot longer to get out. Martin didn't seem uncomfortable with the time it took for her to form words, but it still felt bad. Like she was wasting his time. The AAC was on her tablet, mocking her for being stubborn. She turned away from the tablet. She wouldn't knock it on the floor like she wanted, because it was expensive and Martin had bought it for her. But she didn't have to use it.

Martin sat down in the chair beside her bed. "I thought you might like to see the floor plan." The Stranger caught the nervous waver in his voice, but it didn't know what to do with a fear that she wouldn't like him.  Social anxiety wasn't the Stranger's usual diet. The part of Renee that was real people found his reaction strangely relatable. 

Strangely. Hah.

She tried to work up a little enthusiasm for his sake. "I'd like that," she half-lied.

Martin brought out a laptop and opened it. "So, here's the space, now, with an Oliver for scale."

It was a good-sized room, though there were quite a few boxes and shelves in it. The "Oliver for Scale" was a tall black man with beaded box braids and an embarrassed smile. But--hot damn! "Does the room come with him?" she asked.

"He works at the institute, so you'll see him around. But he's gay."

"Are you all gay?" she blurted.

"Are you all gay?" he shot back, amused.

"No--Bridget's straight. And Dav." There was a clamoring in the back of her brain. "Sorry, no, Dav is bi and Susan is something in the ace family, but she doesn't know what. No sense trying to figure it out now." She pressed the heel of her good hand to her forehead in frustration. "Sorry. We're never going to figure out how to be one person."

"Do you have to?" Martin flipped the page to a floor plan with a hospital-style bed with a swing lift, a table with chairs, and room for her wheelchair. 

She did, right? Parker said she didn't have to, that she was happy and gainfully employed as a therapist even with a bunch of headmates taking up space in her skull, but living that way felt indulgent. Illicit. 

Martin continued, "We're working on creating some casual spaces in the bullpen as well."

"I want a TV," Renee said, pointedly ignoring Martin's earlier question.

"And you shall have one," Martin confirmed.

"Good." She knew she was supposed to be thinking about a future in which she did more than passively watch television, but it was hard. Nothing was easy. She had a physical therapist, an occupational therapist, a speech therapist--she even had to practice making her eyes work together. The physical therapist was not happy when she found out that Renee had been closing one eye to try to read. 

Even when she wrangled the body into behaving, her thoughts were so muddled up and many that she could barely decide what she wanted to eat for lunch, much less what she wanted to do with this half-life she had to assemble from spare parts.

Martin was talking again. "Make a wish list for stuff for the walls, yeah?"

She shrugged. "I suppose."

"Any idea when you get paroled? It can't be pleasant being stuck up on the restricted floor of the hospital like--well."

"Like a monster that has to be kept hidden from the real people, yeah. I think they'll let me go as soon as you have a space for me. Pretty sure they'd rather have me gone." She gestured sloppily at the mess of her body.

"Their loss," Martin said, and he sounded like he meant it. "Jon's looking forward to seeing you."

Renee sighed. "I barely remember him, even though he saved me. Everything from when I began is muddled." It was meant as an apology. She was supposed to feel particular things, it seemed like, and when she didn't, it bothered the nurses, the doctor, and even her therapist, though at least the therapist was used to people being wrong inside. 

Martin's smile was thin and strained, but his tone was deliberately light. "Then you'll have a chance to get to know him. Just don't take his prickliness too personally."

"I'll try." Which of her counted as personally anyway?

*

The archives were clean, right down to the scrubbed floorboards. The salvageable paper files were all in unsorted boxes, but at least those boxes were closed up and tidy, so Jon could go through one at a time and keep the mess manageable. The entire bullpen had been emptied out save a card table and a handful of folding chairs. Tessa sat at the table with a ruler and a piece of graph paper. Tiny rectangles cut from other graph paper were scattered across the table, labeled with "computer station," "conference table," and "extra cozy couch," among others.

Tessa brushed her pink hair out of her eyes. "The furniture arrives at the end of the week. Any opinions on how to arrange everything?"

Jon tried on a smile for size. 

Once, he would have been full of opinions. Demands, even. He'd have decided where every piece of furniture ought to go without having any good justification for why, and he'd have defended those decisions even if they'd turned out to be entirely unworkable. He might have learned in the intervening years that the "managerial style" Elias had cultivated in him was worse than useless, but he didn't feel any less insecure.  Now, he just tried to be more honest about it.

He sat down across from her. "Will you show me what you've come up with?"

She sat up a little. Jon watched the formality settle into her posture, masking her discomfort with having him near her. "This is a large space, but with multiple competing functions. First, we need a space to sort and study documents, preferably a good-sized table to spread things out on. Next, we need personal spaces for each of the assistants to work on research--including an adaptive space for Renee that accommodates her power chair. And third, we need a comfortable space that can be used for informal discussions during work hours and as a living space for Renee after hours. I think we should put that as close to her bedroom suite as we can."

"Do you like the idea of making the break room into a proper kitchen and dining space?" Jon asked. "It's all the same to me, of course, since I don't really eat."

Tessa shuddered. 

"Sorry. I suppose it's easier if you can't pretend I'm not," he pushed himself back in his chair, realizing only then that he'd leaned forward over her floor plan so that their heads were almost touching, "That I'm not what I am." 

She shrugged instead of answering, then returned to her work. Jon swallowed all the things he wanted to say to make it better and resolved to keep as much to himself as he could, so as not to be a living reminder of her trauma. He turned and fled to his office.

*

There was a box of unsorted statements from between 1964 and 1991 on the floor beside his desk. Jon sat crosslegged on a soft shag rug with a ridiculously thick pad underneath it. Martin had chosen it for him, despite the aesthetic being more fitting to a college girl's dorm room than a department head at an admittedly not highly respected academic institute. Jon ran his hands through the microfiber pile, first petulantly, then more absently as he had to admit the texture was soothing and the softness was pleasant under his sore legs and behind.

He'd gotten himself into a soothing rhythm with the files arranged into a fan by category, like hateful colors bleeding one into the other, those colors added to the folder tabs with strips of washi tape. 

There was a soft chime at the door, another addition Martin had added to all of the doors in the Institute so neither of them would have to be subject to unnecessary knocking. "Come in," Jon said.

It was Martin. "If you leave every time someone is afraid of you, you don't give them the opportunity to be brave."

"I don't want to make people uncomfortable," Jon mumbled into his files.

"Well, you do. Or you know, Eyeball Bastard does. Don't make people feel guilty for showing it because you feel uncomfortable."

Jon sighed. "Fine. Is Tessa still out there?"

"We picked up lunch."

"Like I told Tessa, I don't eat."

"We're having pho. Spiced broth is just what you need."

Jon allowed Martin to chivvy him back to the bullpen, where a second folding table had been set up next to the first and the majority of the current institute staff were seated around plastic bowls of clear soup, separate clamshell containers of meat and rice noodles, and fragrant bags of herbs. 

Sonja, Diane, and Sunita were clustered together at one end in a formidable wall of feminine solidarity and appeared to be wooing Tessa into their ranks. Oliver patted a chair next to him, for Jon to slide into, and Martin sat down on Jon's other side.

A small bowl of fragrant, spiced broth was placed before him. He collected a spray of Thai basil, a few chilies, and a lime wedge to dress the soup, taking a moment to press the herbs to his nose to inhale their complex, spicy scent. He gave the soup one squeeze of lime and a few more chilies than usual, to suit his mood, then bruised the herbs and let them wilt in the broth while he leaned over them to breathe warm, scented air.

The Eye emerged from the corner of his mind, watching his careful preparations with something like puzzlement. Jon ignored it, instead deliberately turning his focus to his meal.  Clarified broth, rich and warm and salty, with the strong bite of chilies, ran down his throat. 

Calories meant little or nothing to him anymore, but he began to realize that both he and the Eye benefited from powerful sensory experiences other than fear.  He allowed the burn to creep up on him on purpose, not quite to the point of self-harm, but enough to take his breath away and bring tears to his eyes.

The Eye noticed. A pain you enjoy? It drew from Flesh and Desolation for understanding, but was left unsatisfied. 

Jon took another sip, working around the chilies and leaves he wouldn't be able to keep down. "Immensely," he murmured.

"What?" Oliver asked.

"I am enjoying this pho immensely. We should get it once a week," Jon clarified.

"At least," Tessa agreed from across the table. "Even if it's just to say we're getting Pho King."

"Pho King is the best," Oliver agreed.

"You just like saying it," Martin accused merrily.

"I fucking love Pho King," Sonja added. Sunita dope slapped her, but not hard, and Jon wasn't sure who he would report her to, given she was the head of HR, but then Sonja turned toward her to plant a sloppy kiss on her lips. Jon figured they could work that out for themselves as long as they didn't decide to recreate the spaghetti scene from Lady and the Tramp with rice noodles.

The moment he caught himself feeling content, his stomach clenched around his meal, the faintly stirring feeling of, I like these people and they might, someday, like me punctuated harshly by the fear that they would each be made to suffer because of it. They would die, horribly, and it would be his fault. His vision started to blur, then Martin reached out to take his hand. "You all right?"

Jon shook his head.

"Do you need to go?"

"No." If Tessa could sit there in a room with him and make jokes about a restaurant with an obscene pun for a name, then Jon could try to enjoy right now without borrowing catastrophes from tomorrow. Maybe if he fought the fear, he could give the spider on the third floor indigestion.

Maybe.

Chapter Text

The east and west wings of the Institute enclosed a rectangular courtyard that had been a manicured garden at the turn of the twentieth century. The financial fortunes of the Institute had fallen somewhat since then, and all that remained was a gravel lot dotted with hopeful sprigs of crabgrass. It wasn't the ideal surface on which to drive a powered wheelchair, but Jon had been assured that the secondhand power chair Renee would be using could manage the trip into and out of the building.

It was chilly and spitting rain, which was pretty standard for the time of year, but Martin had made sure Jon was bundled up against the weather so he could enjoy taking in a bit of fresh air. Provided, of course, that he did not leave the area enclosed by the Institute--or get too close to the fire escape that led to the Spider's domain.

Jon didn't even need his own fear to cause him to avoid the area. The Eye had taken it upon itself to place it under a sort of interdiction. If he tried to approach that corner of the building, he was overcome by the same weakness and vertigo that kept him from making it down the front steps and onto the street.

The Eye let him know that Martin was approaching in the adaptive van they'd rented for the day.

He hadn't seen Renee since she'd been taken away in the ambulance, save for a handful of Polaroids Martin had taken. It turned out that both he and Renee were so thoroughly a part of their patron Fears that they no longer appeared on digital media. 

Martin pulled into the lot, circled, and backed up to the Archive door to reduce the distance the power chair had to traverse over gravel. The lift came down on its own, then Martin hopped out of the front seat, circled around, and undid the latches holding the chair in the van.

Renee rolled it forward onto the ground. It managed the surface better than Jon had hoped, and in a few moments, Renee had made it down the short hallway to the efficiency apartment adjoining the Archives proper. For the moment, cubicle walls defined the space, but there were plans to put in a separate bathroom and kitchen space as soon as the contractors could be scheduled.

She examined the kitchenette, which had been set up to be accessible in her chair. "I can't move well enough to cook," she said, the resentment obvious in her carefully enunciated voice.

Martin said, "You're just starting physical and occupational therapy. We decided it was best to assume that someday you might want the option to do more things for yourself."

"Even though it's fine if you can't. We don't mind helping out," Jon assured her quickly. 

"Hmm," she said. Her arms and legs stretched and shrank in response to whatever was going on in her head, the features of her face flickering, the expression flickering from irritated to pained to a sudden, bright flash of agony. 

Martin was kneeling in front of her before Jon even had the chance to register what happened, anchoring her with his hands resting lightly on her shoulders while his eyes caught and held hers. "Breathe through it. In. Out."

In a few moments, whatever passed through her settled, and Martin nodded. "Good. I bet you're tired. Would you like to transfer to the bed?"

Renee's voice was smaller now. "Yeah. That sounds like a good idea."

Martin, fortunately, knew the ins and outs of bed transfers and was quite strong. Jon was needed only to carefully hold Renee's badly broken arm in its spongy, expandable cast so it wouldn't bump anything. 

Her face screwed up in pain again, and her breaths came fast, almost panting, while they moved her. The broken arm was bad, and with it changing size and shape all the time, there were worries it wouldn’t heal. He knew amputation was still on the table. He held the arm as stable as he could while Martin arranged bolsters for it.

Once settled and braced with pillows and bolsters, Renee turned her attention back to Jon while he demonstrated how to operate the remote. "I won't be this useless forever," she promised.

"You don't have to be useful," Martin told her. Jon felt like Martin's admonition was also being directed at him. "But as you get to feeling better, I'm sure you can find some things to interest you."

"I need to sleep," she mumbled.

Jon could see the tension around the corners of Martin's mouth. Renee was in a fragile, difficult state, as were all the people who made her up. It would be easy for her to become bitter and cruel, like Martin's mother had.

It would be up to all of them to encourage her to build a self she could live with.

Jon placed the call button right next to her good hand. "We'll go, so you can get some rest, but we'll bring lunch by in a couple of hours."

"Don't hesitate to push the call button, even if you're just bored," Martin added.

Jon jumped in after. "And I See everything that happens in my Archive, so I'll come if you need me and you can't get to it. Beholding's got to be good for something."

Renee gave him a begrudging nod, then closed her eyes by way of dismissal.

Jon was restless and peckish and would likely stay both until the Archives opened for Statements the day after tomorrow. He kept rolling the problem of the giant spider on the third floor around in his mind. The only way they would get rid of the wretched thing was by getting hold of its Leitner, and Jon strongly suspected that it remained with the creature unless it was feeding.

They'd hurt it badly. Was it badly enough that it would need to cast its lure out into the neighborhood? 

He had to hope it was, to make a proper end of the thing, but he worried. It preyed on children, and it was intelligent. As intelligent as a human, if not even more so, unlike the rest of the Fears. It was likely to draw a child into its web at night, when everyone with homes beyond the Institute would have gone home, and while Jon and Martin were asleep.

It occurred to him, horribly, that it might have already claimed a victim. He reached out to Beholding, heedless of the cost. The hunger that centered in his mind rather than his stomach intensified.

The Eye presented him with a view of Mr. Spider, still curled up where it had fallen in a crumple of legs and torn web. It had recovered, just a little, feeding off Jon's ongoing fear and a procession of the rest of the bugs in the building, drawn there along its invisible strands. There were no trussed-up child-bodies in its lair--at least no fresh ones.

But soon it would be strong enough to hunt.

Jon picked up his phone to call Martin.

There was only a brief delay before Martin picked up. "Lonely?" he asked.

"I'm not looking for the Lonely, I'm looking for my boyfriend," Jon said, forcing lightness into his tone.

"Oliver and I were about to grab lunch. I know you won't be able to handle a mango lassi yet, but there's a place Oliver wants to try that has plain mango juice."

"I'd like to try that," Jon said, then moved on to the real reason for his call. "Mr. Spider's getting stronger. It will be able to hunt soon—if it hasn’t placed the book already. I think we're going to need to put a guard on the fire escape to catch anyone it tries to drag in."

"Think that will work? Or will it just hibernate until we leave it unguarded?"

"It's better than waiting until it takes some kid right under my nose!"

"Fair enough. Let's work on it at lunch."

Which left Jon idling in the Archives, too anxious to work, but unwilling to inflict himself on Tessa when she was clearly absorbed in whatever she was doing. Renee was still sleeping, the transfer from the hospital both exhausting in its own right and, to be entirely fair, about a week too soon to be ideal. But she was better off here, protected by the Eye and among people who cared about her as more than a curiosity.

He had homework from Dr. Freedman that he ought to get a start on. It would be hypocritical of him to insist that Renee put effort into herself and not at least attempt the first assignment in the DBT workbook Dr. Freedman gave him.

He flipped it open.

SECTION 1:

EVERYDAY WELL-BEING

That sounded dreadful. Jon was in no mood to be reminded of his well-being or, more precisely, his lack thereof.

Your Self-Care Checklist:

PHYSICAL

He'd already filled this part out with Martin. He was expected to make a note every week of whether he'd kept up with the tasks on the list. It felt like he was back in secondary school.

• Take my supplements

• Meet with physical therapist weekly

• Do my exercises. 

• Take two live Statements per week and record five historical or written ones

• Drink clear liquids (Martin’s tea!) to stay hydrated

• Use mobility aids (cane, hand brace)

He'd fought with Martin and Oliver over the Statements. He could get by on one live Statement a week--or even less, if he read a couple of extras from Document Storage. They needed to be organized anyway. Martin insisted that the goal was to be healthy, not just to get by.

He'd wanted Jon to shoot, eventually, for three live Statements a week. That was too many, in Jon's opinion. With the current staff numbers--less than twenty total, but rising as Sonja and Sunita focused on rehiring the help they needed--there was no way they could provide more than lip service to their commitment to help if they had to add two new cases a week, let alone three.

It was all probably moot anyway. The cases would come when they came—it wasn’t like they were going to put a distressed survivor on a wait list. Would they?

On to the next section.

SENSORY

• Dress comfortably w. soft seams, loose tie (ascot?)

Martin claimed he would look dashing in an ascot. Very Regency. Jon was afraid it would make him look like Jonah Magnus.

• Care for hair properly (Use Curly Girl)

He could pretend this one was for Martin's benefit, too. He touched his shorn-off curls. He ought to get a cut that was more flattering until the hair grew back—for Martin’s sake of course. Would a fade be too youthful a look for his role?

• Noise canceling headphones

• No knock policy and chimes on doors

They both needed the no knock policy, after Mr. Spider and Prentiss, though he couldn’t help but think of it as another concession to his own needs he was laying at Martin's feet.

Dr. Freedman would probably have something to say about that.

• Stimming (rocking chair in our flat and another in the archives)

He'd missed his grandmother's rocking chair. He'd wanted one of his own for his entire adult life, but had never been able to justify the expense in the name of comfort. All the little things he did to comfort himself when he was young were treated as signs of weakness, or worse, as attempts to annoy or distract his classmates or his grandmother, so he'd crushed them ruthlessly, only to replace them with such healthy alternatives as smoking and, apparently, feeding Fear gods. 

Perhaps he ought to pick up a craft. Bookbinding looked interesting, and he could provide a worthy home for the Statements.

Perhaps he'd pick up bookbinding as a reward for the Eye, should it improve its behavior.

EMOTIONAL

• attend therapy appointments

(sigh)

• Write affirmations and gratitudes

(ugh)

• Identify boundaries

Jon wondered idly if Dr. Freedman expected him to be able to establish boundaries with Beholding. Given its habit of violating others' boundaries through him, Jon wasn't particularly hopeful.

• Seek affection
  
  
• Make time for side research outside Fears

The idea of studying folklore and ritual for its own sake appealed, but he had to admit to himself that he also thought that returning to the subject of his university studies might also provide some insight into countering the Fears.

 

SOCIAL

• Plan date nights
  
  
• Invite friends to visit for movie nights or game nights
  
  
• Go back to school?

That last one. It felt impossible. He couldn't leave the building. He couldn't get a Zoom screen to process his face or his voice, for all that he could use his phone for calls and texts most of the time. Internet searches were hit or miss. But of all the things he had written down to feel more like a person, he kept returning to this one.

It was frustrating.

He was supposed to complete the last section alongside "people he could count on." Martin was an easy choice. Oliver, a calculated risk. It worried him to ask so much of Oliver while they were still feeling out what their relationship might be.

Filling out his therapy homework kept him busy until lunchtime, when the approach of footsteps, followed by the chime on the office door, called him out to the bullpen. The Three Fates, as Jon had started to call Sonja, Diane, and Sunita in his head, were immersed in their own business upstairs with Naomi, so it was only Tessa, Martin, and Oliver around the new conference table, along with the maddeningly unfair scent of Indian food.

Jon pulled up a chair. "Renee?"

"Still sleeping," Martin said. "The ride over really took it out of her, so I gave her some more of her pain meds."

"Thank you, Martin," Jon said, and meant it. "Any luck finding a home health nurse to come in?"

"Not yet," Tessa answered for Martin. "NHS says they'll assign someone to Renee this week, but the fact she's Sectioned could make it harder."

Jon considered. "Have we tried Lesere Saraki?"

Tessa asked him the spelling and took down her name.

“So,” Jon continued while the other three sorted styrofoam clamshells among them, “Plans to deal with the situation on the third floor.”

Martin set a bowl in front of him beside the cup of mango juice. He peered inside to find an aromatic clear vegetable soup with most of the pieces strained out. “Hara?” he asked.

“She knows you can’t eat the solid bits,” Martin confirmed. “So. Like you said, it’s likely to start trying to lure kids up to the third floor any day now. We need to make it hard for them to get up there.”

“Without violating fire codes,” Oliver added.

Martin scoffed. “Killjoy.” Oliver nudged Martin affectionately.

Tessa rolled her eyes at the two of them, then said, “I say we put an alarm at the bottom of the fire escape.”

“How long will that give us to respond? Fifteen seconds? Twenty?”

“Better than nothing,” she argued around a mouthful of naan.

“But not enough unless one of us remains on guard outside the building to watch for any potential victims.”

“No,” Martin said blandly.

“No, what?”

“You’re not spending nights at the back door waiting for another little you to wander into the courtyard with an evil book.”

He hadn't meant he'd be the only one keeping watch. Not always, anyway. “We could take it in turns.”

“I’ll take nights,” Oliver offered. “I sleep better days anyway.”

“You three do know you’re being ridiculous, right,” Tessa said. “You can’t set up a round-the-clock guard by the fire escape until whenever the Spider decides to feed.”

“Not by ourselves, no. However, we can ask Sunita to provide us with a list of rehired employees who could be placed in a rotation.”

“It ought to be two at a time,” Martin insisted. "And if we can get Jon out of the rotation, we should. He can’t get close to the fire escape anyway.”

“I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you try to convince Sunita to assign people to take shifts at the bottom of the Stairs of Doom,” Tessa remarked when she got up to take the remains of her lunch to the bin.

“Might be safer than Artefact Storage,” Jon said, trying and failing to lighten the mood.

Oliver looked up to watch her go and she added firmly, “No way, uh-uh, you’re not getting me doing any of that bullshit. Besides, if you want the website working when we open for Statements, I’ll need to be spending my time fighting with more technological monsters.”

Martin chuckled. “I’ll shoot an email to Sunita about arranging for guard duty, starting—now, I suppose. Four hour shifts, perhaps? We could set up a picnic table under an awning, maybe turn the whole space back into a garden later…” he trailed off.

Jon caught a glimpse, as indistinct as a dream, of meandering paths marked out with paving stones between sketched out sprays of flowers, comfortable benches, and a babbling fountain.

“Jon?”

“Mmm?”

“I felt you rummaging around in there, what gives?”

“You were imagining making a lovely garden back there. Loudly.”

Martin tugged him close to nuzzle the top of his head. “Well, I suppose that’s relatively harmless, then.”

They made their way back to the courtyard.

Oliver and Martin carried enough camp chairs for the three of them. The weather was still day-after-hallowe’en shitty, but it wasn’t raining anymore. Oliver instructed, “Jon, you may stay for an hour, then back indoors with you. Martin and I will be here until five, and in the meantime, we’ll see if someone can spot us from five until nine or so.”

Jon wanted to say that they could start tomorrow, but, “Right. Now that I’ve thought of it, Mr. Spider will try to get in ahead of our having a good system set up.”

Martin’s smile turned calculating. “Besides, didn’t you have some paperwork for us to fill out together?”

Jon groaned. “You haven’t seen it. It’s mortifying.”

“Well, now I have to see it,” Martin teased.

Jon pulled out the clipboard and passed it wordlessly to Martin and Oliver.

A GUIDE TO MY NEEDS

“See, I told you, it’s terrible. It makes me sound like a tyrant. Or a child.”

“It makes you sound like someone who was sent around by the world’s most horrid boss to collect trauma coupons for years before being nearly rickrolled into ending the world,” Martin countered. “If this is what Dr. Freedman says you need, I’m here for it.”

“Oliver, you don’t need to—”

“Don’t finish that sentence, Jon,” Oliver told him firmly. Now, what’s first on the list.”

I NEED YOUR HELP WHEN...

• Beholding causes intrusive thoughts
  
  
• There are spiders

“That can’t be everything, Jon,” Martin chided.

“I can’t think of anything else.”

“You can’t think of anything else. How about when you have nightmares, or when you think you ought to stay down here working until midnight, or—”

“Fine.”

Jon obediently added, in his neatest printing,

• When I forget to keep a reasonable schedule
  
  
• When nightmares wake me in the middle of the night
  
  
• When I or my archive are attacked by eldritch horrors aligned with other entities

“That one might not need to be in with your personal needs,” Oliver noted.

Jon shrugged.

I WILL ASK FOR HELP BY...

“I found myself becoming a bit—stuck—here.”

“You could ask,” Oliver suggested.

Laughter burst out of Martin in an audible fountain. He got hold of himself and said, “Oliver’s right, actually. You should ask.”

Jon didn’t know what to say to that.

After about ten seconds, Martin added, “But he won’t. Not directly. We need to make it easier. So when there’s a spider—”

Jon’s eyes tracked automatically up the fire escape to where Mr. Spider lurked, licking his wounds.

“A regular spider,” Maritn clarified. “You can get up and walk away from the spider, and if talking about it’s too hard, just make a little spider shape with your hand and I will—”

“Kill it.”

“Yes, kill it! Did you think I was going to suggest we gently put Annabelle’s little spies in paper cups and release them into the yard?”

Jon wasn't sure what to say about that.

“As to intrusive thoughts, what do you mean exactly?” Oliver asked.

“When Beholding tells me things I shouldn’t know. Or makes me want to chase someone down to take a Statement.”

“Right,” Martin said. “You can’t leave the Institute.”

“I’m sure that Beholding will make an exception if we don’t open for Statements pretty soon. So.”

“So," Martin repeated.

“If I tell you I don’t think I’m safe to be alone, you’ll believe me?”

“Of course, Jon.” MArtin looked at Oliver, who nodded his agreement.

The gnawing emptiness he’d invited when he Looked into the Spider’s lair hadn’t faded. “I’m not safe to be alone with anyone who might have a Statement right now.”

“Thank you for letting me know. We’ll round up someone else to stay outside with Oliver."

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I’m not leaving you alone with him, am I?”

“God, Martin, are you still jealous?”

“And I’ll be jealous until I can—” he trailed off, but the image airdropped into Jon’s mind made terrifying and strangely compelling feelings settle firmly into his insides.

If Beholding wasn't asexual, they were going to have words.

“You did that on purpose, Martin.”

“Maybe I did,” Martin said, waggling his eyebrows.

Naked interest showed on Oliver’s face. “Am I to be informed of what you plan to do to me?” he asked archly.

Martin leaned in to whisper in his ear, and he burst out laughing, one hand brushing at his cheek as though to cool a blush. “We’ll talk later.”

It was good, Jon thought, that Martin would have someone with whom he could explore the more physical side of a relationship.

He wouldn’t let himself worry about it.

They moved on to the next page.

YOU CAN HELP ME BY...

• Killing all spiders without teasing me about it.
  
  
• Not getting angry when Beholding beams inappropriate information into my head.
  
  
• Not letting me take Statements from people who have not signed the consent form.
  
  
• Reminding me to keep to the written schedule.

He stalled at defending the Institute against the other Fears.

“Jon,” Oliver said.

“Hmm?” Jon asked, tapping his pen irritably against the worksheet.

“We’re doing it right now.”

“Doing what?”

Martin gave him a gentle shove. “Keeping watch together so Mr. Spider can’t eat any children today.”

“Oh. Yes. Right. I suppose you are.”

Martin looked up at the third-floor fire escape door. “How long do we have before it gets desperate enough to come out?”

“I don’t know, Martin.”

“It looks like there’s one more section. What you’d like to hear.”

I WOULD LIKE TO HEAR... 

“I don’t know.”

“How about, “the spider is thoroughly pulverized,” Martin suggested.

“I’ll grant you, that’s comforting.”

“It’s all right if you don’t have any ideas right now,” Oliver said.

Jon thought for a moment. “Yes, that.” He moved to write them down.

• The spider is thoroughly pulverized.
  
  
• It’s all right if you don’t have any ideas right now.

The pen tapped a sharp rhythm against the clipboard.

• You’re a good person.

He wasn’t ready to admit to being a good person as anything more than a hopeless aspiration.

‘You’re a person,” Oliver obliged.

Martin took the clipboard from his hands and pulled him into his lap. “A real, whole, actual person. My person.” A quick look at Oliver. “Our person.”

Chapter Text

Sunita Bedi was beginning to think that, of the stack of open positions at the institute that needed filling, what she needed most was to hire her own replacement. As it was, she was running the Institute while also serving as the de facto head of HR, in the midst of hiring back those members of the Institute staff who still wanted to be employed by what had turned out to be a cult devoted to a god that was both evil and demonstrably real. She’d been surprised that almost a third of the staff had taken her up on the offer, even with full disclosure.

She’d just finished filing the paperwork for all the rehires. There were dozens of spots she still had to fill in the library, accounting, research, artefact storage so Sonja didn’t try to do it all and get eaten by her charges—

She very much wanted to avoid that particular outcome.

She was tossing job listings out into the void, cooling coffee beside her, when the door chimed.

“Come in!” she said, forcing friendly brightness into her voice.

It was Jon, looking as frail and haunted as usual. Over the last few days, she’d seen occasional flashes of light in his eyes—proper light, not just the literal green glow that flickered behind his irises like a cat’s tapetum. A stolen, indulgent glance at Martin while the bigger man threw himself into assembling shelves and lifting them into place. The look of shock on his face when Tessa, who still professed to hate him, went to the trouble of ordering lunch for the core staff from a pho restaurant she’d found out he liked and could still enjoy.

Jon needed more of those moments.

He waited in front of her desk like a supplicant, his fingers twining with themselves and his head down to spare her his direct gaze.

“What do you need, Jon?” she prompted.

“Mr. Spider will be making a move soon. We need a twenty-four-hour guard on the fire escape. In pairs. Can we make that happen?”

She sighed. “I can look into hiring security over the short term. Elias’ death left us with a substantial cushion, but I would hate to burn through it before we can line up other funding sources.”

Jon shook his head sharply. “Has to be in-house. A rotation of our permanent staff, two at a time, eight-hour shifts if we must, six or four-hour shifts would be better.”

Of course, it would have to be in-house. A “house” that at present had, what? Fifteen employees? “That’s quite a lift. When does it need to start?”

“Five o’clock?”

“Jon, it’s almost two now!”

The Archivist nodded without looking up at her. “Unfortunately, our assessment of Mr. Spider’s current condition resulted in a cognitohazard. It knows that we know it is regaining its strength. If it is able, it will take advantage of any break in surveillance. Martin and Oliver volunteered to take the first shift until five.”

“Right.” She blew out a breath. “Tell you what. You get your people to contact Basira, see if she’ll take the overnight, and I will talk to Sonja about taking the evening with me. I should be able to organize a rotation starting tomorrow morning. Expect your staff to take one four-hour shift a day, each.”

Jon shook his head sharply. “I can’t talk to Basira.”

“Do I need to know why?” If there was some kind of bad blood between Basira, who had just emailed her signed contract to provide security, and Jon, Sunita needed to know if it was going to interfere with the job.

“No. Maybe. I won’t allow it to interfere with our work. I’ll ask Oliver to arrange something with her.”

“Right, let me know as soon as you know.”

Jon nodded. “I will.” He turned to trudge toward the door.

At the door, he turned around as if something new had occurred to him. “Thank you.”

Sunita accepted his thanks with a nod. “Can I assume that this development is moving us toward getting rid of Mr. Spider once and for all?”

Jon nodded. “And we hope before he can take another child.”

Right. There had been a time, years ago, in which Sunita could pretend that what had been called the Magnus Institute was a repository for urban legends, an academic literary institution with no connection to any real supernatural phenomena.

That was before she presided over several undead staff members in a building with a giant child-eating spider squatting on the third floor.

Well, she’d always said she liked a challenge.

As the person deemed least traumatized by Basira, Oliver was delegated to meet her in the back lot at nine o’clock.

Just outside the archives door, Sonja and Sunita huddled together, sitting in lawn chairs under the awning with their coats and hats on, coffee in their hands, and a blanket thrown across their laps.

He regarded them critically, but settled on saying only, “Did you have a plan for if some little kid comes ambling up the parking lot with that book?”

Diane pursed her lips. “We were going to jump them and wrap them up in the blanket.”

She moved a fold of it with her foot, revealing a large metal bucket. “We keep this in Artefact Storage. For book burning purposes.”

Oliver took a closer look. “Who wrote Gerry on the bucket?”

“Jon, of course.”

Diane shook her head. “Such a shame about that boy.”

Oliver flicked a hand at her to acknowledge what she said without admitting to an opinion.

He heard Basira’s boots crunching on the gravel before he saw her. She’d brought a friend by the look of it, a short, thickly built fellow, muscle under a layer of fat that made Oliver suspect he lifted for power, not for looks.

He walked out to meet them before they got close. “Who is this?”

“A friend from—just a friend. Gray, this is Oliver. Oliver, Gray.”

Gray took in the space with the air of a professional, his gaze resting briefly on blind corners, shadows, obstacles that might impede an escape. He didn’t smile.

“He knows what he’s dealing with?” Oliver asked. No vining roots tugging at the man’s soul, which was something, but what kind of person would Basira be able to round up on short notice to monster-watch all night?

“He’s familiar with the general area. And I briefed him.”

“Hunter?”

Basira shrugged. Gray crossed his arms and stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, his knees bent just enough to be ready to move. A military stance that matched the buzz cut.

At least the man was either not so far along that he could sense Oliver’s connection to the End, or he was professional enough not to react to it on duty.

It would have to do. “Ground rules. You don’t hunt staff. You don’t come inside. Remember, the victim is likely to be a child. If a child approaches with a book, you get the book and immobilize them as gently as you can. Do not touch the book with bare hands or look inside. Then you call my number.”

“And what? You’re driving out here?” Basira scoffed.

“I’m staying in the archives tonight. I’ll be in a sleeping bag by the door.” Not sleeping, but she didn’t need to know that.

“Jon not taking point on this one?”

Oliver’s lips pinched into a line. “Jon forgives our actions and understands that you found them necessary. He is not, however, ready to see you.”

That was an understatement.

“Up to fighting giant evil spiders, but not up to talking to a colleague?” Basira noted in a tone uncomfortably close to a sneer.

Oliver firmed his expression. “And until you understand why what we did to him was worse than what that spider did, he won’t be.”

She stared him down. “Why do you get a pass?”

“That’s not your business.” There was no purpose to allowing her to bait him further. “You have me in your phone.”

He opened to door for Sunita and Sonja. “Ladies?”

They left the blanket over the chairs and followed Oliver inside. Of course, being Institute employees meant that they were both unbearably nosey. “What was that all about?” Sunita asked, crossing her arms and leaning against a desk in the bullpen.

“If you need to know—”

“No. I’m the Head of this institute, and I will not be sent into battle blindfolded. If Basira’s going to be providing security for us, I need to know the nature of the bad blood between her and Jon.”

“A moment.” He shot a text to Jon.

Team Undead

The hot one: Basira outside. OK to fill Bedi in about the Panopticon?

There was a delay of a couple of minutes, then,

The cuddly one: Jon says all right but no questions tonight

“Jon says I can discuss it with you, but that he doesn’t want to talk about it himself right now.”

“All right. Shoot.”

“So you know Jon, Martin, and I aren’t exactly human anymore.”

“I’d gathered as much, yes.”

“And Jon is—considerably more than human, though he would argue that he is less.”

Sunita nodded and gestured for him to continue. “Basira, Melanie, and Georgie decided it was necessary to test Jon’s commitment to human decency by subjecting him to a mock execution.”

She stared at him like she didn’t quite understand what he meant for a moment, then swallowed. “I see.”

“Initially, Melanie and Basira didn’t want it to be mock. Georgie and I talked them back, Georgie because she’s not a killer.”

“And you?”

“Because it wouldn’t have worked. And it might have caused the apocalypse we were trying to avoid.”

“And because it was wrong, right?” she prompted.

“The whole bloody thing was wrong, pretend or not,” Oliver snapped. “It was grievously cruel to someone who has already suffered several lifetimes’ worth of cruelty.”

Sunita accepted his rant with a brief bob of the head. “Ah. And we’re trusting this woman to guard the Institute because…”

“Because she’s a Hunter and can handle herself around monsters. And she seems to have been satisfied by the results of the test.”

“Still.” Her gaze tracked to the door to Renee’s apartment. “I rehired her for security. It would have been good to know that she might be an ongoing danger to staff.”

“Of course,” he told her. “I would be less concerned with her being an ongoing danger than with her being an ongoing source of residual trauma for Martin and Jon. He looked up the fire escape. “With any luck, this issue at least will be resolved soon.”

“With any luck. And not by my having to hire the giant spider.”

“Never happen,” Oliver agreed. “Thanks for staying late on short notice, by the way. Jon was prepared to stay up all night by himself in the cold.”

“And that sounds like a fantastic way to get himself kidnapped again.”

“Glad we’re on the same page. Goodnight, Sunita.”

Jon might as well have sat up all night watching the fire escape, for all the sleep he managed to get. He spent a few hours pinned in place against Martin like a plush toy, finally giving up and wriggling free around five in the morning. Basira might still be guarding the fire escape, though Oliver had said something about sending her on her way and taking the early morning himself.

He dragged himself to the bathroom to splash water on his face and brush his teeth, collected the pill sorter Martin had filled for him according to Dr. Elliott’s instructions, and dutifully plodded into the kitchen to pour a glass of somewhat nauseating apple juice to take them with.

He took the largest first, set a timer for five minutes and sat very, very still on the couch in hopes he would keep it down.

The liminal space his body occupied between living organism and metaphysical Fear anchor was always uncomfortable, but the amount he’d called upon the Eye’s powers to heal himself and keep tabs on Mr. Spider had left him starving.

His head ached like a hollow, empty stomach. It grew harder to keep down liquids and his vitamins, and what little stamina he had at his best had deserted him entirely.

The Institute would open tomorrow for Statements. He fully expected the Eye to sweep a dragnet through London to provide him with sustenance.

He found himself both dreading and craving the arrival of at least one victim. And as time went on, his hunger grew stronger, almost, but not quite drowning out the dread and horror of his nature that the Eye was most likely using to keep him alive, in a sort of psychological autocannibalism.

The timer went off, and he selected one more pill to swallow with a sip of juice.

He had to get the damn things to stay down or he’d have to suffer the indignity of vitamin injections.

He wasn’t entirely convinced that they did him any good anyway, but attempting to look after his physical body was a sort of ritual of rebellion against the Eye’s intention to subsume him into itself entirely.

He was too hungry for the Eye’s proper food to fool the body he wore into behaving like a living thing today. At least, he thought, flushing the loo and returning to the bedroom to dress as quietly as possible, Martin was still able to feign sleep.

Once he was dressed in his gray chinos and sage green button down—the Eye liked green and Jon was hoping to placate it for a little while longer—he bent down just enough to kiss Martin on the cheek and whisper, “You’re not fooling anyone.”

Martin grumbled, rolled over, and snatched Jon’s pillow to put over his own head.

Jon collected his cane, opened the apartment door onto the landing with its three doors. Someone, probably Jordan, had spray-painted “Do Not Open” on the door leading into Mr. Spider’s lair. Beneath the spray paint, a laminated sign read “Giant Man-Eating Spider.”

If they were lucky, that particular infestation might be over in a week.

He didn’t want to think about if they were unlucky.

It took him a while to make it down to the archives. The institute had too many damned stairs.

Once he'd pushed the creaky door open and limped into the bullpen, he turned on the lights and startled at the sight of something dark and lumpy on the floor near the short hallway that led to the rear entry. He stumbled into one of the unclaimed desks.

There was a body, wrapped in blankets, curled up on the foldaway cot, which had been dragged in sight of the back door.

Oliver.

Keeping watch over the archives while Basira guarded the fire escape.

Jon was a little more deliberately noisy than he would have been otherwise, just in case his stumble hadn’t been enough to wake Oliver. He hummed a few bars of Cinders’ Song and peered into the cracked door to Renee’s efficiency to find her still sleeping.

He shuffled to document storage, his body already tired enough to sleep again, but his mind restless and hollow. Maybe he could find a few statements that weren’t too stale to tide him over until tomorrow.

Or maybe the Eye would let him leave so he could collect one for himself.

Wait.

No, he didn’t want that. He wanted the Statements to come here, so the Fears’ victims could have access to whatever resources the institute could bring to bear. Not much more than good intentions, at this point, but that was more than it had offered under Magnus.

His hunger and the ever-present fear of the monster on the third floor were weighing him down, pulling his thoughts in dark and unhelpful directions. He stood in the middle of Document Storage until he felt a faint tug from the Eye, then he plodded down a row of bookshelves until his fingers snagged a file box.

He flicked through the files until one caught at him, then he tugged it out. It wasn’t new to the Eye, of course. It was filed here, if only by some nameless assistant—never mind, by Michael Shelley, of all people.

Thanks, Michael, he thought wearily.

He took his breakfast back to his office, shut himself in, and made note of the tape recorder that was already sitting on his desk and running.

Corruption, it looked like. Not Spiral. He found himself disappointed at that, in some way that seemed two steps to the left of grief.

Chapter Text

One more day. One more day, and there had better be at least one live Statement come through that door tomorrow morning.

Sonja had offered one of hers, but Jon didn’t want to make taking Statements from staff a regular habit, more because they made a good supply for real emergencies than because he hoped to spare them the trauma of relating them for the Eye’s consumption.

Someone was going to suffer for Jon to live, and at least the staff had the advantage of not suffering the dreams.

But once he’d dared to test his sight against Mr. Spider, he found himself drawn to checking on the monster on the third floor over and over. Was it more energetic? Had it put out its bait yet?

Did it know that Jon was Watching it?

By the end of his afternoon shift at the base of the fire escape, taken this time with just Martin beside him, he was so exhausted he’d barely made it up the stairs.

He skipped the five o'clock meeting with Sunita to figure out how to streamline payroll for the Statement donors. He knew he couldn't be able to keep his eyes open.

Martin brought up three Statements from the stack Jon had tagged as real, and Jon had spent an hour and a half reading and making notes on each one, which had bought him enough energy to watch television on the sofa with Martin, though it didn’t give him enough to remember what he’d watched.

He fell asleep on the sofa before nine.

There was a Statement on the bedside table.

Jon’s head pounded.

Martin was maneuvering his floppy, aching limbs, lifting him up to a sitting position, unbuttoning his pajamas, sliding his arms into the sleeves of a smooth button-down shirt.

Had his alarm not gone off?

Martin was saying words at him. And then his sleep pants were coming off, along with his pants, and that would usually start him scrambling to the other side of the bed, but this was Martin, and Martin was safe, and even if he wasn’t, Jon was just so tired he couldn't bring himself to mind.

Gentle, practiced hands worked fresh pants, then trousers up over his hips. “I read this one to you, love,” he heard. “Dr. Elliott called, he said you looked like hell last night, and I might expect something like this.”

“It’s early.” Jon meant the complaint to come out snappish, but it didn't even come out as recognizable words.

Martin ducked down to tug his socks onto his feet, then slid his feet into his shoes. “It’s not, really, love. Do you think you can walk?”

Jon weakly slapped Martin’s hands away, then planted his feet on the plush carpet. He got halfway to standing before the bad leg buckled, and the other followed suit. Martin hauled him up to prop him against his body. Such a lovely, warm, soft body, that.

“Clearly, you will not be walking down the stairs.”

He picked up his phone. After a moment, Jon heard, "Hey, yeah, Oliver, could you make sure the route from the flat to the archives is clear. Jon's in a bad way, and he'll go positively feral if he sees someone with a Statement."

There was a pause, presumably Oliver talking on the other end of the line. Martin scooped Jon up like he weighed nothing—the Eye helpfully offered that he currently weighed forty-two kilograms, which, well, no wonder he didn’t like the way he looked in the mirror.

There was no one in the stairwell, fortunately, so he was spared at least that indignity. Martin set him down on the stairs, took out his key, and opened the door to the archives before turning around to pick him up again.

Jon felt a little stronger, just being nearer the Eye's seat of power. He waved Martin off. “I can walk.”

Martin gave him a dubious eyebrow but backed away.

He didn’t have his cane.

Martin seemed to come to the same conclusion and offered him a chivalrous arm that was much less mortifying than being carried, so he let himself lean on his fiancé for the short walk to his office, where he would have a spare cane and a more direct connection to his unbeloved god.

“I’m getting you tea for now. It’s ten-thirty. If no one comes in by noon, you’re taking Sonja’s Statement.”

Last year, he might have insisted that he could wait, but he needed to be at least, if not strong, at least ambulatory if the Spider made its move today, which meant a Statement had to come from someone.

Jon nodded agreement, and Martin left him, pointedly leaving the office door cracked so he could keep an ear out.

Despite knowing he shouldn’t, he checked on the Spider three times over the next hour.

It sounded like someone had fallen down the stairs.

Jon moved to stand, but dizziness dropped him back in his chair. In the hall, he heard Martin say, “Oh dear, are you all right?” and the scrape of a chair being pulled along the floor, followed by the heavy thump of a body falling into it.

“No, not at all,” a voice responded, the words scraping out of the speaker’s throat. A dry cough, then, “I’m here to make a Statement. While I still can.”

“Right,” Martin said, his voice taking on that gentle tone Jon recognized from just that morning, when he’d had to dress Jon and bring him down the stairs like an invalid. “I’ll let Jon know you’re here.”

Jon sat up straighter and tried to look like he wasn’t about to faint. “I heard. You can bring him in when he’s ready.”

Martin nodded, then glanced back out at the bullpen, frowning. “He’s in a right state. Just—” he gestured as though he was trying to capture what he was trying to say between his hands. “Just, yeah. I’ll fetch him.’

Jon watched the empty space by the half-opened door, mentally salivating, and wasn’t that a hideous image, until Martin shepherded a pitiful creature into his office.

The man was covered in something thick and oily, possibly Vaseline. His hair was shiny and slicked down with it. The stuff coated every bit of skin Jon could see, clumping his eyelashes together, discoloring the cuffs of his shirt, and coating bright red, blistering marks around his lips and underneath his eyes.

His hands were tacky with it. He took the seat across from Jon gingerly, as though it pained him to move. Jon found himself hungering to know what had happened to create such a wretched state. He forced down the urge to compel the story out of the man immediately.

The Eye could wait a minute for the formalities to be observed. “Jonathan Sims, the Archivist,” he said.

“I’ll forgo shaking hands if that’s quite all right,” the man said softly, displaying his bandaged hands. Only the fingertips were fisible, and those were covered in as much Vaseline as the rest of him.

“Quite,” Jon agreed. “Have you read and signed the informed consent form?”

“I have.” His voice cracked again on the words, and he stifled a cough. “Most of it will be irrelevant. I doubt I have more than a few hours to live.” He paused again as though to gather himself.

“If I have enough time, I would like to make some suggestions on improving the form. I have run clinical trials before, and know the language.”

“That is a kind offer. I hope you are able to make the time.” Looking at him, Jon half expected whatever Fear had captured him to finish the job as soon as the Statement was complete.

An unpleasant thought occurred to him, and he allowed himself to Know. The man was no immediate threat to the institute. His affliction was not communicable.

“We’ll have a better idea of what protections we might be able to offer after we have your Statement,” Jon told him. “I’ll provide a brief introduction, then you may begin.”

“Right. Of course." He poked at the tape recorder with a finger. It was already running. "An interesting choice.”

“Statements associated with genuine supernatural encounters resist digital media.”

The man’s eyes lit with interest, then flicked away from the tape recorder to rest on the table. Disappointed, perhaps. “Fascinating. It’s—rather a pity I won’t have the time to explore that connection further. Do, please, go ahead.”

Jon finally released his grip on the Eye to let the binding words spill from his mouth.

“Statement of Charles Emerson, on the nature of water and solubility. Recorded November 2, 2018, by the Archivist.”

Have you ever thought about water? Really thought about it. It rules the world of the very small on Earth, a multitude of impossibly tiny magnets made of oxygen and hydrogen, capable of shredding so many other forms of matter into tiny pieces and carrying those pieces within it? It’s the secret to life.

Thinking about how small those little bits that move, jostled about by the water in which they are dissolved or suspended, it boggles the mind, truly.

In essence, we human beings are little more than skin bags full of water in which bigger molecules come together and split apart.

The Earth is, of course, soaked in water, covered in it miles deep over much of its surface. We know very little about the oceans, compared to their size and scope. It would be terribly easy to be lost in that endless, blue, to drown in it, to become a particle in all that water just like the molecules within the water of our cells.

Consider the sky. The clouds are made of water, sure, but the air is also laden with it. We breathe water with every breath. It’s a wonder we don’t all drown.

I nearly drowned once, as a child.

I suppose that’s not all that unusual. This country is an island. One is never too far from the grasping waves of the sea. II had been enjoying a day at the seaside, riding one of those inflatable floating donuts. I'd dozed off, lulled by the rocking of the waves, until I floated out of sight of my parents, and the mist—more water—settled down around me so I could see the water and the sky, but not the land. I was nothing more than a dot of substance in all that water. It was delightful until, eventually, it wasn't.

Long story short, my little raft lost air and I nearly sank. It was only dumb luck that my feet touched a sand bar at just the right moment, and still more dumb luck that I was able to follow it on tiptoe back to a spot where I could see people and be seen. Unfortunately, I’d taken a good lungful of seawater before I found my sandbar, and some hours later I tried to drown again, all those little salty bits dissolved in the water pulling fluid out of my tissues and into my lungs. Dry drowning, they call it.

Like many a young person who has had a terrifying brush with death, I became enamored of the doctors who pulled me back from the brink, and I made a choice to become a physician, a choice I managed to keep.

I’m a pediatric pulmonologist. Every day, I try, and sometimes fail, to save children from the broken machinery of their own bodies. To keep them from drowning in their own water.

It’s a career that involves a significant amount of handwashing, as you might imagine.

A few days ago, I was washing my hands, and my skin started to sting. I changed the soap and sanitizer I was using in hopes that would solve the problem, but very quickly it became clear that my entire body, including the parts that should resist the power of those infinitesimal magnets, has become water soluble.

You can see my hands, the bandages—the skin has begun to heal, but they were peeled down to the dermis.

You’re not sugar, you won’t melt—I’m sure you’ve heard the taunt before. I am not sugar—I performed a couple of quick and dirty experiments to be sure. The substance of my body behaves as it always has when it is not attached to me.

But as a part of me, every chemical and structure that I have tested has become as acutely soluble as table salt.

This is, of course, patently impossible. The chemistry of solubility simply does not function that way. Nonpolar substances like keratin and sebum do not dissolve in ordinary water. And the water that touches me--this required even more cautious experimentation--does not affect anyone else the way it does me.

I cannot drink—I tried, a tiny sip, and dissolved my mouth as effectively as if I had consumed a strong acid. The only reason I can speak is that I had the presence of mind to spit it out immediately. That was almost two days ago, now. My own salive does not burn me unless it leaves my mouth. When it does, well, you can see the result. My tears behave similarly.

I cannot tolerate the mere touch of water. Even humidity burns like steam.

But I am so thirsty.

I suspect that you cannot pull me back from the brink. If you could, there would likely be a long line of hopeful pilgrims at your door. But I hoped you might be able to do something useful with my story. Perhaps help me understand why this perversion of natural law has visited itself on me in particular, here and now.

I read your informed consent form—it needs another draft or several, I would be glad to give you some pointers if I life that long. I see you hope to provide support, perhaps even rescue to the victims of the impossible.

I ask little. A quiet corner to finish a few phone calls before my voice gives out. It has begun to rain, you see, and so I will have to spend my last hours somewhere within these walls.

I am trying to comfort myself in that I am only rejoining what I already am. I am dust suspended in water, swirling in patterns that give it delusions of grandeur. I fear I remain uncomfortable. Those patterns are myself, and I am more than a little fond of them.

I know, too, that the process will be neither quick, nor painless. I do not look forward to either possibility, but as I have no choice, I suppose I will endure it for as long as it lasts.

The man coughed again as the Statement released him, spattering tiny red droplets across the tape recorder and Jon's desk. Jon watched his tears dig bright red furrows into his cheeks.

“Statement Ends.”

“So you see, there’s nothing you can do,” Charles Emerson said, in a voice that was little more than a rasp.

The man was being attacked from within, in a way that somehow managed to evoke both the Vast and the Corruption. Jon could think of nothing that could be done for him.

And now, with the Statement filling him up enough that he was no longer too weak to stand, he had the energy to have feelings about it. He cleared his own throat. “The least I can do is show you to that table. Follow me.”

He collected the spare cane that rested by his desk and led Dr. Emerson to the bullpen. “You may use the large worktable for as long as you need it, to get your affairs in order. Is there anything else I can bring you? Paper? Phone charger?”

Charles shook his head.

“I’m going to consult briefly with my colleagues. I will return shortly. Do write down anything else you can think of that might be helpful to you.”

Charles looked up at him. “I have a few confidential phone calls to make. After that, I would really rather not be alone.”

“I can understand that.”

Sunita dropped the latest list of rehires and listed open positions on Oliver's desk. “I thought you might like a hard copy for notes, especially given how fickle the computers can be here.”

Oliver nodded, making sure to look up long enough to offer her a smile. “Thinking about picking up one of those old ledgers for double entry bookkeeping, but I’d have to keep duplicates in the computer for taxes, anyway.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want you to lack for things to do, Mr. Banks," she said cheerfully.

“Certainly not, Ms. Bedi.”

She tapped the doorframe with her fingers, then left him to his work. The socializing was unnecessary and made him uneasy. The more of these people he grew to care about, the more he’d dread the day he saw the dark, coiling shapes around them that would herald their Ends.

He hadn’t decided yet whether he would tell them, should the coiling vines wrap themselves around a coworker. Perhaps he just ought ask what they would each prefer. And didn’t that sound like a large number of unbearable conversations?

At least, for better or worse, the two men he'd reluctantly become involved with were unlikely to die in the one case, and entirely unable to do so in the other.

His phone chimed.

Team Undead

the short one: Need you in the Archives. Bring Naomi. Live statement, rough one, need confirmation/advice.

Oliver saved his work, tucked Sunita’s list under the corner of his laptop, and made his way down to Artefact Storage.

The building was really too large for the dozen and change working in it, especially since nearly half the staff were down in the archives. The emptiness appealed even if the echoes of the dead tugged at the edges of his mind when he passed through the library.

Past the library and to the reinforced double set of doors that led into Artefact storage. He went through the first set, then hit the call button. “Naomi there today?”

In a moment, he heard, “I’m in, yeah. Trouble?”

“The Archivist wanted to see us about a live statement.”

“Did the little prick retraumatize someone again?”

Naomi wasn't going to last long here if she continued to take offense at the nature of this place and their work. He rubbed at his temples, feeling a headache coming on. “I’m sure he did. That’s how the process works. Has to work. But he asked for the two of us specifically, so something must be up.”

“All right, give me a moment.”

Oliver waited in the space between the doors. It wasn’t a true airlock, not yet—that was on the medium-term renovations list—but they did expect the staff to wear separate clothes inside the space than they did outside, down to shoes and socks.

He ought to leave, so Naomi could change. In a couple of minutes, she appeared. “Ready?” he asked her.

“Mm,” she said, but she followed him down to the archives.

Jon was already at the base of the stairs when Oliver opened the door. He looked healthier than he had this morning, by quite a bit, even if he looked like he could use half a dozen more live statements. His expression, though, was bleak. He leaned into Oliver’s side for a moment, deliberately breathing with his face pressed into Oliver’s chest. He looked up after a beat and forced a smile for Naomi, who seemed to be trying not to look scandalized by Jon’s behavior.

Oliver didn’t care in the slightest. Jon had earned a lifetime of unprofessional behavior as far as he was concerned.

Jon licked his lips, then said, “I have a Statement giver here who cannot tolerate the touch of water. It eats at him like acid.”

“That makes no sense,” Naomi protested, “Are you sure?”

Jon nodded. Oliver caught the little crease between his brows. Not being believed always irritated him. “His tears started to dissolve his face while he was talking.”

Naomi pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, that is—that’s horrific.”

“Welcome to our world,” Jon told her, straightening to smooth the rumples out of his clothes. “Anyway, there’s nothing we can do long-term, but I thought I’d check with the resident chemistry expert on how we might make him more comfortable.”

“Keep him away from water,” she deadpanned.

Jon’s lips pursed primly. “Obviously. I was thinking of something to soothe his throat, perhaps, so he can finish his phone calls more easily.”

“Could try a little vegetable oil.” She looked past his shoulder at the man hunched at the long worktable. “I’ll run out to the grocer to pick some up.”

“Thanks.” He turned to Oliver. “First, could you confirm for me that he’s got no way out of this?”

Oliver took a couple of steps closer. The roots surrounded the man so thickly Oliver could hardly see him through them. “That’s an unusual pattern,” he told Jon. “Heaviest at the throat, but just kind of breaks into filaments and touches every part of him. What’s going on with him?”

Jon chewed his lip. “Vast, I think. Maybe Corruption along with. He’s dissolving on contact with water.”

“Shouldn’t he just be soup, then?” Naomi asked.

Jon glared at her. “Dream logic. Anyway, either he lingers for a few days at most, while he dies of thirst, or he dissolves. The water acts like a strong acid.”

Naomi made herself scarce, presumably to find the vegetable oil.

Oliver contemplated the man, who sat in front of a laptop and phone, speaking quietly through swollen lips. “Both very bad ways to go, I’d agree.” He’d seen enough death that he’d become used to its terror, but some deaths were worse than others.

Jon walked with Oliver to where they could lean up against one of the unoccupied desks. He took another deliberate breath—every breath he took was deliberate unless he was quite frightened. Perhaps he found breathi grounding. “I hate to ask, but is there any way you could help him along a little?  If that’s what he wants, I mean. Would that feed you?”

Oliver shook his head. “I feed on the fear of death, mine and others. While dying here will allow him to feed me, making the process gentler will reduce the effect, not increase it.”

“So you wouldn’t,” Jon concluded.

Oliver corrected, “I would, if that’s what he wants. It’s not enough difference to matter, and in the city, I passively absorb plenty of death. I just can’t make him die supernaturally.”

“Right. I need to speak to him. Would you come with me?”

Jon's hand was clenched in a fist, tight enough to whiten his knuckles. Oliver let his own hand drop down next to it, less than a finger span away. “All right?” he asked, by way of permission.

Jon nodded, and Oliver worked open his clenched fist, slipped his fingers through Jon’s, and held tight. They walked together to the man at the table.

“Dr. Emerson?” Jon said when the man put down his phone.

The man nodded. “Sit, please.”

Jon pulled up a chair with Oliver beside him. If the doctor noticed them holding hands, he chose not to remark on it.

Jon cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I have to confirm that there is nothing we can do for you. A colleague is looking for a little vegetable oil to soothe your throat, keep you able to speak longer. And I had a thought.”

“What’s that?”

“I have access to a small amount of opiate pain medication. It might—take the edge off. You could wash it down with oil instead of water.”

Dr. Emerson shook his head grimly. “No need to break into your stash. I am a physician, after all, and I needn’t worry about any legal or professional consequences should my theft be discovered. The oil, though, is a good thought.”

“Have you considered which way you would prefer to—go out?” 

“I’d rather not drag it out, frankly.”

“I’m sorry we can’t help you,” Jon continued. “I’m not sure what I’m good for if I can’t even pay for your story with some material help.” Oliver could hear the roughness in Jon's voice. So, too, could Dr. Emerson, it seemed.

Dr. Emerson turned his laptop to the wall. “Take it from someone in a career that’s steeped in loss and grief. You will lose people. You may even lose most people. There are diseases I treat that no one survives for long. But we can give comfort, hope where it exists, and certainty where it doesn’t. You’ve given me that much. You listened, you believed me, and you offered me a little space and a little time to process what’s happening to me.”

He reached out to take Jon's hand, the one that wasn’t clutching Oliver’s. Jon started in surprise but didn’t pull away. “That’s not nothing. Now give me a little while to finish tying up the last of these loose ends. I’ll come to you when I’m ready to take something to take the edge off, and then I’ll be ready to go. I think going to sleep in the rain would be fitting.” His voice shook on the last words.

He turned away to let them know he was done speaking.

Oliver had to lead Jon away, though Jon managed not to break down until they had left the bullpen and were safely hidden in his office.

“He intends to go outside, then,” Jon said, voice cracking around a suppressed sob.

Oliver wished he could loan Jon some of his equanimity. At the least, he could keep his own voice calm, his hand steady on Jon’s shoulder, the other tight in Jon’s own. “I’ll walk with him if he wants company.”

Jon stared down at the lined wooden surface of the desk. He dragged a shallow channel along the woodgrain with a fingernail and said, quietly, without looking up, “Wouldn’t it hurt less if he waited until the drugs knocked him out? We could take him outside ourselves. Or—or we could find another way.”

Oliver smiled tightly. “I think that’s his decision, but I’ll give him the option. It doesn’t bother me to hasten matters along, if that’s what he chooses.”

It took another couple of hours for Dr. Emerson to complete the tasks he’d set himself. Martin and Tessa came in from their watch at noon, to be replaced by Diane from the library and a young man Oliver hadn’t met, presumably one of the library staff.

Jon dragged Martin into his office for a while. Oliver collected his work from upstairs and entered data while keeping an eye on the office door, not jealous, precisely, but wanting to be included, even if he knew the two of them needed some time alone.

Naomi appeared with a bottle of corn oil, poured a couple of ounces into a coffee mug, and set it beside Oliver before wincing in the doctor’s general direction and fleeing back upstairs.

Oliver hoped Dr. Emerson’s words had made an impression on Jon and, if not, that Martin could chivvy him out of what threatened to become another depressive spiral.

Dr. Emerson closed his laptop, set his phone on top of it, and approached Oliver’s desk with slow, heavy steps. From here, the tracks burned into his cheeks by his tears were evident, as were his scabbed, blistered lips.

“Shall I get Jon?” Oliver asked him.

Dr. Emerson glanced at the Head Archivist’s office door. “He’s taking it hard. Can we let him be?”

Oliver nodded. “If it helps, I’m something of a Herald of Death. You won’t make me uncomfortable, no matter how you choose to proceed.”

“A Grim Reaper, are you? Right. I wish I had the energy to ask you what that's like.” He fished through his pockets to pull out a bottle of pills. He shook out a dozen tablets. “Never taken pills with oil before. This dose will kill me handily, but it will take a while and be nearly as unpleasant as the other options. I’ll get a spell of unconsciousness first, though. That’s all I need.”

He downed them in four batches of three, grimacing after each one. “Ugh, that does not taste nice.”

He swallowed a few extra times, then pulled out a couple of tiny white pills to tuck under his tongue. “Anti-emetic,” he explained. “I should begin to feel the effects in a few minutes. It will be a bit of a trick, balancing the best pain relief I can get while still being able to walk outside. I should get myself upstairs quickly.”

“If you prefer a more private setting, you’re welcome to go out the archives door in the back, or.”

“Or?”

“If you wish to wait until you’ve fallen asleep, I can carry you.”

Dr. Emerson looked away for a moment, then looked Oliver deliberately in the eye. “That would be...kind. But I won’t make a murderer out of anyone.”

“You wouldn’t. First, this is not murder, just the easing of a passage intended to be excessively cruel. Second, I have killed before, even murdered. You won’t be taking my innocence by any means.”

He took a few moments to empty his pockets onto the desk. Wallet. Keys. Pen. “Perhaps I will sit here for a while and decide.”

Oliver sat beside him. He drooped in the chair, then suddenly listed to one side. Oliver had been expecting it, so caught him in one arm and hoisted him to his feet. “Just going nearer the door so you’re easier to carry. Unless you want to head right out?”

Dr. Emerson nuzzled into his shoulder in a way that could have meant either yes or no. The man was a bit larger than Oliver could lift comfortably, but he didn’t want to force anyone else to participate. He made it to a spot just inside the door, hooked a folding chair with his foot, and settled the man into it, making sure his weight rested against his side so he wouldn’t slide to the floor.

He snored once, briefly, then sighed. The roots wrapped tighter. Oliver waited as his breathing slowed into sleep, then to unconsciousness and encroaching hypoxia. It took long enough for his leg to feel like it was going to sleep, but he wanted to be sure that the man would feel little or nothing.

It was the least he could do.

When it was time, he opened the door. Even the little bit of mist blowing in was enough to begin eating away at the skin on the side of the doctor's face. Oliver poked his head out just long enough to say, "Diane, I've got a gentleman coming to a messy End with me. You'd best cover your eyes, both of you."

He crouched down in front of the unconscious man and hefted him into a fireman’s carry, then backed out the door into the driving rain.

Dr. Emerson was not a small man. Oliver took five staggering steps away from the door and the awning. He eased himself to his knees, already feeling something thick and unpleasant pouring down his back. He managed to get the dying man to the ground gently, though he was far beyond feeling.

The moment of the doctor’s death registered in his senses. When he turned back around, there was nothing left but a spreading puddle of red that was already flowing away with the rain, and a pile of ruined clothes. Those he gathered up to carry to the dumpster at the far corner of the lot. He stripped off his own clothes, save his pants and vest, and tossed those in after. 

He'd liked that suit.

“Rest in peace,” he said, then turned away to give his attention to the living.

Chapter Text

Jon’s phone alarm chimed five o’clock. It couldn’t have been that long, could it? He’d just been looking over his plans for organizing the Statements that had survived the various attacks on the archives over the years, with an eye to putting both real and false statements in some kind of order that could benefit academic researchers—the ones who had come to the archives for research purposes had generally been even more appalled than he was at the filing system.

So far, he had learned that he really needed an actual archivist to get control of the collections. There was no sense in his attempting to reinvent archival science from scratch. He made a note to ask Sunita to prioritize hiring someone suitable.

He’d also learned, yet again, that he couldn’t be trusted not to get lost in his work. At least the alarm had pulled him from his workflow.

He’d forgotten entirely about Charles Emerson.

The realization had him shoving his chair back so hard it rolled into the back wall, then rushing out to the bullpen so quickly he banged his hip on the corner of his desk.

He bit back a curse and stumbled out into the main room.

It was empty.

Oliver and Tessa would be heading outside about now, he supposed, taking their shift guarding the fire escape.

Where was Charles?

Had he been left alone here, when all he had wanted was to finish his work and spend his last hours or days in company?

Jon took a couple of steps, then returned to his office for his cane. He’d pass Renee’s room on the way to the back door. Best check on her first, see if she needed anything.

Was that laughter?

He poked his head in. Tessa perched at the bottom of Renee’s bed, doggedly chasing Renee’s changeable toes with sparkly lavender nail polish. “So,” she was saying, “I’ve told him I’m not emptying the break room garbage, even if I am the only actual Archival Assistant right now. Martin can do it if Jon’s not up to hauling—oh, speak of the eyeball devil!”

She turned around. “Hi, Jon. Is it five already?”

Renee waved her good arm, displaying more polish. “Boo, and look, Tessa, you almost managed to get all the toes on that foot!”

“You can’t fool me, you’re making them change faster on purpose.” Tessa didn’t turn around. She still didn’t like to look directly at him. Probably never would. “You go sit in the rain with Ollie, it’s girl time.”

Girl time? Ollie?

“Right, of course, sounds like a plan,” Jon muttered at the two of them. “Have either of you seen the fellow who came to give a statement? Tall, balding, liberally slathered in Vaseline?”

A serious mask dropped over Tessa’s face. “Oliver took him out an hour ago.”

Out?

“Right, I’ll speak with him, then. You two have fun.”

It was still pouring, though the forecast called for the rain to peter out in an hour or two. Oliver was dressed in a fashionable black greatcoat and a less fashionable knit hat, probably one from Martin’s stash, though Jon was surprised he’d knitted a black one. “Where’s Doctor Emerson?”

Oliver gestured to the seat beside him. “The situation has been resolved.”

“You mean he died,” Jon said, swallowing the ache in his throat.

“Yes, Jon. As you are aware, there was no other possible outcome.”

The wind whipped the rain enough that even the shelter of the courtyard and awning wasn’t enough to keep it from splattering them now and again. “I know, but—why didn’t you come for me?”

“Jon.” He took off his greatcoat and handed it pointedly to Jon, then watched with his arms folded and one eyebrow cocked until he shrugged into it.

“Sit.”

Jon sat. “I should have…”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Oliver said quietly. “You don’t have to do everything.”

“It was my Statement.”

Oliver shook his head. “It’s our mission, not just yours. And to be entirely honest, the last thing that poor man needed was to spend his final hours trying to comfort you.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“Also, not my point. You don’t have to feel sorry for caring too much. Just. It’s okay to delegate.”

Oliver stared out into the rain for a little while longer. “Did you at least listen to what he said?”

“What? About getting used to losing? I fed on his fear, then I just gave up! I didn’t even figure out which Fear it was that took him.”

“Does it matter?”

“If we’d known, we could have—I don’t know.”

“Offered him the same choice we got?”

“Maybe.”

Oliver scooted his chair closer. “Come here.” He held out his arms.

Right. He was allowed this. Comfort. From both Oliver and Martin. He let himself be pulled close. “I don’t deserve you. Either of you.”

“And yet you have us.”

He gave himself a few moments to look out at the rain coming down in sheets, but he needed to know. “How did it happen?”

“He took enough opiates to knock out a horse. I waited until he was out, then I carried him out here. It didn’t take long, and he wasn’t aware of it.”

“Thank you. For staying with him.”

Oliver rested his cheek on the top of Jon’s head. It was cold. Jon was freezing. The rain blew across them, driven nearly horizontal by the wind, then bouncing off the brick to splatter them from the opposite direction. “It’s a good thing we can’t catch our deaths out here,” Oliver teased.

“Feels like we could,” Jon complained back at him.

“I think,” Oliver said, turning to look out across the gravel lot under the dark gray sky, “That’s my part of the mission.”

“What is?”

“Shepherding the ones we can’t save to their Ends.”

“You shouldn’t have to do it yourself, every time,” Jon protested. “Besides, your job is to keep us from going bankrupt.”

“I don’t mind it, though. The way you do. The End is my nature.” He chuckled. “I’m much for scared for this place’s finances.”

The back door creaked open, was pushed back by the driving rain, then was resolutely shoved open and held there. Martin wedged himself in the doorway long enough to drag a large satchel through with him, then let the wind slam it shut behind him.

“Oh come on, this is ridiculous,” he shouted over the howling wind. “And it’s only supposed to get worse.”

“Mr. Spider is probably waiting for us to give up so he can lure some child here,” Jon protested.

“Jon.” Martin waved an already soaked arm pointedly at the deluge. “It’s three bloody degrees outside and getting colder. The rain’s supposed to turn to sleet any minute. If a child tried to walk here with that book, they would freeze or blow away before they got here, let alone tried to make it up the fire escape!”

Jon stared up the fire escape and Knew, abruptly, that the trap had been set, though not whether it had yet been sprung. “The book is out there.”

“And it can stay out there for the night. Oliver, talk some sense into him.”

Oliver sighed. “It is very cold. But. We don’t know how much control Mr. Spider has over the book.”

“Mr. Spider is the book,” Jon corrected.

Oliver hummed thoughtfully. “That throws things into a rather more concerning light. In that case, it might be able to find a way to take advantage of our absence, in spite of the storm.”

Martin grumbled, “Fine. Fine. How about a compromise? We set up camp just inside the door, so none of us freezes to death.”

“We won’t be able to hear anything over all the wind,” Jon protested.

“You won’t be able to save anyone if you’re frozen to your chairs.”

Jon’s body decided to betray him with a shiver. Fine. Have an autonomic response now, why don’t you, he thought at it. It really was miserably cold out here, and dangerous for anyone trying to walk far.

“It’s bad enough Sunita is organizing ride shares for folks who usually take the train.”

“I have to keep Watch.”

“Then keep Watch.”

“If I need…”

“If you need another Statement tomorrow, I’m sure the Eye will deliver one. Or you can have one of Sonja’s.”

Jon let Martin pull him to his feet. Oliver was right behind him. When the door closed on the worsening weather, Jon propped himself against the wall near the doorway. “Staying here. If I See Mr. Spider drawing in a victim, it won’t do any good for us to be all the way up in the flat.”

“Fine,” Martin said, though he sounded less than happy with the development. “I’m not sitting here without some creature comforts. Oliver, you’d best get a ride share if you’re expecting to get home tonight.”

“I thought I’d stick around, just in case.” He ducked out the door and returned with the Leitner bucket.

“I’ll bring some things from upstairs. It will be like camping. Or—or like back when I lived in Document Storage.”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not. Not really.” Martin disappeared for a couple of minutes, then returned with another couple of chairs. “Blankets for the both of you, thermoses are full of hot tea. Do you still keep a change of clothes in your office?”

“Mhmm,” Jon mumbled around a mouthful of tea.

“Right. You have anything, Oliver?”

“Unfortunately, I already used my change of clothes for the day.”

Martin looked him up and down. Jon didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered. “I’ll find you something.”

He bustled away.

“I’m fine,” Oliver called back, but it was futile. Martin was already gone.

Jon shuddered.

“At least get out of your wet shoes and socks.” Another appraising look. “And the trousers. They’re soaked to the knees.

Jon would rather not move. The thermos was rudely removed from his hands. “Clothes off, blankets on. You look miserable,” Oliver prompted.

“And if Mr. Spider chooses this moment to strike?”

“Then I’ll be ready for him.”

As if Oliver hadn’t gotten soaked in the brief time he was outside without his coat on. He didn't look away while Jon shucked his wet clothes. His shirt wasn’t so bad, so he kept it on and just wrapped himself up in the heaviest of the blankets.

The door rattled with the force of the wind. Oliver slid down the wall to sit beside him, keeping a few inches away to keep from soaking the blanket with freezing rain.

Jon’s hair dripped onto his formerly dry shirt. He regarded Oliver. “You’re soaked, too.”

“I’ll change when Martin comes back, so there’s always someone dressed.”

Jon almost protested, but if the Spider chose that moment to act, they shouldn’t both be running outside in their pants. If nothing else, walking barefoot on gravel would slow both of them down as much as the storm.

“So. You and Martin.”

“You and me and Martin.”

“I mean, I know we don’t all have to be involved, but—”

“But the two of you are giant balls of trauma, and you need to feel secure with each other.”

Jon tapped the back of his head against the wainscot. “Are you sure you want a piece of this? When it’s both of us or neither of us?”

“I don’t like being alone. But I can’t get close to people who are just going to die on me. I can’t take that.”

“So what? We’re here?”

“It doesn’t hurt that I like the both of you.”

Martin bustled into the small entryway, so heavily laden with blankets, pillows, and bags that his face wasn’t visible.

He bent over and dropped them all with a thump in front of Oliver, then placed a pair of track pants, and socks in front of him. “Make it quick.”

Martin ogled him the entire time he was changing. Jon, to his own surprise, saw his point, but realized belatedly that he was sizing up Oliver’s ass through Martin’s eyes and shied away, mortified.

Oliver shimmied into the track pants and sat back down next to Jon, this time close enough to touch. Martin sat down on Jon’s other side. He pulled three large mugs out of one of the bags and poured tea out of a thermos. Jon noted with amusement that he’d brought a single serving carton of milk and a sugar dispenser, and carefully doctored Oliver’s (a little sugar, no milk), Jon’s (a lot of sugar, no milk), and his own (more sugar than Oliver’s, less than Jon and a good dollop of milk in his own.

He chugged the rest of the milk before setting it aside and taking up his mug of tea. “I assume you’ve been keeping tabs?”

Jon nodded around a sip he expected to find more cloying. “Have I always taken it that sweet?”

“You used to take it more like mine, but since we’ve been back, you finish it better when I put more sugar in.”

“I feel betrayed,” Jon quipped dryly. “Clearly, the eye has the sensibilities of a schoolchild.”

“A very picky schoolchild,” Martin agreed.

“I just had another Look around. I’m hoping if I check in every twenty minutes or so, I can keep it from making its move.”

“Like suppressing fire?” Martin suggested.

“I suppose so, yes. I do have a further concern, though. Basira and..." He scoured his memory for the name. The Eye was no help. "And that other guy will be here at ten to take the overnight shift. I’m concerned she won’t prioritize the safety of a child victim.”

“You think she’d shoot a kid to get the book?” Oliver asked.

“In a second,” Martin insisted bitterly.

“I think she would be sorely tempted. The Hunt has dug in harder since we lost Daisy to the Buried again. I don’t think she would plan to harm a child to retrieve a Leitner for disposal, but in the moment, her very fear of doing that, of becoming that, could be a tempting target.”

Oliver got up to open the door a crack. “Hasn’t slowed down in the slightest. Looks like there’s some sleet mixed in now.”

“I don’t suppose any of us have boots.”

“At home,” Oliver said.

“I don’t even own boots,” Jon admitted. “Not anymore.”

Martin stuck his booted feet out of the cover of the blanket. “I suppose this means I get to go first.” His voice was more triumphant than rueful. “Keep the two of you safely behind me.”

“We’re not fragile,” Jon insisted.

“I’m not fragile,” Oliver corrected. “You have been directly targeted. If it gets a chance, it will take you back. And it won’t be so easy to retrieve you next time.”

“And it knows exactly how to get you to do what it wants,” Martin reminded him. It knows it can’t kill you.”

Oliver winced.

Jon took that to mean it could kill him. “Can’t it? I think if anything could…”

“It doesn’t want you dead, then. You can’t end the world if you’re dead.”

“It’s not going to make me end the world.”

Martin didn’t answer. “The Web knows you almost as well as the Eye, and it’s far better at manipulation. Given enough time and the right leverage—”

“No,” Jon said firmly.

“Well, how about I don’t want you subjected to unending torture while you resist being coerced or tricked into ending the world?”

Fine. He’d stop arguing about it. He drank a little more tea and tried not to resent the eldritch taste buds that caused him to enjoy it candied.

Some day, things would settle down, and He and Martin (and Oliver, maybe?) would be able to spend time with each other without constantly worrying about monsters hiding just on the other side of reality.

What if the only reason he and Martin worked at all was the constant threat of monsters from the other side of reality?

He didn’t want to think about that, so he poked his Sight into the Spider-occupied third floor like a tongue at a sore tooth and felt excitement. Anticipation.

He Looked outward as far as he could. Apparently, that was just about a city block if he was willing to endure a splitting headache and powerful vertigo that made him glad he was both sitting on the floor and bracketed by both Oliver and Martin.

There was a man walking toward the Institute, coatless and shoeless, carrying a toddler, similarly underdressed. A woman followed perhaps half a block behind, half running, half stomping in heavy boots, her coat held closed around her with one arm.

He swallowed nausea and forced himself to speak. “Adult man with a very small child, not much more than a baby. Woman following. They’re almost to the Institute.”

Martin stood. “Get the bucket ready, Jon. Oliver, can you guard the bottom of the fire escape? I’m going after them.”

“I’m going—”

“Nowhere. You are staying here. You’re needed to burn that book. Do you have your lighter?”

“It’s a Web lighter, what if—”

Oliver broke in. “I’ve got a lighter too, just in case.”

This was happening too fast, and what made Martin in charge of the plan?

Aside from his history of being genuinely better at fighting these things than just about anyone except, perhaps, for the man whose name was spray-painted on the Leitner bucket like a protective charm. “Right,” he agreed, reluctantly.

“Show them to me,” Martin said. He turned Jon’s head to look him in the eyes.

“What?”

“I need to See where they are. Show me.”

Jon floundered for a moment, first shocked that Martin would want him anywhere near his mind after, well, after everything, and then trying to figure out exactly how to impress the image into Martin’s vision.

He had an impression of fog, then a more disturbing one of gossamer cobwebs, then Martin said, aloud, “Got it,” and dashed out the door into the sleet.

Chapter Text

Even in a coat, hat, and boots, the wind was bitter. The sleet was a slippery, worst-possible mix of rain and ice that soaked in and froze Martin’s trousers to his legs, then set him to sliding as soon as he’d left the biting traction of the gravel lot behind the Institute. He tottered, arms flung out to his sides, for a precarious moment before he got his feet properly under him. Which way?

He stomped the thought out of his mind and into the Eye.

Which. Way.

East, toward the University, Jon told him. He’d heard Martin, even half a block away. Martin couldn’t help the way his heart flipped over. Terrifying to know Jon could See him, even now.

(and hot)

Martin turned to half jog, half run, moving as quickly as he could while keeping his weight centered over his booted feet. Grainy water spattered his glasses so he could see only distorted shapes, but in a moment he picked out the figure of a large man walking quickly toward him with his head down, a small book in one hand and a small child carried high in the other arm.

Martin forced himself not to move faster, instead concentrating on keeping his feet over his knees and his stance wide on the slick pavement. He’d grab the kid first, deliver them to the woman half a block behind, then tackle this fellow to the ground and retrieve the book.

He’d have the best chance if the man didn’t see him coming.

The Spider’s intended victims came into swimmy focus over then next minute or so. The man had on track pants and a tee shirt, both soaked to near transparency. His bare feet sloshed through the slush, while his eyes never left the pages of the book. The child in his arms wore a soaked sleepsuit and was similarly transfixed, though their body was wracked with shivers. Behind them, the woman he assumed was the child’s mother stomped her way after them with her crossed arms holding her unbuttoned coat closed.

“Archie!” she shouted. “Archie, what are you doing?”

‘Archie’ didn’t even pause. As he got closer, Martin could hear him reading the book aloud, presumably to the baby.

Martin walked toward the man without looking at him directly, hoping to take him by surprise. He grabbed the child— so cold — under the arms and lifted them up and away, popped the button on his coat, and wrapped the open flap around the shaking little body.

The man didn’t even look up from the book.

The child shrieked, a good sign, under the circumstances. Martin rushed toward the presumed mother. “I’ve got him. Get him home and warm. We’ll take it from here.”

She quickened her steps, passing him without taking the baby. Martin turned around, heading back toward the Institute with the toddler tucked close to him and hoping he was human enough, at the moment, to be warm. “Please. Take your baby and go home.”

She grabbed Martin’s arm. “What’s happening to him? Why won’t he listen? Archie! Archie, turn around, it’s freezing out here!”

Finally, she looked Martin in the eye. There was something beyond frantic in her expression, something that seemed pressured, almost unnatural in its fixation on following the man. “Why won’t he turn around?”

Perhaps the Web had its hooks in her, too. Martin curled his body over the toddler a little more, trying to shield him from the worst of the wind. “Cursed book,” he said.

“That makes no sense!” She kept walking, further from her home and closer to a confrontation at the Institute Martin did not want complicated by more potential victims.

“I’m sure it doesn’t,” Martin muttered wearily. “What do you know about the—ah—Magnus Institute?”

“Creepy building a few blocks down from the AirBnB where we’re staying. Not exactly a tourist destination.”

“Supernatural research,” he said, walking faster. “If you’re not going to turn back, keep up. Your kid needs to get indoors.”

She jogged along with him. The more he talked with her, the more her head seemed to clear. “Supernatural research,” she repeated derisively.

“And defense,” Martin replied firmly.

They turned into the alley, getting a brief respite from the sleet before emerging into the back lot. “Right,” the woman said sourly.

They both jogged, now that the ground beneath them was a little less slick, into the back lot. Archie was trying to push his way past Oliver on the fire escape, while Jon had his hands on the book and was being swung violently back and forth by the man’s attempts to dislodge him from it.

Martin shoved the baby at the woman and pointed to the archives door. “Get inside!”

She took one look at the struggle on the stairs and finally prioritized her kid over her husband. Martin heard the door close behind her.

He reached the stairs in a few more steps to grab first at the book and by extension, Jon. Archie yanked it back and managed to swing Jon into a headlock. He shoved hard at Oliver and made it up another two steps before Martin flung his arms around both of them from behind.

The fire escape creaked.

There were four people on the fire escape, and Oliver, Martin, and the man in Mr. Spider’s thrall were all over fifteen stone. Maybe if he jumped up and down on it he could tear the whole thing away from the wall. It would be a lot harder for anyone to get up to the Spider’s third floor lair if the stairs were gone.

He yanked, jumped, and slipped sideways, banging his elbow hard on the rail. The bolts pulled out several centimeters while Martin was busy cursing and seeing stars. Oliver and Archie slammed against the rail, bending it outward and crushing Jon against it. Jon, for his part, let out a pained squeak.

One more time. Martin got his feet under him, bent his knees, and gave it his best leap.

The fire escape slipped, but silvery strands of webbing he hadn’t noticed before snapped taut. It rocked violently, knocking all of them off their feet. The jolt made all of them lose their footing. Archie scrambled a few more steps up the fire escape before Oliver got hold of him again. Martin took a moment to shove Jon closer to the wall before flinging himself to the outside, hoping to throw all of them over the rail.

It took two more tries. Oliver and Archie fell first, the Web’s victim clinging to the rail for a couple of seconds before the slick ice and his frozen fingers lost the fight. Martin grabbed Jon about the waist and tried to keep him on top of him to cushion the landing. Above them, the Fire escape dangled, damaged but still hanging off the wall by thick ropes of webbing.

The fall knocked the wind out of him. He lay on the icy gravel, wheezing, with Jon sprawled on top of him.

Jon was too cold to tell how badly he was hurt. Martin lay below him, eyes shut and mouth open wide in an attempt to breathe. Jon rolled off him. Oliver was curled up with his eyes squeezed shut and his arms wrapped around his head. Archie fishtailed around on the slippery ground, one leg obviously broken, one hand gripping the book, though the fall had interrupted his gaze.

Jon had to get it now. He darted in with the ends of Martin’s sweater wrapped over his hands to snatch the thing. He slid on the icy gravel and landed again on already swollen and macerated knees, but managed to snatch the book from the victim’s cold-stiffened fingers.

The moment he got hold of it, Archie, no longer insulated from pain and cold by his intense focus on the book, began to scream.

Jon couldn’t stop to deal with him. Martin or Oliver would have to do it. He scrambled to the door, where the Leitner bucket with Gerry’s name scrawled on it still sat. The mother and child were nowhere to be seen. He tipped the book into the bucket. It landed with a wet clatter.

It would be too wet to burn like this. Lighter fluid and paper towels. He kept the first in his office for circumstances in which accelerant would come in handy. He kicked off his freezing, sodden loafers and stumbled toward his office, bucket smacking against his leg. Lighter fluid in the bottom left drawer.

Paper towels. Bathroom. He hurried through the bullpen to the men’s room, grabbed a fat brick of them, then patted the book with the paper towels and dabbed the extra water out of the bottom of the bucket. Once both were less wet, he poured in a generous splash of lighter fluid.

Where was the lighter?

Could he destroy a Web Leitner with a Web lighter? He patted himself down until he found it. flicked it several times with numb fingers until it caught, then lit a dry bit of paper towel and dropped it into the bucket. It flashed up hot enough to singe his eyebrows.

There was a racket outside. He ran for the doorway and flung it open to see Martin helping the Web’s victim inside. “Get Oliver,” he said as he passed.

“Can you watch the Leitner?”

Martin nodded. Jon set the bucket far enough from the doorway to keep it from getting blown over or rained in and rushed back outside to see a huge, black, many legged figure on the fire escape, surrounded by a ghostly caul of flame.

He stopped still, staring at it. It stared back. It was going to make it to the bottom of the fire escape. It was going to grab him, wrap him up, and consume him.

He couldn’t tear his gaze away from its huge, glassy eyes.

He should have known he could never escape the Web.

There was a scuffing sound behind him, then his arms were pinned to his sides. He was lifted up bodily and carried through the door. It slammed behind him.

He smelled lighter fluid and burning paper.

“Don’t tip it!” Martin shouted.

Jon looked inside. Flames filled the bucket, but the book was too waterlogged to catch properly. The Spider was right outside, on fire, and angry. Jon reached back to lock the door, for all the good it would do.

A moment later, something heavy slammed against the door. It’s a fire door, it will hold for thirty seconds.

And wasn’t that heartening?

Could he just tear the book up? macerate the surface?

Note to self: Have purchased a blowtorch two weeks ago in Inverness.

Slam!

Archie lay on the floor, still screaming, with his hands wrapped around his broken leg. The Eye finally filled him in on where the other two were. He caught Martin’s eye. “Mom and baby are in the break room. You two get him in there and barricade the door.”

Another slam, this one accompanied by the crunch of the hinges starting to give way.

Jon picked up the bucket, Oliver and Martin scooped up the victim, and they all ran for the breakroom, while Martin argued that he wasn’t leaving Jon alone with Mr. Spider and Oliver urged all three of them to move faster.

In the confusion in the break room doorway, Martin managed to hook Jon’s arm and drag him inside with them, then squirmed free to drag the couch in front of the door.

Renee! She was still in her room, just off the bullpen, though Tessa had gone home for the evening.

The exterior door splintered loudly enough for him to hear it in the break room. Jon hoped the six of them would make tastier targets than a lone Stranger.

“Mr. Spider wants more!” the monster bellowed, just outside the break room door.

The fire in the bucket went out.

“Jon, under the sink. Drain cleaner. That ought to work!” Martin shouted, pointing frantically.

“You’re brilliant and I love you!” Jon grabbed for the bottle of drain cleaner, fumbled the cap open, and poured a generous helping onto the book. He snagged a fork from the silverware drawer and gingerly peeled open the book, page by cardboard page, to smear the stuff onto each page. The letters blurred as the paper dissolved.

The fumes that rose from the book as it was consumed by the drain cleaner burned Jon’s eyes and throat, but he couldn’t take a moment to catch his breath. He kept mashing the caustic stuff into the pages, watching them blacken and turn pulpy.

Outside, the Spider’s voice distorted and stretched, an angry howl transforming into a staticky, reverberating scream.

Finally, the last page was rendered unreadable. It took a moment for Jon to realize that the clawing at the door had stopped, drowned out as it was by Archie’s groans and the wailing of his toddler. The mother shushed and placated, to little avail, in a voice stretched thin around tears.

“How long do we wait, to be sure?” Martin asked.

Oliver chuckled grimly. “Oh, it’s quite dead.” He shoved the couch away from the door just enough to peer outside. “Melted like the Wicked Witch of the West.”

Martin failed to stifle a harsh laugh.

Jon collapsed against the wall. Mr. Spider was dead.

Gone.

It was over.

He allowed himself an indulgent five seconds to bask in the absence of his first supernatural tormentor, while beside him Martin tried to calm Archie and his family and Oliver called their particular branch of A&E.

Because it wasn’t really over, not all of it. He was still himself, a monstrous thing, a psychic vampire shoved into a breach in reality to seal out worse horrors.

And they still had to… “Martin, would you look in on Renee, please?”

“Are you all right?” Martin asked.

Jon shook his head. “We abandoned her out there. I need to know if she’s okay, and I need her to know that we didn’t just leave her there out of indifference.”

“Right. Okay. I’ll go. Oliver, look after him, will you?”

“I’ve got this, Martin. Go on,” Oliver said. As if Jon needed a sitter.

Oliver grabbed a throw pillow off the couch to place behind Archies head and a couple others to brace against the broken leg. “There’s only one emergency services team that will come here, so you may be in for a bit of a wait,” Oliver said apologetically.

The woman nodded, dazed. “Are you sure whatever it is—it’s dead?”

“It’s very dead,” Oliver assured her. “And you’ll all be fine. I’ll just get some more tea going, so we can all warm up.” He looked down at Jon where he was crouched on the floor with the Leitner bucket while drips of drain cleaner slowly ate through Martin’s jumper and the linoleum.

“You’d best strip out of that jumper and wash your hands before you get acid burns, Jon,” Oliver told him.

The instruction was enough to break Jon out of his stupor. He got to his feet, fighting a wave of dizziness. Once he was standing at the sink, he carefully peeled off the jumper and left it inside out, then scrubbed his arms to the elbows while Oliver pulled up a chair beside the family Mr. Spider had almost taken.

The couch was across the room, too far for him to think of walking there in his current state, especially given that he would have to navigate over the man laid out on the floor. Oliver pushed a chair at him and he fell into it.

The woman joggled the toddler and began tugging at her clothes. “Is this all right?” she asked.

Jon looked at her, puzzled, before the Eye filled him in. It was a clear attempt on the Eye’s part at wringing a little embarrassment out of him, since he was too numb for fresh fear. “Oh, of course.” He looked away, for her sake, only turning back when the rustling eased and the sound of crying was replaced by urgent little humming sounds.

The woman stroked at her husband’s forehead. “Your friend said something about a cursed book?” she asked, clearly rising out of her own haze of horror and disbelief.

Jon nodded. “A Guest for Mr. Spider.” He gestured to the bucket. “You could think of it as something like a lure. Bait, thrown out on an invisible fishing line.”

She looked down at the toddler in her arms. “I just grabbed a few board books at the thrift shop without looking at them. Something to keep Maggie occupied, since we didn’t bring much with us on vacation. I wonder why Archie would even start reading a book like that—”

Jon tried for a sympathetic tone. “It catches you. Once he had it in his bare hands and looked at the cover, that would likely have been enough.”

She brushed a finger over the baby’s cheek. “So, what? You were keeping a monster in the building, and it decided to start hunting the neighbors?”

“Not keeping, no. We’ve had a bit of a pest problem, you might say.” He didn’t let himself mention the three monsters in the building who had worked together to rescue her family.

“Can’t call an exterminator for something that size,” she agreed.

He decided he rather liked her, though the fact that she and her husband both had Statements made him wary that he might slip and ask a question that would lead her into feeding him. “Believe it or not, we tried that avenue,” he told her.

“You’re kidding.”

“We weren’t aware just how big our spider problem had gotten,” Oliver added from his side of the room. “Jon. I can wait for the ambulance with these three. How about you see to Martin and Renee.”

A part of him wanted to protest until he realized Oliver was trying to get him away from the potential Statements. “Right, of course,” he said. He was steady enough on his feet now to step around Archie without risking bumping the leg.

He managed to make it out of the break room before having to lean against the bullpen wall and slide down to the floor. Everything would be better now that Mr. Spider was out of his Institute.

He knew that, in his head. His body just needed to catch up.

Chapter Text

Mr. Spider was dead. The archives break room reeked of smoke and drain cleaner, but the Leitner had finally been destroyed, and the monster had melted, Wicked Witch of the West style, just outside the door.

The toddler who had dashed out into a winter storm in his pajamas was stripped to his diaper, wrapped in a blanket, and nursing contentedly on his mother’s lap. The child’s father lay flat on the floor, covered warmly to forestall shock, with the broken leg raised up a bit and splinted.

Jon knelt, entranced, over the bucket containing the remains of the Leitner. Oliver crouched beside him, talking quietly, but not yet touching him.

He seemed to shake off whatever held him fast. “Martin,” he said quietly, “would you see to Renee, please?”

Jon had Oliver. He didn’t need Martin, not right now. Martin knew Jon’s choice to send Martin rather than Oliver away had everything to do with Renee’s comfort and not with Jon’s own, but it still stung.

Martin was, however, going to be a grownup about it.

He pushed the sofa away from the break room door. Thick, dark fluid had oozed in under the crack. It had a nauseating, buggy sort of musk that reminded him a little of carnivorous worms.

He swallowed. Hard.

They’d need to call the crisis cleaners again in the morning. Perhaps he ought to talk to Oliver about whether having a standing contract with cleaners would be cheaper in the long run. Especially if they might double as meals for Jon.

Once he had control over his stomach, he cracked the door, skipping back to avoid the extra little dollop of dark ooze that poured into the break room. He looked out on a veritable sea of molten evil spider. There was no way he was going to get across it with his boots intact.

He liked these boots.

Nothing for it. He made it across the puddle in three giant steps, then left the boots at the edge to cross the rest of the bullpen in his socks, back to the splintered door that led into the back lot. Sleet had blown in through the door to ice up the doorframe.

There were buckets of ice melt and cat litter in the closet next to the door. He grabbed the cat litter, shivering in the icy wind blowing in from outside. They’d need to seal that door, soon, if they didn’t want the whole archives, including Renee’s room, to stay uncomfortably cold overnight.

Martin grabbed the kitty litter, then scattered a thick layer over the mess outside the break room door. It would likely turn to concrete, but the paramedics would have a hard time getting across a puddle of supernatural goo with unknown webby properties.

Halfway through his sprinkling, Jon’s worry-pinched face peered out the door. He stepped gingerly out onto the kitty litter, took a few crunching steps, just enough to get past the puddle, then slid down the wall to land with his knees to his chest.

Martin set the litter down. “You all right?”

Jon shook his head. “Statements. I needed to get away.”

“Right. I mean, you could…” He started to say while casting more litter over the wettest spots. The litter had the added benefit of soaking up the odor.

“They’re tourists,” Jon interrupted. “From New Zealand. We can’t hire them.” He frowned at the giant patch of evil goo and kitty litter and shuddered. “It’s freezing in here.”

Martin gestured toward the gaping hole in the wall. “Mr. Spider took out the door. We’ll have to patch it once the paramedics leave.”

Jon shuddered. His hand drifted to a spot in his side, almost as if the hole were in his own body. Martin supposed that, in a sense, it was. He took a breath. “How is Renee?”

Martin gave jon an apologetic headshake. “Haven’t checked on her yet. I had to get this mess sorted first.”

“Right.” Jon staggered to his feet, then stumbled into the wall.

Martin darted forward to catch him. “I’ve got you. We can go see her now.” He walked Jon over to Renee’s door and rang the door chime.

There was a long pause, then, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Martin. And Jon. Can we come in?”

Fabric shuffled. “Yeah.”

Martin maneuvered himself and Jon through the door as quickly as possible so as to close it behind them to keep in the heat. There was a radiator-style space heater next to the bed, which kept the room at least a little warmer than the now-freezing bullpen. Renee was propped up in the bed, looking pale under the swirl of skin tones that writhed across her face.

“What happened?” she asked, careful to enunciate each word.

Had Jon told her anything about the Spider on the third floor? Probably not; he tended to be tight lipped at the best of times. “Monster attack. It’s dead now.”

“We’re so sorry, we couldn’t get to you. It cornered us in the break room,” Jon babbled, his tone doing nothing to absolve him. If anything, it made him sound more suspect.

Renee frowned. “How did you kill it?”

Jon smiled back grimly. “I burned its book.”

She chewed her lip, thinking. “A—Leitner, right? Those are the cursed books?”

“Precisely,” Jon said, sounding a little proud of her. “I really am sorry. We shouldn’t have abandoned you out here.”

Renee scrunched her shoulders, clearly puzzled.

Martin needed to nip this guilt fest in the bud before Renee got the idea that she really had been forgotten or abandoned. He took a seat beside her bed. “The monster was bound to the book. We couldn’t destroy it without destroying the book, and we couldn’t do that outside in the middle of an ice storm. We closed and locked the back door, but the creature was able to break it down.”

Martin nodded understanding and patted her good hand. “Given the amount of time we had, we decided it was safest to leave you in your room and divert its attention to us, since we were better able to defend ourselves.”

“We should have…” Jon started to argue.

“You couldn’t have moved me fast enough,” Renee told him. “You would have been caught.” She held up the splinted arm. “And you’d probably have hurt me.”

“You can’t know that,” he protested.

“I heard everything. You came through, somebody shouted some really good swears, and then maybe ten seconds after that, the door tore open and that thing, whatever it was, made the most horrific, shrieking…”

“Renee, stop.” Jon said.

“What? I’m just saying!” she protested.

“No, you were going to give a Statement. It wouldn’t have been a long one, but it would have hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Renee produced a truly spectacular teenaged eye roll. “Hey.”

“What?”

“You saved me. You saved us. All of us.” She paused. “Can I get a hug, maybe? I think we both could use one.”

Jon leaned in gingerly, careful to avoid Renee’s splinted arm. Martin watched, crushing down jealousy again. Jon was his partner, but Martin couldn’t, shouldn’t be his only person.

Oliver picked just that moment to push the door the open. Martin scooted back a little out of the way, but Oliver looked from Jon, to Renee, to him, and walked up to Martin, close enough for their knees to touch. He looked down at Martin. “You all right?”

Martin shrugged. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be properly warm again.”

“Paramedics just took the three victims away. If you can put up with being cold for a little while longer, I could use some help sealing up the gaping hole in the wall.”

He reached out, took Martin’s elbows and pulled him to his feet, so they were standing so close their chests touched. “We could warm up later, the three of us, upstairs?” Martin asked, hopeful.

“I think that can be arranged.” Oliver’s smile was perhaps more suggestive than an evening with Jon would likely warrant.

Nonetheless, Martin allowed himself to entertain unlikely fantasies while he gathered some roll plastic they’d kept from when the walls were repainted, then followed Oliver to the torn out back door.

It took the both of them to get a decent cover over the ripped out doorframe while the freezing rain ruined the tape and the wind kept trying to batter the plastic sheeting free.

Oliver knew some truly choice combinations of swears.

When they finally wrestled the plastic into place and got it all sealed down, Oliver pulled him into the kind of enthusiastic but expert kiss that he hadn’t been on the receiving end of since—possibly ever. He could feel it in his toes.

When he was allowed to catch his breath, Martin gasped, “Where did you learn to kiss like that?”

“Here and there,” Oliver deflected.

Martin was definitely having some feelings. Inconvenient ones. They were eventually going to have to talk about boundaries, the three of them. Would Jon mind if Martin and Oliver were having the kind of physical relationship he didn’t want for himself? He sighed. “We’re going to need to talk about all this. Soon.”

“Probably not tonight, though,” Oliver agreed ruefully.

Martin sighed. “No, probably not. It’s too bad, though. I could, I mean, I’d love to, if you wanted to…”

“I do, and it is too bad, but I don’t think Jon’s going to be up to a talk about who’s doing what with whom after all this.”

Oliver was right, of course.

“I did have an idea I wanted to run by the two of you later, though,” Oliver said before gathering up the rest of the plastic to get it away from the doorway.

“Oh, what’s that?” Martin asked, following.

Oliver’s smile crinkled his eyes wickedly. “You’ll just have to wait until Jon’s ready to hear it, too.”

It was far too late and Martin was far too tired to be mature, so he stuck his tongue out at him.

Jon took a few minutes to admire Renee’s iridescent nail polish and refill her water bottle before returning to his office. The statement he’d been researching in the afternoon was still out on the desk, along with his pens and notes and the moribund dregs of his tea.

He didn’t need to finish the research. It would wait until morning, and he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on it properly, anyway. He picked up the teacup, eyed the mess on the floor in front of the break room, and decided putting the cup away could wait.

He took a seat to tuck away his work for morning. He’d been in the middle of a sentence. Maybe he ought to at least try to reclaim whatever thought had been in his head at the time, before sleep carried it off. He’d just read through his notes…

“Jon.”

Jon jumped in his seat.

“Back at work? Really?”

Jon scoffed at Martin. “I was waiting for you to be done with the door.”

“I called your name three times, Jon.” Martin gently plucked the pen out of Jon’s hand, gathered the statement and notes into a pile, tapped the corners square, and slid everything into a manila folder. “Didn’t you used to take medication for the ADHD?”

“For a while, in uni,” Jon admitted.

“Maybe you could think about…” Martin let the rest of the sentence trail off.

“With my luck I’d be too dead to metabolize it.” He let Martin lead him out from behind his desk.

“Upstairs,” Martin told him in a tone that allowed for no argument. Jon—rather liked that tone. It suited Martin more than fawning. “Oliver’s already upstairs. He’s staying over on account of the weather, and to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” Jon asked, genuinely baffled.

Martin scoffed. “Oh, I don’t know, Jon, how about that the giant spider that’s been lurking on the third floor for who knows how long…”

Jon tried and failed to shake away the memory of the hours he’d spent trapped in Mr. Spider’s clutches as it wore him down, as it tried to bribe, then threaten, then trick him into speaking the Fears into the world. “It arrived when I did. It…followed me. Everywhere.”

Martin goggled, clearly appalled. “God, that’s even worse! Anyway, we’re celebrating the end of that thing.”

“Right, of course,” Jon said wearily.

He was useless, and hungry again, and inexplicably ungrateful that the monster that had overshadowed his entire life was suddenly and irrevocably rendered into a sticky, rank puddle in the middle of the archives bullpen.

Maybe it was the fact that it had soiled his place.

They were never going to get the smell out.

He needed to be sure it was really gone. “I want to see it.”

Martin sighed. “It’s all over the floor, Jon.”

Jon shook his head emphatically. “No. I need to see the place it was. Its lair.”

“Tonight?” Martin asked, sounding incredulous.

“I need to know it’s gone,” he repeated firmly.

Martin looked at him for a long moment. Jon worried that he would try to talk him out of it. It was late. They were all tired. Jon didn’t need to reawaken another trauma right before bed. Instead, Martin squeezed his arm. “Okay.” He pulled out his phone. “Just letting Oliver know to meet us there.”

Jon cycled through delight, relief, guilt, worry, and shame that he had to make something as simple as anticipating seeing Oliver again complicated. “We’ll call the crisis cleaners tomorrow. For the upstairs, too.”

“First thing in the morning,” Martin assured him.

Oliver was waiting for them at the top of the stairs, right in front of the door to the spider’s former home. Martin’s aggressive warning sign was still stuck to the door. Jon pulled it off, then wadded it into a pocket.

Martin nodded at the door.

Right.

He ought to do the honors.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, thankful that his sweat had not turned ink-dark like his blood and tears.

He turned the doorknob.

There was a little tearing sound, but faint and weak. Feathery cobwebs clung to the doorframe.

He poked his head in the door. The shredded remains of webs hung off every surface. He looked down. The floor was black with the curled up bodies of dead spiders. Among them lay tape recorders. He could see over a dozen littering just the bit of hallway he could see from the door.

Had Mr. Spider been stealing them? Hoarding them?

He’d seen enough. “I think I’ll wait for a tour until after the cleaners finish with it.”

Oliver peered over his shoulder. “I don’t blame you.”

Martin led him across the hall into their apartment. Jon felt some of the tension leave him when he saw the new furniture, just arrived that morning. The ostentatious black leather monstrosity was gone, donated to a posh secondhand store. In its place was a longer sofa, a love seat, two recliners, and a gliding rocker, all in soft blues and grays with textured patterns that felt pleasantly complicated under his fingers.

He wanted to try out the rocker, but right now, he needed company. He sat down in the middle of the sofa and patted the seats on either side of him, hoping Martin and Oliver would get the message. Martin sat down close beside him. Oliver squeezed in on the other side, far closer than necessary, give the generous size of the sofa. They bracketed him with their larger bodies, Martin’s deceptively soft over muscle, Oliver’s a bit firmer and lankier.

Jon relaxed into the feeling of being held between them. Their arms stretched across his back, each man’s hand resting on the other’s shoulder.

Light streamed, gray and thin, through the bedroom window.

Martin lay behind Jon, one leg and arm thrown over his body, pressing him a little into the mattress.

When had they gone to bed?

The was an itch between his shoulders. He was still statement-hungry and unsettled from last night. Maybe that’s what it was.

He walked over to the window and flicked the curtain to look down at the street. The remnants of an entirely natural, icy fog swirled around the streetlights, which caught drips and stalactites of ice in their yellow glows.

The Eye fizzed, restless, in the back of his mind.

Finally, he caught the shape of its wanting and snorted. “For pity’s sake!” He added, a little louder, “Martin?”

There was a murmuring from the bed. Martin sat up. There was a red mark on his neck, and for a moment Jon was worried he’d missed an injury.

Martin caught him staring and pressed a hand over it sheepishly. “You were so tired, and Oliver and I weren’t. We, erm, spent a little time getting to know each other, if that’s all right?”

The hand caught in the cookie jar look just wouldn’t do. Jon crawled back onto the bed, wrapped his arms around Martin, and gave him a proper, searching kiss. “We talked about it, didn’t we?” he reminded.

“Well, yeah, a bit, but, not in the moment,” Martin admitted, blushing pink to his ears.

“Thank you for not waking me up just to tell me you and Oliver were going to have a snog.”

Martin ducked his head. Jon took advantage of the vulnerable position to drop an opened mouthed kiss on top of the hickey Oliver had left behind. “Ah, yes, this is a good spot. Oliver has excellent taste.”

Martin chuckled, then pushed Jon back onto his lap, gripping his wrists. “So what has you getting me up so early?”

Jon rolled his eyes heavenward. “The Eye is not happy about the state of the front steps.”

“You’re kidding.”

The Eye was not kidding.

“Okay then, tell it to give me a minute, I’ll get dressed and salt the bloody walk.”

Jon got up to look through his clothes for something appropriate. He had a serious lack of clothes, after the loss of his apartment when he spent a half year dead, then the flight to Scotland, and again when they’d both lost their luggage—and Daisy’s car—in the Not-Them’s attack.

He pulled out his least-intact pair of trousers, the ones that needed a patch on the knee he hadn’t got round to, a button down shirt, and topped it off with a heavy cable knit jumper Martin had bought for him with apologies that he hadn’t had time to knit replacements for the ones that had been lost to the Not-Them.

“Double up your socks, Jon, it’s probably still chilly down in the archive. I’m going to wake Oliver.”

Jon protested, “He shouldn’t have to clock in early, just because he’s staying over.”

“Trust me, he’ll be much more annoyed if we don’t wake him.”

Once Oliver was up and moving, Jon dropped into the warm spot left behind on the sofa, while Martin made tea for the three of them and eggs with toast for himself and Oliver.

He was still trying to figure out why he didn’t feel better with those invisible strands of Mr. Spider’s web finally gone when Martin pressed a warm mug into his hands. “You feeling all right?”

Jon shrugged. “Hungry, I think. And…strange.”

“Strange?”

“I thought having it gone would feel better, somehow.”

“Hmm.” Martin looked Jon in the eye, searching and pensive.

Jon held his gaze until the Eye began to make demands, then he shied away. “Sorry.”

Oliver met them beside the sofa. “All ready?”

He had no right to look so rested.

Come to think of it…”Do you…?” Jon forced himself to stop talking, coughed on the words. “I mean I wonder if you still need sleep.”

“My dreams feed my patron even more directly than yours feed the Eye,” Oliver told him. “Also, do compel me if you feel the need. I don’t mind it, and you ought to have an outlet.”

“Are you humoring me?” Jon asked, suspicious.

Oliver' smiled more broadly than seemed warranted by the situation. “Hardly.”

Martin already knew where the ice melt for the front steps was, along with the snow shovels, so Jon didn’t need the knowledge eagerly dropped into his mind by the Eye.

There was a good four centimeters of sleet frozen into uneven sheets on the steps and the pavement in front of the Institute. Oliver and Martin started out trying to slide their shovels under it, but eventually resorted to chopping at the ice until it shattered into thick, lumpy fragments.

Jon followed behind them, scattering ice melt like birdseed. It was still below freezing this early in the morning, too cold to take any pleasure in breathing.

The movements were rhythmic, calming, almost meditative. Jon finished the landing in front of the door, moved down a step, then another, then another. He didn’t notice how far he’d gotten until the stone steps were replaced with the stretch of pavement between the Institute and the street.

He startled and nearly darted back up the stairs, but he felt—fine. He wasn’t dizzy. His head didn’t hurt. He made another pass over the pavement with the ice melt, a little further from the Institute steps, and found he didn’t start getting the dizzy, nauseous feeling until he tried to walk beyond the Institute’s frontage or to step into the street itself.

The sound of shovels chipping at ice stopped. “Jon!” Martin said brightly.

“It looks like my leash has been let out. A little.” The tiny bit of additional freedom was as frightening as it was hopeful. He could be snatched right off the street out here.

The Eye caught his sudden nervousness and tugged a little on him, as though to bring him back closer to its stronghold. He humored it, returning to the landing near the doors and coincidentally, out of the chill breeze.

He felt…untethered.

He was still trapped. Still an inhuman creature dependent on fear. But now, with the Web’s monster visibly and thoroughly dead, he couldn’t blame his decisions on the machinations of a Fear god. They were his, now. His own.

He could only hope he made better ones going forward.