Chapter Text
“Sorry, I’ve been quit for five years, I just……. Oh.”
Jon trails off, unsure what to make of the gruesome scene in front of him.
Blood wells out of Jurgen Leitner’s head- or what’s left of it. Not even five minutes ago, the man had been alive and breathing, telling Jon his story, and now half of his brain was splattered across a lead pipe.
The lead pipe that was clutched in the hands of the seething goth towering over Leitner’s corpse.
“Ge-Gerard.” Jon stutters.
Flicking his hair over his shoulder as he turns his head, Gerard brings his ring-clad hand up in a fluttery wave. “Jon! Didn’t see you there. Heard you, though. And him.”
Gerard steps over and through the corpse, not seeming to notice as his combat boots sink through Leitner’s limbs with ungodly crunches. Jon blanches.
“What are, what are you doing here?” He stumbles over his words. Are you going to kill me, as well?
Tossing the lead pipe back onto the body with an air of carelessness, Gerard runs his bloodstained hand through his hair. “Oh, just thought I’d stop by. Pop in for a bit of a chat, you know how it is. Then what do I overhear, but an unfinished job? Thought I’d got him good back in 2014, but he was still kicking, apparently.” He sniffs and shakes out his leg. “Didn’t kick very hard, though.”
Jon’s eyes follow the movement. His heart beats in his throat, the pulse thrumming in the tips of his fingers. “You just killed Jurgen Leitner.” He croaks.
With a smile that could have meant Jon had told him he’d just eaten a really delicious ice cream, Gerard nodded. “I know! I was there! Quite thrilling, really. You should try it sometime.”
“K-killing?” Jon asks incredulously.
The smile only grows. “Ah, sorry, mate. Just having you on there. Couldn’t help myself- your paranoia’s… a bit of an acquired taste, but a tiny bit addictive, if I’m being honest.”
Jon’s head swims abruptly and he finds himself gripping the doorframe for support. As Gerry takes another step towards him his gaze is forced to drop to the floor- looking up, keeping his head up, is nauseating. He opens his mouth to question, to beg for answers, but the only thing that threatens to exit his throat is his lunch. Jon snaps his mouth shut as his knees begin to buckle and a thick sheen of sweat beads on his forehead.
Staring at the floor, fingers digging into the wooden doorframe for dear life, Jon hisses out “But you’re- you’re Eye-” and has to stop before he adds another fluid to the mess on the floor.
Gerard stops in front of him, the toes of his boots swimming in and out of focus. “I’m what, Eye-Aligned?”
He laughs. It’s a mirthless cackle, but a chilling one, and seems to bounce off the walls and echo from every direction.
It’s hauntingly familiar. Jon’s only heard it from one entity so far.
“Did you think it was the tattoos?” Gerard croons from somewhere far above him. “I bet you did. I bet you saw the eyes and drew your conclusions. I bet you didn’t think about how tempted you were to stare at them forever, how the pattern just drew you in for some reason… oh, how did that old shithead describe it?”
The boots scuff the ground as Gerard bends to take a knee in front of Jon. He tips Jon’s head up to look at him with a gentle finger- just the upwards motion nearly makes Jon hurl from the sheer vertigo.
"He said something about interpretations being important, not physicality.” Gerard explains patiently. "He was onto something, you know. It doesn’t matter that these are eyes. What matters is that if you look for too long, they get downright dizzying.”
Maybe Jon’s head is spinning too much to see properly. Maybe the light is playing tricks on his sickened mind. But from where he’s curled on the floor, Gerard’s face seems to be… sharper, than before. That sickly pallor he’d gained from a life indoors turned to a harsh white- the angles of his cheekbones deeper, the bags under his eyes darker. It’s like if someone had edited an image of him with all the settings turned to 100. He’s too bright for Jon to look at properly, and the circles around his eyes- no, the circles are his eyes, twisting and falling and spiralling down into a never ending cacophony of madness.
Gerard tuts. The click of his tongue snaps inside Jon’s skull, so loud and close that he has to make an effort not to flinch. “Bit silly, really. Thought you lot got off on knowing this stuff. But this is a complete surprise, isn’t it?”
Those whirling pitfalls meet Jon’s eyes again, searching him for an answer. Satisfied by whatever he finds there, Gerard retracts his hand and stands up again. Jon curls back in on himself, eyes squeezed tightly shut to stave off the burning headache behind them.
“I can see why Micheal likes you.” Gerard crosses the room again- his lack of care made apparent by the squelching of flesh under boots.
And then a door creaks open, despite Jon cowering in the only entrance, and Gerard Keay was never there.
That’s where Tim and Martin find Jon. Curled up unconcious in the doorway, vomit on his lips, and a murder weapon with impossibly spiralling fingerprints laid next to his head like a gift.