Chapter Text
Any second now, the thing would poke what Michael assumed was its head through the door again, and Michael wouldn’t be able to defend himself. The darkness of it would be still, almost peaceful, but there would be nothing peaceful about it as soon as it sprung and ripped Michael’s throat out–
Calm, calm down, he thought, rubbing his hands over his shoulders. It ran away. For some odd reason, it ran away.
Not wanting to look, but looking nonetheless, he peered towards the door from his position on the floor. Nothing was there. Nothing was there, but he still had a six-inch wound in his leg dripping dark oil, and he had a sneaking suspicion that no matter how many times he flipped the light-switch, the light still wouldn’t return to the room.
Michael didn’t have much experience with the Dark. Or any of the other entities, for that matter. Early on, Gertrude Robinson had sat him down and told him what exactly they were dealing with– but she had given him little except for the entities’ names, and a vague idea of what to look for when they showed up in the statements. He at least knew what he was dealing with. After a bit of practice, he could easily identify which was which, but that does you a fat lot of good when you get woken at one in the morning with some… creature climbing in your window.
He shook his head, his loose blond curls falling limply over his face. Blinking, he found himself in that odd half-awake stage. He put his head in his hands, groaning, and saw a glint of light. His phone was a few feet away from him, the Dark creature having knocked it out of his hand in its attack, and his desperation to get away.
Michael looked at the phone, then back at his injured leg, and huffed. His back was safely against the wall, and he didn’t want to move. Not when there was a distinct possibility that any number of Dark monsters could be lurking where he couldn’t see. He reached for the only thing that might allow a little bit of light, overbalanced, and tipped over onto his side, his fingers brushing the screen, and laid there, wallowing in self-pity for a moment. He knew there was a downside to living by himself. He should have gotten a cat. At least then he wouldn’t have been alone in his terror, long limbs scrabbling to get away as the Dark monster swayed from side-to-side, waiting to pounce.
For a second, the situation seemed so silly– Michael lying on his side, his leg beginning to throb in painful, hot pulses, in the pitch darkness of his bedroom at an absolutely ungodly hour– that he let out a desperate, sad giggle. It seemed to echo in the dark room. Maybe this was what the Lonely felt like– a sense that you were the only person in the whole world, no matter how much you shook and cried and wished—
No, Michael reminded himself. He wasn’t shaking or crying yet, and he resigned himself that he wouldn’t until he was safe in his bed. With his leg treated. He reached the phone and turned the flashlight on.
Dim, yellow light illuminated the rest of the room, the statements that he had taken home scattered on the floor, one of his dresser drawers thrown open and a few of his shirts on the floor, stained with blood and more of that dark oil. It was a mess. But Michael didn’t care.
As long as there were no more of those creatures. Which there weren’t.
The window was open, and the London night air blew into the room, a soft, warm breeze that felt out of place considering what had just happened. Frozen in stillness, the breeze stung his cheeks, and threatened to make tears fall. He scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and turned back to his phone.
Light from his Messages app blared white into his eyes, and he wondered who he could text at this time of night. Not Gertrude, obviously. She was an old woman. He didn’t want to bother her.
He paused, just for a moment, thinking, and winced. He didn’t like it when his lack of good friends became apparent. He always made an effort to be kind to his fellow Archival assistants, but after being met with relative disinterest one too many times, he felt as if he had become the human embodiment of trying too hard.
Michael knew he was plain. Working at the Institute, working with Gertrude, was really the only interesting thing about him. On the relatively few occasions in which he had been asked to attend some sort of party or gathering, he always found himself at a loss of something to talk about. What was there, even? I like to organize things? I like cats and I wish I had one? I knit big chunky sweaters that are appallingly neon and wear them even though they hurt people’s eyes to look at?
No, there was nothing that made up for Michael’s… Michael-ness other than the fact that he worked somewhere so delightfully spooky. And that he got attacked by monsters. (That was probably actually a con of being around him, he realized.)
Once again he felt that familiar ache in his chest, scrolling through recent messages, until he came upon a contact he had forgotten was there. Although the name just said “G,” Michael knew who it was. He clicked on their messages.
The most recent conversation had been a week and a half ago, a simple “how are you”, from Michael, followed by a “Fine, you?” from Gerry. Michael had responded “good :),” and that had been the end of that.
Ah, well, no harm in trying, he pondered. At least Gerry’s sleep schedule was something like go-to-sleep-at-3-and-wake-up-at-noon, so that pretty much guaranteed that Gerry would be up. Still, Michael felt bad texting this late. Early? It didn’t matter.
U up?
He had brief flashbacks of his long and fruitless crush on a boy in high school, waiting til the early hours for him to respond. He usually didn’t. Michael turned his phone off, sighing. He would probably have to call that ambulance after all. He needed a good excuse as to what this… laceration was. The cover story “I accidentally cut myself” wouldn’t really do for a wound that was this… ugly.
He had about resigned himself to his fate when his phone lit up. Michael fumbled the phone opening it again, his long fingers tapping in his passcode clumsily.
Gerry’s response read:
like usual. why are YOU up?
Michael scrambled to respond. Now he had the predicament of explaining what had happened, and then awkwardly asking Gerry to break into his flat with a supernatural first-aid kit.
Got attacked by a Dark creature, he typed after a while staring at the screen. Sorry to bother you.
are you okay??
Yes!
I just have a wound that seems like it’s dripping darkness so I wondered if you knew anything about th a t.
Michael could almost hear Gerry sighing in exasperation from across London. His response seemed daft and stupid even to him. He mentally hit himself on the head a couple of times. Of course Gerry knew about stuff like this. He was the son of Mary Keay, for God’s sake! Dealing with the Entities was practically his life!
Gerry’s response took longer than his previous ones, the three dots appearing and disappearing on the screen. Michael didn’t know if he had ever felt more nervous, and it wasn’t because of the wound that was starting to feel worse with every second.
okay, what’s your address? i’m coming over.
assuming you’re ok with it.
Michael gave an audible sigh of relief. He assured Gerry that he was, indeed, okay with it. Then he waited, and his mind wandered, as it had the tendency to do in the dark.
What if the Dark monster was still lurking in his flat? What if it got to him before Gerry got here, or worse, what if it got to Gerry? Was Michael putting him in danger by asking him to come over?
Would the monster stalk out of the darkness, looking like a shadow but just as solid as Michael, and tear at Gerry’s back, or his throat, or his chest? Was this a terrible idea?
… Was Michael going to die? Alone in the dark, before anyone could get there, a lonely death, a death that could only be described as pointless?
Michael was good at spiraling. He was good at thinking himself into a black hole of self-deprecating, awful thoughts that did him no good and made Gertrude comment on how he was being a little slow that day. Sometimes he wondered if that was the only thing he was good at. If that was the reason none of the other Archival assistants enjoyed his company. That he wasn’t good at anything, he wasn’t good enough, constantly sticking his neck out for Gertrude and trying to make her see that he was worth something didn’t do a thing–
BAM!
The door that Michael had shakily locked and held shut for what had felt like hours flew open with a definitive crack. For just a moment, Michael stupidly wondered if the creature had come back with reinforcements, but a black platform boot with cheap silver buckles emerged from the darkness of the hallway, and the rest of Gerry followed it, dressed in all black like usual, nails scribbled on with what looked like Sharpie, holding a knife and with a wild look in his eyes that reminded Michael of his mother. Michael had seen her leaving the Archives after giving a statement, and he still remembered the smile she had given him: dead yet simultaneously so alight that Michael had felt a shiver run down his spine.
Gerry turned his flashlight on Michael, lying on his side by the wall furthest away from the door.
Michael couldn’t see his expression with the bright beam of the flashlight in his eyes, and looked away when it got closer, his face scrunched in discomfort.
“Ah, shit, Michael, why didn’t you call me immediately?” Gerry hissed, kneeling by Michael’s injured leg, taking in the dark pooling under it and Michael’s pained expression. “I would have— I would have– aw, fuck.”
“What?” Michael felt a pang of worry, not for himself, but for the man who was kneeling next to him, who was there, who cared.
“This is… this is way too advanced for me to heal. I know how to wrap a wound, administer some rudimentary healing tactics, but…” He cursed again, and Michael suddenly felt a wave of real despair wash over him, and his shoulders started to shake. This was so embarrassing.
“Just do what you can–”
“No, you need to go to the hospital.” Gerry looked at Michael with an expression that could only be described as soft. Soft for him? Michael felt his eyes get wet and spill over, and he pressed his hands to his eyes as hard as he could without causing pain.
“I don’t want to explain to the doctors–!” His voice was thick with tears, and it was awful. He didn’t want to cry in front of Gerry, the immovable book burner who was immune to fear and ate monsters like the one Michael had just fought for breakfast.
Gerry made a noise of panic and reached out to touch Michael’s shoulder, but quickly retracted the hand, and rubbed it against his leather jacket nervously. “Hey, don’t be… don’t cry…” he murmured, clearly at a loss for words.
“I’m not,” the Archival assistant swallowed. “I’m not crying.”
“Okay,” Gerry said after a pause. “I’m going to call an ambulance, okay?”
Michael nodded miserably, and Gerry reached for his phone, setting his knife down next to Michael’s side. The light from the phone and Michael’s flashlight shone on Gerry’s poorly dyed black hair and its auburn roots, highlighting his jaw and the curve of his neck. It seemed like he and Michael were on an island, all around them a sea of dark. There could be things lurking out there still, waiting for one of them to let down his guard, waiting for one to turn his back for just long enough to warp and twist and surround and devour–
There was a hand on Michael’s shoulder, and he became aware that he was breathing too hard and too quickly. Gerry’s hand, the little eyes on the knuckles clearly visible on his pale skin, slowly pushed Michael’s hair out of his face. Gerry mumbled something about Michael not being able to see with that mess of curls in his face, but Michael wasn’t really listening. He didn’t care what the excuse was this time, he just liked the feeling of Gerry’s hand in his hair.
***
Gerry winced as a nurse, a short-haired woman with smart glasses, sterilized the wound on the side of Michael’s leg. It was swollen now, an ugly yellowish color around the edges, although thankfully the darkness around it had disappeared. Michael ought to be in pain, he thought. But Michael didn’t seem to be giving any attention to the wound, or reacting to the nurse’s treatment at all. He was sitting with one knee curled up to his chest, his head turned to one side. His curls were spilling over his shoulder, and his lightly freckled, round face was pale as death. Gerry couldn’t be sure looking at him from this angle, but he thought his eyes were wide open.
Gerry couldn’t blame him if this was some sort of trauma response. In his opinion, the Dark was one of the worst Entities to deal with. It played upon some primal fear in most people’s minds: the fear of what you couldn’t see, of what was waiting for you as soon as you turned out the lights. Gerry had dealt with Dark monsters before, but no matter how many times the lights plunged the room into darkness, he still felt his stomach drop with the curtain of shadow, his heart beating in his ears.
He frowned. If this truly was Michael’s first time encountering the Entities, then it would be a hell of a time getting him to calm down after his leg had been treated.
Several things in this situation bothered Gerry, but then again, Gerry was usually bothered by something, whether it was a particularly slow-walking person in the line to the checkout, or a Stranger avatar bouncing around him on marionette limbs, not letting him stab it.
The first thing that bothered him was Michael’s apparent lack of experience with the Entities. Shouldn’t old Gertrude have taught Michael what to do in these sorts of situations? Michael had been on the verge of a panic attack when Gerry found him: he hadn’t even noticed that his face was wet with tears, he had been so shaken.
The second thing was Gerry’s own reaction to Michael’s distress. Gerry knew he didn’t have it in him to pretend to be detached, but he was usually able to keep some sort of distance between the Archival assistant and him. His own sharp worry at that text Michael had sent him— the one that had been far too casual for the situation he had been trapped in— was surprising. It had sent a chill running down his spine… almost as bad as when Gerry himself was facing one of the Entities. Was it terror that he would never see Michael again?
At this thought, Gerry mentally scoffed. It wasn’t as if he would fall apart if Michael had bled out on the lonely floor of his bedroom, sniffing and wishing that someone was there, trying desperately to imagine a world where he had someone to call—
Gerry suddenly felt sick. Why would he think such a thing? Michael was fine. Michael was fine! His face was just tear-stained and pointedly refusing to look anyone else in the eye, and his shoulders were shaking again, and oh fuck, Gerry had probably better stop thinking about his father’s colleague in this way.
The nurse, who was eyeing Gerry in a way that suggested she was Judging Him Because Of The Eyeliner, patted Michael on the arm, done treating the injury. It looked slightly better now that it wasn’t bloody.
“You’re going to need stitches,” she said in a voice that was entirely too simpering for Gerry’s liking.
“But it’s clean for now.” She paused, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening for a moment. “Are you sure you don’t know how this happened….?”
“Quite. Now, if you don’t mind, Ms. Whatever-Your-Name-Is, Michael doesn’t exactly seem up to conversation. So if you could kindly fuck off, that would be great.” If Gerry had been wearing a cape, he would have given a bow and a swish that would make any Count proud.
She smiled curtly and briefly at Gerry, seemingly unperturbed by his cursing. “You probably shouldn’t be rude to someone who’s handling your friend’s wounds,” she murmured, bustling about the room for gloves. “We’re going to do the stitches now, if you’re okay with that, Mr. Shelley.”
“Hang on, I thought nurses didn’t do stitches.”
“Emergency care ones do, dear,” she said, not even looking at Gerry as she pulled gloves over her small hands.
“This is sketchy,” Gerry mumbled to himself, tapping his heavily booted foot on the floor.
Somewhere in his mind, he knew he was being both unreasonable and mean. Why he was being unreasonable and mean came down to the simple fact that he was very worried about Michael, and so he sat down and shut up as the nurse came in with the numbing medicine. It was administered in a syringe that she injected close to the wound. Michael flinched slightly, and Gerry wanted to punch something. Or burn a Leitner. Yes, that would make him feel better. Watch the book go up in flames, whatever evil thing was inside of it screaming as its remnants flaked away with the embers.
The nurse chatted as she threaded the stitches through the cut made by the Dark monster, about how the cut actually didn’t seem that deep, and Michael would be absolutely fine. Gerry had to admit that it seemed to be calming Michael down a little. His shoulders were slowly inching down from their painfully tense position. That was probably a good sign. Unless the nurse had somehow drugged him. Injected him with poison and set him on the path to death. Maybe it would be a slow death. Gerry should threaten the nurse to make absolutely certain that she wasn’t going to kill Michael.
Gerry took a deep breath. He really, really shouldn’t do that.
Why was this affecting him so much? Michael was getting stitches. He would be out of here in just a tick.
Michael might ask Gerry to walk him home. Maybe even though Michael was a lot taller than Gerry, he would lean on him for support because of his leg, and they would end up arm in arm.
Although, would Michael be okay with staying alone at his flat, after all of this? Would it be worth asking him to come back to his? Gerry grimaced, and scratched his badly-dyed hair. That sounded a lot like a date. But it didn’t matter. He would make it clear to Michael that he wasn’t interested in pursuing a relationship, and then—
–Then Michael might look away in sadness, and Gerry might take back those words and smile and he would lean in and kiss him and—
The last of the stitches went in and Michael thanked the nurse with a shaky voice. She smiled at him, with a much more motherly expression than the one she had given Gerry.
“Can he walk okay?” Gerry heard himself asking, in a voice that didn’t sound like his own.
“He’ll be fine. Just let him stay off it for a bit. Don’t walk home, you two– take the Tube. Get some rest tonight, as much as you can.”
Michael made a stammering noise, cleared his throat.
“Can we go home, Gerry?”
Gerry Keay’s heart flipped just a little. He turned to Michael, who, stupidly, looked pretty even in the harshly fluorescent light of the emergency care center.
“Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that,” he stammered.
***
Watching Gerry’s steady steps alongside Michael’s own stumbling, painful ones made Michael feel slightly embarrassed. He couldn’t help but think that if Gerry had been the one to fight the Dark monster and get stitches in his leg, he would be handling it fine on his own. Yet Michael still lurched and winced and almost tripped, trying not to meet Gerry’s eyes.
When Michael stumbled one last time, Gerry looked over at him, touched his arm. Michael felt his heart jump into his throat. Gerry never touched him unless absolutely necessary. The feeling of Gerry’s skin against his own had become a warning for Michael. It had become a reminder that Gerry was real and he was warm and it was all Michael could do not to turn and ask desperately if he was okay with this? If he wanted to?
If there was a slim possibility that Michael could ever find the courage, there was an even slimmer possibility that Gerry would acquiesce, and that their lips would meet and Michael would take him home.
“---Michael? Are you listening?”
His attention snapped back to where Gerry was standing, looking at him with such an expression of worry on his face that Michael felt momentarily as if there was something behind him, and he swiveled. There was nothing there except for the dim lighting in the Tube tunnels. When he turned back, Gerry was still staring at him.
“Oh! Oh, yes, I’m listening,” Michael managed, then tucked a stray curl behind his ear and admitted, "I’m sorry. I didn’t hear. I spaced out.”
Instead of getting angry, Gerry just guided Michael over to the nearest bench and sat next to him with a faint “oof” noise. “Ah, it’s fine.” Gerry fidgeted with the ends of his hair. “I just wondered, ah, if you were okay being alone in your flat tonight.” Was Michael imagining the color in Gerry’s cheeks?
“Oh,” Michael said. “I, yes, I suppose that’s fine. I mean–”
“Well, I had better go with you anyways–”
“What?”
Now Michael was sure that he wasn’t dreaming up the blush that crept up Gerry’s face.
“I mean,” Gerry responded, “I thought you would be, er, a bit scared. After your first encounter with Smirke’s Fourteen. Understandable. Obviously. I was too. And, you know, having company usually helps with that.”
Suddenly everything was very silent and Michael felt as if he needed to be very careful. The street lights flickered a little, and Michael winced. It felt too much like he and Gerry were on an awkward first date, trying to decide whether they liked each other enough to go back to one of their flats together. The sensation of discomfort deepened as Michael realized that he really didn’t mind the feeling. Which was wrong, obviously. He and Gerry lead two very different lives, although the more he thought about it, the more parallels he seemed to draw from it: Gerry running around trying to appease that awful mother of his, and Michael scurrying around the Archives, delivering statements at the drop of a hat to poor Ms. Robinson, who ought to be close to retirement.
The difference was, obviously, that Michael chose to work at the Magnus Institute. Gerry was doing…What did Gerry do? Wait around for his mother to die? Try to thwart her obsession with Leitners by burning them before she could get her wrinkled hands on them? Michael felt very confused and very hot, even though the night air was cool.
You’re getting sidetracked, he thought to himself. Gerry just asked if he could stay over. Well, not stay over. Take you back to your flat. Answer him.
“Gerry?” That was not an answer. Don’t answer a question with a question, Michael reminded himself. It made things confusing.
“Yeah?” Gerry’s response came too quickly, too loudly.
“Are you asking to come home with me?”
There. He had said it. Michael fixed his stare on his hands, curled in his lap. His fingers were turning slightly blue in the cold, and the chipped remains of his bright green nail polish had almost fully sloughed away.
“I– yeah. Yeah, I am. If you want. I just… I want to make sure that you’re okay. It can rattle you, you know, the Fears. It rattles me, for sure.” He laughed, a soft, bitter chuckle that Michael wanted to hear for the rest of his life. “Shit, I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I. What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that I–”
“Gerry, you’re not making a mess of anything, you’re fine.”
“--I want you to be safe. Because I care about you.”
Oh. That was certainly a new feeling, buzzing in Michael’s chest and staying there like it was at home, curling its soft paws into his heart and making him feel warm. If this was what it felt like to be cared about, he wanted to feel it every day- he wanted to fall asleep with Gerry’s hand stroking his head. He wanted to wake up with a mouthful of Gerry’s hair, tasting of chemicals, in a hot tangle of limbs, and blearily wonder aloud if he was crushing the smaller man, before Gerry tries to get up, falls back, and they both collapse into giggles and bliss in the soft morning glow.
“Likewise,” Michael said, slightly numb from the thought of actually being wanted. “I care about you too.”
They turned their heads at the same time. Michael inhaled slightly. What if he messed this up? There was nothing but mere inches between his and Gerry’s lips.
To his disappointment, Gerry turned his face away. He was smiling painfully. “Yeah, okay, that’s settled then. Back to your place. Huh. I keep making things awkward, don’t I.”
“No, you don’t.”
“But I kind of do.”
“Just ask. I won’t be weird about it.”
Gerry elbowed Michael lightly in the arm. “Yeah, you will.”
Michael let out a small chuckle. The tension was disappearing. “Not on purpose.”
Michael stood up and yelped, falling back onto the bench.
“Aw, yeah, stay off the leg for a bit.”
Michael felt a wave of frustration, throwing out a hand. “Then how am I supposed to get onto the Tube when it arrives?”
“Dunno, maybe I can carry you.”
“...Unlikely,” Michael grumbled, but the image of Gerry, who barely came up to his chin, trying to pick him up and lug him onto the Tube, Michael’s long limbs hanging, rose to his mind unbidden. He giggled.
“Well you know what that means.”
Michael looked at him, confused. “I don’t.”
“It means I have to try,” Gerry laughed, and proceeded to wrap an arm around Michael’s back and under his knees. Almost as soon as he had begun to lift him off of the bench, his knees buckled and he fell slightly backwards, taking Michael with him. They both sprawled on the damp floor, as Michael had expected they would, Michael laying crossways on top of Gerry, who was muttering “ow, ow, ow” as Michael giggled.
“I told you,” Michael said.
“That was very stupid,” Gerry groaned at the ceiling of the Tube station. “I’m going to have one hell of a bruise tomorrow. Why are you so tall?”
Michael didn’t respond, just let out more of that clear, demure laugh, one hand raised as if to cover his mouth. He laid on the ground, completely still, his curls spread in a halo around his head. Gerry’s left leg was underneath his knees. Michael raised them so that Gerry could get his leg free, but he just stayed sprawled on the ground.
“Gerry? Are you okay?”
Gerry laughed, then groaned again. “I think I’m just going to… stay here for a bit.”