Work Text:
“You know Artie, I’m a musician too,” Kayne said sitting on the floor, watching as Arthur struggled his way through the tune he had been trying to teach him for the better part of fifteen minutes. It wasn’t his Middle C Arthur, but this one was good to pass some time with, waiting for the boys to do what needed to be done. This one talked less. Smiled more. Stuttered just as much though.
“M-M-Mus-shin,” Arthur repeated dutifully. He banged out a note on the chime-a-phone.
“Damn it Arthur, no!” Kayne stole the mallet from him. “B, F, E, D, C. Not B, F, E, E, E, E, E, E, E, E, E, B, E!"
Arthur looked up at him with a familiar pout.
Kayne rolled his eyes. “Chime-a-phones aren’t your instrument. You prefer piano, I get that, but work with me here!”
He played the tune again slowly. Large hazel eyes watched the pattern of notes with interest.
“Moos!” Arthur said when Kayne finished.
Kayne smiled. Spoke softly. “You like it, right? Come on, honey. One more time.”
He handed back the mallet. Arthur dutifully plunked out B, F, E, D, and then started sliding the mallet up and down the chime-a-phone in flourishing scales.
Kayne groaned. “Doesn’t matter the Arthur, does it? You’re all stubborn.” He reached forward and pinched Arthur’s cheeks. Arthur giggled. He’d have to try that with Middle C.
“Now what was I saying? Oh, yes! Musician. I’m a musician.”
“M-sishin.”
“Yes. The music box was only one of the many musical lures I’ve used on people. I’m… multi-talented, and I DO have my own material. Entire worlds have crumbled to hear my symphonies!”
Arthur started trying to start the song again, unprompted.
“That’s not bad,” Kayne mused. “But you started on the wrong note, tea and biscuits.” He hummed out the tune.
Arthur looked at him with a familiar sort of huffiness. He grew bored of the chime-a-phone and tried to crawl away.
“Oh no you don’t!” He scooped up Arthur and pulled him into his lap so that Arthur was eye to eye with him. “You’re going to play our favourite song for me, tatertot!” This Arthur, being rather small, was easy to heft in the air and shake.
Arthur laughed. Kayne bounced him a few times. He had been making good progress on his task after all. He placed him back down in front of the instrument.
“Agin! Up!” Arthur demanded.
“No,” Kayne snapped. “You’re going to play your music—unless you have something to offer me?” He highly doubted it. Whenever he encountered Arthurs they were lacking on any resource Kayne found of interest other than themselves. Still, he was a sucker for a deal–or the facsimile of a deal.
Arthur looked at him with sly consideration. He reached over to his right and offered up a toy train as sacrifice.
“Hm. The Train. That was a pretty good one.” Kayne said slowly. He stood up quickly, gesturing with the train. “Filled with drama, and adrenaline! A new enemy! A daring chase! A wily move from our handsome detective and his voice, Friday.” Kayne tossed the train over his shoulder carelessly, but did bend down to scoop up Arthur again. He twirled him through the air.
Arthur screamed with delight. It wasn’t one of his best screams. Delight wasn’t really Kayne’s thing. Eh, still.
“You’re pretty cute,” Kayne admitted. He brought Arthur back down, holding him in his arms.
“P-please,” a soft voice dared to say from behind.
“Oh, awake again? The tragic backstory is trying to speak?” Kayne asked in disgust. “The absolute gall! Am I right, Arthur?” He tsked, rocking Arthur in his arms.”I mean, he doesn’t even have a name! Does he? Do you?” Kayne turned quizzically. The man was pressed against the wall in terror, getting blood on the baby blue wallpaper, watching Kayne with fear and horror.
Okay, so Kayne broke his body and knit it together a few dozen times. Nothing a bit of alcoholism and emotional repression won’t fix! He’s on that road anyway, so it wasn’t like Kayne had broken anything important! Not that he couldn’t. It would be nothing to him to pop his head off, but this Arthur HAD been helpful placating his boredom. Crushing his Daddy’s skull like an egg would have him in a tantrum. So typical of him really. Disembowel one nameless human and Arthur throws a fit.
“J-J-Jack.”
“What? Oh right, I asked your name. Heh, now I know where he gets his stuttering fr—”
Wait.
“Wait,” Kayne repeated out loud. ‘Your name is Jack Lester. Short for Johnathan?”
“P-please don’t hurt—”
Kayne cut him off with a glorious cackle. “OHHHHH!!! That’s so RICH!!! JOHNATHAN?!?!. But not John? You know, you could have made it a BIT more funny if it was John.” Kayne sighed, his mirth gone. “It’s not even that good of a joke. Do you know how common the name Johnathan is? It’s how the most talkative pair of eyes got his name! Not good material. No, not worth bringing up—Arthur! Arthur, stop it!”
Arthur squirmed. “Da,” he said, reaching toward the terrified footnote.
“Ugh, come on now, dearheart, do we really have to give him more airtime? Your pathetic drunk of a father brings down the entire mood! Do you know how many times I’ve fast-forwarded through it to get to the parts where you argue with honeybear?”
“Da!” Arthur repeated.
Kayne groaned. “Oooooh, fine! But I’m going to call him John. Because it’s funny. Even if it isn’t the universe’s best material,” he added under his breath, unimpressed.
John had pulled himself up to his feet shakily. “L-let him go. Let him go, right now! Or–or I’ll…”
“Oh, let him go right now!” Kayne huffed mockingly. “Or I. Or else. Ohhhh I outta!!”
Kayne placed Arthur back down in front of his instrument. He turned back to the shaking trope with legs.
Kayne stretched and took a long breath.“You really need to get this boy a piano. He could be… well not big, but he has a few good ones. Catchy. Wonderful lures for unsuspecting Arthurs. Catchy. Catchy. Get it? Because I caught—ugh, nevermind John. John would have got it. Maybe. Well, probably not.”
John attempted to move closer to Arthur. Arthur was back to his compositions in the middle of the room.
“But anyway, yes. Get him a piano! I for one greatly enjoyed B, F, E, E, E, E, E, E, E, E, E, B, E! Even if it wasn’t what I was looking for at the time. Not one of his most hummable,” Kayne whispered so Arthur wouldn’t hear, glancing back at the composer in question before continuing. “Let’s be honest, not his best. But musicians are temperamental. I would know, I’m VERY musical.” He laughed uproariously.
He moved into John’s space. The terrified man gasped as Kayne gripped him around the neck.
“For instance, I like ribcages. I make beautiful music with ribcages—”
Little notes distracted him from his threatening.
“Shh, John!” he ordered the whimpering man, turning them both back to Arthur.
Tink. Tink… tink, tink, tink.
Arthur had it! He slowly tonked out the melodious pattern of Farore’s Song.
Kayne moaned in jubilation. “Oh Artie, that’s it. That’s what I want to hear!”
He patted John’s cheek excitedly. “Oh Johnny,” he gasped mockingly. “Look how far our little boy has come!”
“You c-c-can, you can do what you want to me, but please—let him go. Please. You can do an-anything.”
Kayne froze. “Oh?” he turned his attention fully on John while the twinkling music set the scene. “Is that so, Rubber Ducky?—no—you’re—ugh, you’re not even blond, that doesn’t work for you—urgh what a waste.”
“Let my son go. Please.”
“You’re sounding awful brave there, Johnny,” Kayne grinned. He put his arm around John so they could both watch Arthur play at the chime-a-phone. His natural ear for music was already in full effect. He looked up at his father and Kayne grinning at them effusively. Looking to them for praise.
His own Middle C Arthur was far too self loathing for praise most days. Such a wet blanket, his Arthur.
“Good job Arthur, you did it!” Kayne said fondly, but there was a thread of danger in his tone. “John, tell Arthur how well he’s done.”
“P-please—”
“Tell him,” Kayne’s voice hardened. “Or I can peel his skin off as you watch, but I don’t think he’ll appreciate that as much.”
“You—Artie you did so well,” John said, voice breaking, trying to sound light and excited. “You… you played the man’s song perfectly!”
“Fecky?”
“Well let’s not go crazy,” Kayne interrupted. He rolled his eyes. “He’s not doing it perfectly. It’s SUPPOSED to be softer and smoother and has waaaaaaay more notes in it. It’s a piano song, John. It’s not for the chime-a-phone!”
“I–alright–alright, just don’t—”
“Don’t, don’t!” Kayne mocked. “You’re so one note, John. At least John has a character arc. Oh—that’s right! We were talking about me!’ he pushed John away and moved toward Arthur again. He picked him up.
“You see Arthur, gods like Hasur are nothing but members of the audience.” He took on a spooky tone. “The King in Yellow who drives men mad. The songs and poems, and art that they produce from bloodied fingers and crazed dreams and yadda yadda yadda. He doesn’t make anything. He just wants to consume! Do you know how annoying it is? Him being associated with Scary Horror Art, but not me? I create things! I compose music that pied pippered civilisations , Arthur! I thought you of all people would understand, you know? Golden Boy patronises the arts with his whispering madness, but no one appreciates the ones who are actually writing the song. Hastur huffs and puffs in his little dreamland, and John has front row balcony seating but he can’t play a—”
“I—”
“No, not you John. God, it’s not always about you, you know! Actually, it’s never about you! HAHAHAHA! No one cares! You didn’t even have a name until now.”
“I–-I—I—”
“I–-I—I—” Kayne mimicked. He paused. “What was I saying?” He picked up the discarded train and handed it to Arthur who shook it happily.
“I lost my train of thought. Train. Get it, Artie? Ugh, it’s wasted on you! Whatever form you take, no sense of humour. Fine. It’s fine, it’s part of your charm. You’re the straight man. Or are you? Inquiring minds want to know!” Kayne cackled. “John, is it gay to love a disembodied voice of a fragmented god that narrates your life?---Abuah! Don’t answer that, John! Your beginning of the century sensibilities won’t understand the layers of whatever the fuck Artie and John-boy have going on.”
“Tr’n.” Arthur said helpfully.
“That’s right, my buttered scone! My you are so thoughtful, reminding me. I got waaay off track, didn’t I?” His voice deepened menacingly. He turned back to John, stroking Arthur’s head like a villain stroking a fluffy white cat.
“Wait, no. Hold on for a second!” Kayne said, looking around. “Just—just wait, it’ll be so good. One sec.” He went over to the rocking chair, turned it toward the wall, and sat down. He set himself and Arthur into the proper pose as he stroked Arthur’s head like a cat. He grunted, trying to make the rocking chair dramatically turn around.
“Ah, fuck.” He muttered. He stood up and pulled it around again. “You get the picture.” He rocked menacingly instead and put all his attention on to John. “So, Mr. John. Let’s go back a few paragraphs. Go on. Repeat your line.”
“I… what? I don’t…?”
“Ugh, you said: you c-c-can, you can do what you want to me, but please—let him go. Please. You can do an-anything,” Kayne whined. Then his voice went flat. “Say that.”
“I.”
“SAY IT.”
“You can—you can… you can do—”
“Ugh, it takes so long for you English to get anything out. Alright we’ll go to MY line. Which was: is that so? Then some stuff about rubber ducks, but–but forget about that. Forget about that part. So, is that so?”
“Um, I—”
“No, no, no, no, no Johnny. You were offering me something. You were offering that as long as I let babycakes go, you’ll let me do whatever I want to you, and John? I am a very imaginative person. Like I’ve been explaining to Arthur, I’m a creative. A musician. I know a lot of ways to hurt you. Many ways to kill you. Breaking all your bones and healing them a few times was nothing to my good material.”
“Da.”
“Not now, primrose, me and Daddy are talking,” Kayne growled, tightening his grip on Arthur.
“Don’t! Don’t hurt him!”
“And you’re boring. You're so goddamn boring to me, John, and that more than anything is what I hate the most. Just like Hastur. Like John. Actual John. The Duoprotagonist. He’s sooooo fucking predictable, even when he goes and tries to play at human he’s an open book–hehehehe ehem. No surprises, he’s lucky he has Arthur to spice it up a bit! Yes he has some merit, but I’m an Arthur fanatic through and through. So let me be perfectly clear when I tell you that I will do untold things to your nervous system to make you the least bit interesting to me.”
“I… I… I…”
Kayne let out a gust of annoyance. “Even cowering for your life you’re fucking boring. Arthur, I don’t know where you get it from, because it’s definitely not him. You do this little hitched whimper that really shows how fucking terrified you are. Pure art.”
“Dada?” Arthur asked a small frown forming at his Daddy’s tears.
“Here’s the deal, John, if that’s you’re real name. AHAH. I’ll leave Arthur here alone… actually you know what? I’ll leave every single version of your son alone. In every universe. You can save every single Arthur Lester in existence from me. I will never approach him. Never hurt him. Never give him the knife to slash his own neck—”
“Jesus Christ!” John cried in horror.
“Never will I ever put an angry piece of the King in Yellow in his head telling him that it’s his best friend without memories. Never will I ever make sure the only friend he has in the world manipulates him on my behalf. Never will I ever torment him with the lullabye he sung to his suuuuper dead daughter. You can save him… all of them from this, and all you have to do is let me do whatever I want to you.”
Kayne paused for dramatic effect He loved a good wager.. “And if you don’t? Well… if you don’t then I’m just going to take this Arthur and do as I please to him.”
“No!”
“Yes. It’s not like you can stop me,” Kayne said. He stood up. Arthur was struggling against him now.
“Ugh, time for a time out, Artie.” He put Arthur in the playpen and wished he could do that to Middle C some days. He leaned over the playpen and gestured for John to come forward as well. The trembling man did, to his credit.
Both of them stared down at Arthur who looked up at them in confusion. Tears were welling in his big hazel eyes, and his lower lip was shaking.
“I’ve already shown you a taste of what I can do, John,” Kayne said softly. He waved a rattle in Arthur’s face, but Arthur wouldn’t be distracted. “So, what is it going to be? The absolute safety of your child from me, or losing him forever?”
“Will,” John whispered, sobbing now. “Will you hurt him?”
“Maybe. Maybe I’ll make him into a monster, or maybe I’ll love him and treat him like my own child.” Kayne shrugged. “You’ve known me for like, half an hour. What do you think will happen to him?”
“Please,” John cried.
“What’s your answer, John?” Kayne hissed, putting a hand on the back of John’s neck. “The deal is growing cold. Will you make this sacrifice or not? Will you save him or not?!”
“Da!” Arthur cried, trying to reach for his father. “Dada!”
“Three seconds and I start peeling skin. Three. Two.---”
“Take him.”
The room froze. John gasped in horror at his own words, but repeated himself anyway. “Take him. Take him. Just please don’t hurt me.”
Kayne sighed in disappointment. He slowly walked away from the playpen. “So, when push comes to shove you really are a coward, aren’t you? I mean, it’s nothing we didn’t know before. A drunk that can’t deal with life, who kills himself despite having a child that needs him. Kind of the opposite of Arthur, a recovered alcoholic who lives despite having a child that’s dead—maybe that isn’t really poetic. Doesn’t matter. Arthur, my Arthur, would have taken the deal. In a heartbeat. From the word go. He would have thrown himself to any torture I could concoct. It’s what makes him a good protagonist. For all his other character flaws he loves his dead daughter. You can’t even love your living son enough for a little eternity of suffering.” Kayne tsked. “Well,” he turned back to the playpen. “Come on then, Arthur. Guess you’re mine now. Do babies eat meat? Eh, don’t worry we’ll figure it out—”
“No, no don’t, don’t!”
“You already decided, Johnny,” Kayne said, shoving the begging father away by the forehead and grabbing Arthur.
Arthur, in typical Arthur fashion, was sobbing now, calling out for John, or in this case, Dada, but whatever, same difference.
John babbled helplessly. “I’m sorry, Artie, I’m sorry. I don’t—please don’t take him. Please!”
“Eh, alright.” Kayne handed Arthur off to John, who almost dropped him in disbelief.
“W-What?”
“Yeah, alright. What? You think I’m going to have another kid? Again?? No way! My last one is a nightmare HAHAHAHAHA! Nightmare! I KILL myself!”
“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” John said, between his hyperventilating pants, hugging Arthur to his chest. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
“Oh it’s nothing. I’m sure the fact you sold out your son to a violent bloodthirsty god won’t haunt you for the rest of your life or anything.”
“W-what.”
Arthur had calmed down, having finally been reunited with John. John flinched, but didn’t have the nerve to move away as Kayne reached over to wipe the tears off Arthur’s face.
“Bye, Arthur dear, I’ll be seeing you again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and again and again”— Kayne’s smile grew wider and wider. —“and again reeeeeal soon.” He made eye contact with John. Deliberate and smug.
John sobbed, clutching on to his son.
Kayne rolled his eyes and looked down. He affectionately pinched Arthur’s cheek and reaffirmed he would have to try it on Middle C.
And then with a snap of his fingers, he was gone.
It didn’t matter what happened next. It’s a bad idea to put too much focus on the backstory. There’s only so many times Martha and Thomas Wayne can die before it becomes trite.
Maybe almost losing his son will drive Jack Lester to be a better man. To quit drinking and devote himself to the happiness of his family despite his crushing depression that they don’t even have a name for yet. Maybe he’ll change all their lives.
Maybe he loses himself to drink all the quicker and kills himself years earlier from the guilt and trauma and fear that one day the man in black would be back for the son he promised him.
Who cares? This was never about him.