Chapter Text
It truly was a miracle that Lanyon was able to convince Jekyll to take a break from the paperwork.
With the chaos of the exhibition dying down, things were starting to go back to the way they were. It wasn’t quite normal yet, considering the Lodger’s residual disdain and the permanent shadows beneath Jekyll’s eyes, but it was close enough. So close, in fact, that Lanyon decided it was a crime for his friend to be holed up in his office for the rest of the day.
And Jekyll listened to him. Somehow.
“We’ll continue with the paperwork tomorrow, right?” Jekyll asked, worrying the rim of his teacup with his fingers. He smiled lightly, a small crease between his brows declaring his thinly veiled concern.
“Of course. Now stop thinking about it. If you occupy your rest day with thoughts of everything you should be doing, Lord help me.” Lanyon replied, taking a slow sip from his cup. “You deserve a day off.”
Jekyll didn’t look convinced but he nodded all the same, leaning back in his chair. It was somewhat strange to see Henry out and about in the light of the morning, his pale complexion and gaunt figure creating the illusion that he had been cut out of one picture and pasted to another. But the sun was already working its wonders. A light pink flush unfurled beneath his cheeks, eyes shimmering with something akin to mirth. He dabbed his lips with a napkin and Lanyon found it difficult to look away from the vitality which blossomed there.
“So, Robert,” Jekyll started, tearing Lanyon’s attention from his mouth, “What are your plans for the day? You must have had something in store when you dragged me out of my office.” The glimmer in his eyes shone brighter, lips quirked up at the edges.
Lanyon rolled his eyes. “Must a man need an agenda for a day of rest and relaxation?”
“I suppose not, but I usually do.”
“That’s because,” Lanyon leaned forward, jabbing at Jekyll’s chest with an indignant finger, “Your days of ‘rest and relaxation’ are some other fellow’s worst nightmare.”
Jekyll laughed. It was a bright and delightful sound. “You make it seem as though I’ve worked myself half to death.”
Lanyon raised an eyebrow. “You have.”
“Ha ha.”
“I say this with complete sincerity. You’re going to die an early death if you keep this lifestyle up, my friend.”
It was Jekyll’s turn to roll his eyes. “It’s a good thing I’m here with you, then.”
Lanyon nodded, masking his smile with another sip of tea. It had been a while since they’ve fallen into bouts of banter like this, and the sound of it was nostalgic to his ears. “I’m a wonderful influence.”
Jekyll gave him a long look. Before he could respond, however, they were interrupted by a Lodger–what was her name, again?– clearing her throat. Jekyll turned to look at her and Lanyon did not miss the way that the corners of his mouth fell, the twinkle in his eye fading. He crossed his arms and frowned. It was never good for Jekyll’s tranquility when the Lodgers wanted something from him.
“Dr. Jekyll, I was wondering if you would help me with my work? I was just looking over the data and realized how insightful your assistance would be.” There wasn’t an inkling of a question in her voice. She looked at Jekyll expectantly–demandingly, Lanyon would venture to claim– and stepped back to allow his exit from his seat.
Lanyon watched in horror as Jekyll began to rise. No, that wouldn’t do. After placing a steely hand over Jekyll’s and sending a look in his direction, he said in a strained voice, “My apologies, but Henry will not be joining you at this moment.”
Both Jekyll and the Lodger looked scandalized.
He continued on, attempting to quell the hurt welling in his chest. “It’s been a long couple of weeks and Henry needs some time to recuperate. He’s taking the day off. Perhaps he can help you tomorrow?”
Henry bit his lip. Slowly, the Lodger brought her hands to her hips, fixing a look of scrutiny upon the doctor. Cocking her head to the side, as if the mere thought of a break was too puzzling of a concept for her scientific mind to wrap itself around, she mused, “I see. But a rest day is not equivalent to a day of doing nothing. You are the leader of the Society, as well as my mentor. Those are two responsibilities that should not be shirked.”
Who did this woman think she was?!
Before Lanyon could retort, Jekyll slipped his hand out from beneath his pinning grasp, an unreadable expression plastered across his face. He took a step toward the Lodger and smiled, though the amiability did not reach his eyes. “You’re correct, Miss Ito. As always. It’s no trouble for me to offer my assistance.”
“Henry-” Lanyon started.
Jekyll turned to him, expression saturated with apology. “I’m sorry, Robert. I’ll be back soon.” He smiled again before walking away, and just like that, Lanyon was alone at the table.
He sat there dumbly for a moment, waves of emotion crashing over him, sweeping him off his feet, churning and roiling while he tried to make sense of what just happened. He watched as Jekyll disappeared into the lab, all of his efforts shoved to the side in favor of work, exertion, tedious responsibilities. In favor of more pressing issues. Priorities.
He had never been at the top of Jekyll’s list of priorities. Something always had to come first: the Society, the Lodgers, a sparkly smile and a respectable reputation. It didn’t matter if Lanyon was offering him respite. It didn’t matter if it was killing him. It took precedence all the same.
The day had been so bright. Lanyon rose from the table, abandoning his teacup and beginning his slow stroll towards the dreaded destination, the land of aching, ink-stained fingers and dark-circled nights. He had drawn Jekyll away from the paper towers, but since his efforts had proven fruitless, he may as well bring them down himself.
What was the use of waiting for tomorrow when the day was already wasted?
Lanyon started up the stairs, hurt souring into disdain. The Lodgers had begun to congregate in the atrium, still disheveled and yawning from oversleep, chipper in the promise of a new day. Who were they to hold Henry to such a high standard? It wasn’t as if they expected the same of themselves; the wound left by the exhibition’s preparation had not yet healed. Did they know what Henry had gone through for their sake? What he had suffered?
And Henry kept choosing that suffering, time and time again. Choosing it over himself, choosing it over his friend. Lanyon scowled, grip on the banister tightening. If Henry was going to sacrifice his health for a bunch of lunatics who would never give him the thanks he deserved, then that was his problem. In the meantime, Lanyon would actually be of use.
He might as well complete the necessary paperwork to keep the Society afloat so his friend could continue his self-immolation. Why not?
Lanyon stalked up to the door of the office, reaching for the handle. Before he could step inside, however, he caught sight of two Lodgers huddled together on the floor, tinkering with something just out of eyeshot. He paused, debating whether or not it was worth it to see what they were getting up to before going in.
It’s a society for mad scientists, for Christ’s sake. He should at least figure out what they’re doing.
Slowly, he turned to face the Lodgers, not missing the way their eyes widened and frames stiffened, freezing into the very tableau of guilt. They were huddled over a piece of machinery, tools in hand, faces smeared with soot. As Lanyon watched, the device began to smoke.
He looked up at the Lodgers, then back down at their invention. Then back up at them. Then down. Then back up. One of the Lodgers smiled nervously. Lanyon shook his head and went inside, closing the door behind him.
Whatever that was, he was not in the mood to deal with it. It wasn’t his problem, that’s for sure.
With a sigh, Lanyon collected some papers from the top of the looming stack and sat to begin reading. He hadn’t wanted to do this today in the slightest. The room felt especially cruel in its loneliness, nothing but a covered mirror and rows of glass-encased potions to keep him company. The drawn curtains shielded each glimmer of sunlight, choking the room in a solemn darkness. Lanyon wondered if Jekyll ever remembered to open the window.
He stood and drew the curtains back before returning to his seat. Perhaps the light couldn’t alleviate his gloom, but it could at least help him read the paperwork. Lanyon sighed again, grabbing a pen.
Just as the tip touched the paper, an ear splitting bang rattled the room.
Like an earthquake to a house of cards, it all came crashing down. The walls shuddered, cabinets flying open and laying siege to the rows of potion within. They fell all at once, glass bottles shattering in a fragile, screaming dissonance, liquid spraying and mixing on the ground. Lanyon startled back, dropping his pen and nearly falling out of his chair. Tidal waves of chaos and sound swept through the room. He clapped his hands to his ears and waited for the cacophony to die down.
By the time the storm had quelled–a mere few seconds of demolition– the office was in shambles. Lanyon slowly opened his eyes, drawing his hands away from his head. The room almost seemed too quiet now. He was alone with the destruction—unharmed, thank God— and he couldn’t hear himself think over the overwhelming, deathly silence. He sat there, stunned, until his thrumming pulse calmed and the sound returned to his ears.
Well, he hadn’t died. That was promising.
Lanyon released a shaky exhale, standing on weak legs and making a beeline for the door. No, it couldn’t be…
Peeking out of the doorway, he was met with the stereotypical signs of an explosion: debris, damaged property, and ash still smoldering on the floor. The two Lodgers from before now stood across the hallway, staring at the wreckage with the expressions of doomed men. The device from before was nowhere to be seen, but the scraps of metal strewn about the hall were telling enough. Lanyon’s stomach sank.
He retracted his head back into the office and closed the door behind him. This was his fault. Lanyon groaned, closing his eyes and leaning against the wall.
He should’ve known better. Of course the smoking piece of machinery would explode if it was left unquestioningly to a mad scientist. Why wouldn’t it? It wasn’t as though any of the grown adults living at the Society possessed any semblance of foresight or maturity. Of course it would explode. Of course.
One of Lanyon’s very few jobs was to make sure that nothing got blown up and he couldn’t even manage that.
Guilt gnawed at Lanyon’s stomach. The last thing Jekyll needed was more to worry about. This was supposed to be a rest day, goddamn it.
Voices began to gather on the other side of the door, the words muffled but the worried tone clear as day. Right. This was no longer a time for leisure; there was work to be done. Lanyon lifted himself to his feet, surveying the damage within the office. Thankfully, it seemed as though the wall had absorbed most of the impact, and seeing as it was still intact, there must not have been much force behind the blast. It was simply unfortunate that the glass displays had been knocked open because now there was a mess that he had to clean.
Seeing as this incident could have easily been prevented and was sure to cause a headache or two, Lanyon felt that it was his responsibility to clean the floor for Jekyll. It was the least he could do.
After a bit of rummaging, Lanyon discovered a closet with a first-aid kit, three empty wine bottles, and, most importantly, a rag. He retrieved the rag and made a mental note to talk to Jekyll about the bottles at a more tasteful date. Returning to the chemical spill, Lanyon kneeled above the mess and began to soak it up with the cloth, careful not to let the liquids touch his skin. Though he didn’t expect Jekyll to keep anything dangerous in his cabinets, he could never be too cautious, right?
Actually, now that he was a little closer to the puddle, he was glad for his caution. The liquids had combined to create a dark, bubbling mixture and the wooden floorboards around the mess were beginning to peel. Also, it was probably worth mentioning that the chemicals were emitting hot, foul-smelling fumes directly into Lanyon’s face. He sputtered, drawing back from the floor and turning away from the spill to gulp in some fresh air. It was futile; the whole room was beginning to adopt the offensive odour.
Lanyon slid the window open and returned to the mess. His gut twisted at the thought of inhaling any more of that mystery gas, but what could he do besides slow his breathing? The mess needed to be cleaned. It would be unseemly to leave it to Jekyll when he certainly had enough on his plate as it was.
So he returned to the spill, ignoring the burning in his lungs. It was probably nothing.
After it was all wiped up, Lanyon got to his feet, intending to exit the office and inform Jekyll of his return home. Once he was upright, however, the world swayed around him and his face paled, skin going cold as a bout of lightheadedness shuddered through him. He flailed for something to lean on, grasping at Jekyll’s desk for some semblance of stability. He stood there a moment, head down and eyes closed, breathing slowly to regain his balance.
Lanyon’s head was swimming. He waited for the dizziness to die down but it remained like static in his skull, blurring the ground beneath his feet and distorting all thoughts into a dream-like buzz. He blinked, bleary, fighting to regain order in his mind. The spell did not subside but it did not progress, and after some adjusting, Lanyon stepped back from the desk and left the office.
In his dazed state, the piling voices and throngs of concerned Lodgers outside of the room felt like nothing short of mayhem. The lights were fevered as they bounced off of shiny skin and gleaming eyes, the air positively saturated with insistent granules of dust and detritus. Lanyon coughed. Each wheeze ignited sparks of color behind his eyelids.
It all felt like too much. Despite his newfound difficulty in pinning down a single thought, Lanyon knew that he wanted to go home.
“Robert,” the gasp cut through the fog, and he turned to find the source of it, “Are you okay?”
Jekyll was at his side, eyes wide and face ashen. He reached out towards Lanyon’s hands before faltering, drawing back like he thought better of the motion. His face scanned his friend’s, and for a moment, Lanyon forgot himself in his gaze.
“I had no idea you were in the office during the detonation. Are you hurt anywhere?”
Lanyon closed his eyes and tried to ground himself. “I’m fine. I can’t say the same for your potions, though.”
Warm, earnest hands grasped his. Finally, finally! A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Jekyll’s hands felt so nice against his skin, so sunny, so kind. He never wanted them to leave.
“I don’t care about that. What matters is that you’re okay.” A pause, then Jekyll’s grasp drew away. Lanyon’s face fell at the loss. “Are you sure that you’re feeling alright?”
Lanyon’s eyes blinked open. The world was much brighter than he remembered, much more fuzzy. Like ink bleeding on a page. “Fine.” His words were distorted in his ears. Was that really his voice? It sounded too far away, an echo of his own speech. “I’m heading home.”
Jekyll frowned. “You don’t look fine.”
Something in Lanyon’s gut twisted, urgency, but it fell away when he tried to harness it, leaving him bewildered. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that,” Jekyll noted, brows furrowed. He stepped closer to his friend, inspecting his eyes. His eyes were so pretty. Almost as warm as his hands, warmer. “But you don’t look it. Did you hit your head?”
Lanyon shook his head. The motion sent the world into disarray, and he closed his eyes to keep himself from falling. Distress lodged itself in his ribcage, choking his heart until it pounded pain through his arteries. Jekyll shouldn’t be worried. He had so much to deal with all the time, so much to take care of and deal with. Lanyon could never forgive himself if he was another source of concern for his friend. “No. There’s no need to worry about me. I’m going home now.”
“Dr. Jekyll, could you come and check this out?” A Lodger called.
Jekyll looked away from Lanyon—the warmth disappeared completely, he was so cold— before looking back at his friend, mouth slightly ajar. He pressed his lips together until they lost their color. “Alright, I’ll be there in a moment,” Jekyll responded. His voice softened. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
“Okay. I’ll be going now.”
Jekyll left, and Lanyon began his journey down the stairs.
Perhaps braving the stairs wasn’t the best idea. The floor swam beneath his feet, the short walk down to the first floor lengthening and steepening before his eyes. Lanyon clutched at the handrail and began to ease himself down, stomach flipping with each step he took, heart hammering in his throat. He stumbled to level ground and pushed through the heavy doors of the Society.
The sun was syrupy as it dripped from the sky, leaving behind a vivid afterimage on everything it touched. Lanyon squinted and stepped into it, dizzied by the dreamlike world around him. His skin was strikingly cold against the bright heat of the morning. Dewey droplets had accumulated on his forehead, dampening his hair. He stepped forward, took another step, then another. Each time he dragged his feet forward it felt like he was starting over.
The world refused to stop swirling.
It was getting worse, Lanyon realized, the thought barely cutting through his bleary mind. The static in his skull had infected the rest of his body, and he could hardly recognize that the limbs hanging idly by his sides belonged to him. He was light, so light. Reality had dissolved into color.
He needed to get home before he either hit the ground or floated away.
Lanyon looked around, mouth hanging uselessly open as he surveyed his surroundings. The Society had disappeared into the sea of London, and, after some absent staring, he realized that he hadn’t a clue where he was. He turned, streaks of the world flying across his eyes, solidifying into a new, unfamiliar place. He turned again, head lolling on its perch, and found himself somewhere else entirely.
Lanyon’s breath was cold. He could no longer feel his cheeks, and the saturated, glowing scope of his vision was being encroached upon by black. Perhaps it would be best for him to sit and collect himself.
The brick wall was air beneath his fingers as he inched towards the ground, the pavement like sitting upon a cloud. Lanyon watched the sky ripple like water for one breath, two, before the nothingness won and he couldn’t breathe any longer.
Eyes fluttering shut, Lanyon hit the ground.