Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tracking down cursed objects sounded like a really fun job when Salesa had first offered it to Jon. It reminded him of all those old, revered archaeologists finding lost civilizations, and he always liked to think of himself as preserving culture, even if said culture is worship of dread gods 

It was fun, for a while. Once Jon swallowed the bitter taste of selling the objects rather than destroying them— we mostly sell to the Magnus Institute, Salesa had said, we’re preserving knowledge, isn’t that what you and your patron are all about? —and just leaned into the satisfaction of a job well done, he’d really started enjoying it. 

After a while, though, it became pretty clear he’s just a human homing device. The pay’s good, though, and what the fuck else is he going to do with his skillset and lack of work experience? Join the Institute?

(That’s a joke. Joining the Institute is completely unthinkable for one fairly compelling reason.)

To balance out the distastefulness of selling cursed items rather than destroying them, which had been Jon’s preference and modus operandi for years, he’s taken to—well, he calls himself a vigilante, but only in his own mind because he’s aware of how stupid it sounds out loud. He uses his gift-slash-curse of omnipotence to tell when people around him are getting preyed on by the entities, and tries to save them. 

It doesn’t always work. Frequently doesn’t, actually. Mostly because he gets a sick, overwhelming, beautiful rush of calm and euphoria and satiation when he’s just a moment too late and he has to watch someone succumb to their fears. He tells himself he’s still trying to help, to save them, and that he’s a failure when he can’t, but it’s hard not to feel like it’s a win-win situation. 

He sometimes feels like he’s stuck with the trial version of the Eye. There are questions he can’t answer no matter how hard he tries, questions like why me . ‘Why’ is, in general, not a question the Eye likes to answer, and it’s getting really frustrating. There’s also places blocked from his view--namely the Institute.

Look, it’s not like he tries to see the Institute that often. He just...wonders, sometimes. Just because it seems to be the natural home of the Eye. It’s not because of Gerry. He couldn’t give a shit about Gerry. If they happen to run into each other when Jon goes in to give one of his periodic statements (because it makes the Eye purr like some weird, contented kitten in the back of Jon’s mind, and not because he wants to run into Gerry), it happens.

Jon’s also had to drop cursed items off at the Institute a few times, when Salesa’s ‘not in the mood for Bouchard’, as he jovially puts it. He only saw Gerry once doing that, and it wasn’t a particularly great interaction. Gerry had just scoffed at him, some disgusted holier-than-thou look on their face, and said “So this is what you’ve come to, then?” 

(Jon couldn’t think of anything appropriately witty to say before they rolled their eyes and walked away, and it haunts him. He still occasionally thinks of comebacks in the middle of fitful, sleepless nights. They’re never fantastic, if he’s honest.)

He’s only thinking about the Institute so much tonight because Salesa’s over there now, probably chatting up Bouchard, driving the prices up. Salesa suspects Bouchard can Behold, though, so the haggling won’t really mean much. Jon’s fairly certain Salesa does it for sport more than anything else anyway. 

Jon’s smoking outside a bar in Chelsea, near the river, waiting on the potential ‘come drink expensive yet awful wine with me and Bouchard’ invitation from Salesa that he’s learned not to ignore. There’s only a small chance it’ll even come, and he really hopes it doesn’t, especially after last time, but they’d both acted so goddamned offended when he refused the first time. He’s just waiting sort of nearby so if the dreaded text comes in, he can at least get to the Institute quickly and get it over with fast.

At least, that’s the plan, but he feels a creeping sort of cold in the back of his mind and sighs, dropping his cigarette to the ground and putting it out with his bootheel. He pinches the bridge of his nose and goes into the bar, ducking around people and heading to the bathroom, where the supernatural sonar in his mind keeps pinging him.

There’s a man sitting on the filthy, tiled floor, hugging his legs, face pressed into his knees. Jon’s eyes are good enough to see through the surface layer of reality, and it’s not hard to catch a long, foggy tendril of the Lonely starting to curl around the man.

Finally, it’s not too late to save someone--though Jon has a sick desire to just let it be--but he’s not going to.

“Excuse me,” Jon says, and the man blinks up. He’s got startlingly big eyes, reminiscent of a cow’s, innocent and clear, welling with tears. He sniffs hard, runs a hand over his face. 

“Sorry,” he says, with a nervous bark of laughter. “Bit of an awkward position to--”

Jon’s not all that interested in small-talk or bonding or any of that. Befriending random victims of entities he happens to meet hasn’t gone well for him in the past. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

“What?” the man asks, opening and closing his mouth like a bewildered fish. He looks like Jon’s just seen his soul, which is funny, because he could , and he hasn’t even tried.

He might as well learn the man’s name. He metaphysically pushes the blinds in the man’s mind apart with two fingers, just enough to peek in. “Listen to me, Martin,” Jon says, and the man--Martin K. Blackwood, apparently, though the K is irrelevant, he thinks it makes him sound more professional--startles, eyes widening even more. “Something is after you, and it can only get you if you’re alone. You shouldn’t. Be. Alone . Understand?”

“Wh--who are you?” Martin asks, pushing himself backwards under the sink with his legs, further from Jon.

Jon feels a small, sharp hit of shuddering pleasure that he’s causing fear, but tries hard to step on it. “Someone who wants to help you. Is there someone you can stay with?”

“No,” Martin says, voice small. “I’m alone.”

“Flatmate? Parents? Friends? Come on,” Jon says.

“No one,” Martin says. “What--what will it do to me?”

“You don’t want to know,” Jon says. “Seriously? No one?”

“Who do you have?” Martin snaps back, and Jon blinks, thinking about it.

“No one,” he says, slowly. “But I’m not the one being preyed on by the Lonely, so--”

“Excuse me, the what?”

“The--look, it doesn’t matter, just--” Jon starts, but Martin cuts him off.

“No, it does matter, because you’ve just--come into this bathroom where I was trying to have a private cry, if you have to know--”

“Didn’t ask.”

“--and told me I can’t be alone because I’m in danger , apparently, and you know my name somehow, so really I think I might be in danger from you , actually--”

“Fine,” Jon says, sighing. “Don’t listen.” He turns to leave, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, and pushes the bathroom door open, heading back out into the bar. He makes it onto the street before large, soft hands wrap around his wrist.

“Wait,” Martin says. “I mean--how did you know my name?”

“I’m an excellent guesser.”

“Do I know you?” Martin asks, squinting at him, and Jon shakes his head, looking at the sidewalk between them.

“Never seen you before. Like I said. Excellent guesser.”

“Well. Since--since you spooked me like that, and I don’t have anyone to--to keep me from being alone, I think it’s only fair that you --” Martin starts, and Jon laughs, shaking his head again, more vigorously.

“No.”

“ No ?”

“Figure it out yourself,” Jon says. “Stay out all night. Hire a prostitute. I don’t care , it’s not my job, I was just trying to do a good deed.”

“You do care, or you wouldn’t have said anything,” Martin says, and alright, fair.

Jon sighs through his nose. “I was just offering a friendly warning.”

“It wasn’t all that friendly.”

“I have--”

“You can come to my flat,” Martin blurts, and Jon can feel the fear radiating off of him. Maybe the Lonely should branch out into feeding on the stupid, terrifying things people do to not be alone--or maybe it already does. “Since I’ll die if I’m alone, you--you should do the humane thing and--and not let that happen.”

“I didn’t say you’d die,” Jon says, drily, though he’s fairly sure Martin’s already won this one.

“Great, that’s not ominous at all, thank you--what’s your name?”

“Jon,” Jon sighs, running a hand back through his hair. “Look, I haven’t eaten, and I’m not--”

“I’ll make you dinner.”

Jon laughs, softly. “You’re really going to invite a possibly unhinged stranger into your home and make him dinner?”

“Well, you--you seem like you’re telling the truth, a-and I--if you’re staying to--to save my life, then it’s only fair I--”

“You’re not the brightest,” Jon says, and Martin recoils like he’s been hit, quickly closing his mouth.

“You’re sort of a cunt,” Martin says, bitterly, and Jon can’t help but full-on laugh at that, a peal of laughter that forces its way out of him.

“Yes,” he says, nodding. “Fuck, yes, I am. Being nice won’t get you anywhere.”

“You seem to think you’re some kind of Han Solo sort of anti-hero,” Martin says. “It’s not a great look. I’m not thrilled that you need to stay over to stop me dying, but, I mean--”

Jon quickly glances into Martin’s mind, which confirms his suspicion that Martin is, indeed, going overboard on this specifically to call Jon on his ‘bluff’ and get him to admit he was fucking with him. Jon’s not a liar, and he’s determined now. Martin can’t win this.

“Desperate times, desperate measures,” Jon says, with his best shit-eating grin, half-remembered from Gerry, a long time ago. “Lead on, Macduff.”

Martin makes a disgusted noise, rolls his eyes, and heads off down the street. Jon follows, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Lonely following as well, snaking down the gutters, waiting to grab at Martin’s ankles.

Jon’s now acutely aware of why he gave up on really trying to be a hero. It’s a lot of work.

Chapter Text

Martin walks alarmingly fast, and Jon’s legs burn as he tries to keep up. “Are you trying to lose me?” Jon gets out, bitterly, through gritted teeth, right leg stiff and painful as always.

“No, I need you, remember?” Martin asks, quite shittily, if Jon’s any judge. “Sorry, am I going too fast?”

“Yes,” Jon says. Martin speeds up, and Jon can’t help but laugh breathlessly. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out, squinting and stopping as he reads the text.

Our bureaucratic friend requests your presence for what I assume will be a spectacular bout of cock--or, I guess, cornea--measuring , from Salesa. Jon always wonders why he feels the need to write texts like he’s some sort of self-proclaimed witty essayist, but he doesn’t ever ask. Not worth risking getting paid. 

“Ugh, fine , I’ll slow down,” Martin says, turning to find Jon stopped there. “I thought the limp was for show, but if you’re actually hurting--”

“New plan,” Jon says, looking up from his phone at Martin. “If you don’t want to die--”

“Um.”

“Yes, sorry, phrased that wrong. If you don’t want to be consumed by sentient loneliness--”

“What?”

“Could you let me finish the fucking thought, please, Martin?” Jon asks, and Martin blinks in surprise.

“Touchy,” Martin says, with a hint of what Jon interprets as a delighted smirk.

“My boss just texted me, and I need to go to the Magnus Institute--” Jon starts, and stops and sighs when Martin cuts in.

“Oh, the spooky research place nearby?” he asks, cheerily. “You work there?”

“No,” Jon says, snorting. “No, I certainly don’t, but my boss is there to--”

“I actually applied for a job there a few days ago.”

“If they call you, I wouldn’t go in,” Jon says. “Not worth it. Look, as I was saying , I have to head over there, and I don’t want to leave you alone, because, well. Consumed by sentient loneliness, as I said.”

“Makes sense you’d be affiliated with them, considering,” Martin says, with a knowing nod.

“Again, I’m not , but--fine.”

“Couldn’t I just...wait for you out on the street? With people around?” Martin asks.

“If the street clears, though--look, it’s better if you come in with me. I don’t think my boss would want you with us, so...you could give a statement,” Jon says. “And I’ll come get you when I’m done?”

“I don’t have anything to give a statement about,” Martin says, with a nervous laugh that says he definitely does. Jon doesn’t care enough to see what it is. He’ll feed the Eye with it regardless, no need to jump the gun.

“Sure,” Jon says. “I’ll even walk you to where they take statements--one condition, though, and remember that I’m saving your life here.”

“Allegedly.”

“If we run into--well, if one person in particular is there--I’m going to introduce you as my boyfriend. Yes?” Jon asks, and Martin startles.

“Your--”

“Boyfriend. Yes. You don’t have to even get close to touching me, just look like you agree with me when I call you that. That’s all,” Jon says. 

Martin sighs. “I guess?”

“Fantastic,” Jon says, turning them in the direction of the Institute. It always sort of calls to him, wherever he is, and it takes no concerted effort to find. Martin keeps pace with him.

“So who are you trying to make jealous?” Martin asks, cheerily, clearly trying not to look like he cares.

“None of your business.”

“ Seriously ?”

“An ex,” Jon says, sighing and waving a hand. “Not that it matters.”

“So, if your boss doesn’t work at the Institute, what do you...do?” Martin asks.

“I’m in antiques,” Jon says, flatly. It’s a line Salesa pulls out with glee, but Jon thinks it’s a stupid, boring half-truth. 

“Oh,” Martin says. “Is that...interesting? Why would you work with the-- oh, cursed stuff! Or. I mean. Allegedly cursed stuff. Though I think my gran had an actual haunted doll when I was little. She--she dressed me in its clothes one time. That might’ve just been her being weird and old, though. Probably was.”

“Mmm,” Jon says, unsure of how to respond and uninterested in doing so regardless. “What do you do?”

“Nothing at the moment,” Martin says, laughing nervously. “Which is why I applied to work at the Institute! I just got my degree in, uh--uh, parapsychology, and--”

“No, you didn’t,” Jon says, idly, not even having to look to spot the lie. 

“What?”

“You didn’t.”

“Well, that’s a pretty fucking bold thing to say, I--” Martin starts, and Jon shakes his head, laughing softly.

“Alright. Fine. You have a degree. I don’t care,” Jon says.

“You’re really something ,” Martin says, and somehow it’s more venomous than when he called Jon a cunt.

“Indeed I am.”

They reach the Institute, and Jon sighs as the Eye’s deadzone washes over him. He thinks it’s punishment, like if he worked there, maybe he’d unlock everything it keeps from him. Sometimes he’s almost tempted, but then he remembers Gerry.

He leads Martin in, and down to the Archives. Martin sighs and pulls his sweater down and brushes his hair with a hand. Jon watches him with a raised eyebrow. Martin catches the look. 

“What?” he asks. “I’m trying to be boyfriend material.”

Jon smiles and shakes his head. “I appreciate the effort, but the messier the better.”

“Great, that makes me feel special,” Martin says, a little darkly, clicking his tongue in disdain. 

Gerry’s sat on a desk, legs up, talking to the person working at it. Jon knocks on the doorframe, and their head snaps in his direction. They make an audibly irritated sound.

“Great, Jon’s here,” they say, sliding off the desk, completely ignoring Martin. “You here for another absolutely boring statement, or--”

“Actually, Martin’s here to give one,” Jon says, gesturing at Martin. Gerry seems to notice him.

“You a new Salesa crony, or--”

“I’m his boyfriend,” Martin says, brightly, sticking his hand out. “Hi!”

Gerry seems to blink in genuine surprise, eyebrows flying up. “You--okay.” He ignores the hand. “You seem decent, what happened to your standards?”

“Sorry?” Martin says.

“I mean--I mean you seem like a nice, normal-ish person--”

“What are you basing that on?” Martin asks, cocking his head, and Jon feels a strange swell of affection for this relative stranger. “Are you trying to tell me that, uh--” He glances quickly at Jon. “J- Jon --that Jon is...what? What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you could do better,” Gerry says, crossing their arms. “Fine, I don’t know your deal, but Jon’s a sellout, and--”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jon says, rolling his eyes. “Not as if you’re keeping up the crusade these days either.”

“At least I’m not actively distributing Leitners, you traitorous fuck,” Gerry says, flipping Jon off.

“Are you going to take my statement, or are you actually just a Hot Topic cashier on break?” Martin asks, raising a hand, and Jon could kiss him.

Gerry, to her credit, snorts at that. “Okay. Fine. Follow me.”

“Don’t eat him alive,” Jon says, drily.

“I’m not a monster, I’d kill him first,” Gerry says, glancing back at Jon with something like a smile. It’s brief and bittersweet and Jon has absolutely no idea how to interpret it so he chooses to ignore it completely.

Martin follows Gerry into an interview room, also looking back at Jon with some mix of confusion, anxiety, and--enjoyment, maybe? Jon’s shit at reading people without the Eye’s help. Always has been.

Either way, Martin’s doing an excellent job and definitely deserves Jon saving his life. Not--not that that’s a thing that can be deserved, everyone deserves to live, and--well, Jon doesn’t like to think about the people he’s let die through inaction, or the people--it doesn’t matter. He’s going to help Martin, is the point. He sticks to his word. He has to be worth something .

He heads upstairs to Bouchard’s office, bracing for Salesa’s inevitable, overly large and familiar clap on the back, and for the odd, uncanny feeling of the Eye staring into him. He hates Bouchard, or maybe he hates the way Bouchard uses the Eye. They’re priests of the same god, they just seem to interpret It very differently.

Salesa always seems to find it very entertaining to pit them against each other in awkward, hostile conversation, and for some reason Bouchard seems interested in it too, so Jon doesn’t really have a choice. He takes deep breaths and tells himself that yet again, somehow, he’s not going to snap and drink straight from whatever bottle of pretentious, awful, perfume-tasting wine Bouchard pulls out this time. 

He searches for excuses to duck out early, and all he can land on is ‘I had plans with my boyfriend’, which isn’t technically a complete lie, so he thinks maybe Bouchard won’t pick up on it. It’s worth a try. He really could use a cigarette.

He sighs and knocks on Bouchard’s door.

Chapter Text

Salesa welcomes Jon in with the expected extremely hard pat on the back, and Jon barely manages to retain his footing, attempting a smile and ending up with a grimace.

Bouchard points Jon to a chair, and Jon nods in what he hopes looks like gratitude and sits down. Salesa follows suit, leaning back, crossing his legs, and beaming. 

“So-- where did you find this?” Bouchard asks, gesturing to their latest acquisition, which is, inadvisably, on his desk. It’s an old phonograph. Jon doesn’t know which entity it belongs to, and he has a desperate desire to never find out.

“Why ask questions you know the answer to?” Jon asks, somewhat politely, with a tight smile. Salesa shoots him a look that says don’t embarrass me, Jonathan , but amicably, somehow. 

“As I’m sure you know, sometimes it’s more interesting to hear a story than just inhale it,” Bouchard says, with a smile.

“It’s not much of a story,” Jon says, waving a hand. “Besides, I think Mikaele’s a much better speaker than me.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Bouchard says, still smiling. “Nonetheless, I’d like to hear about it. Would you like a drink?”

“Please,” Salesa says, gratefully accepting--oh, god, Bouchard’s gone for scotch tonight. Jon knows there’s no way in hell he can down that without making a truly embarrassing face, but he swallows his sigh and takes the rather generously-poured glass Bouchard hands him without even waiting for his answer.

“As I said, it’s really not much of a story,” Jon says. “We were in Prague, looking for a particular Leitner--”

“A Dark one!” Salesa says, cheerily. “Exceedingly rare, as I’m sure you know.” He winks at Bouchard, who seems to gently flush. “We didn’t find it as of yet, I may’ve had bad information, and, well, it’s hard to... see the Dark, I’m told.” 

“But I heard--horrible, ghostly, wrong music. Couldn’t get it out of my head, and I followed it to--to a retirement home, actually, where this thing was living, in a wing for dementia patients,” Jon says. “They didn’t notice its absence.”

“He’s leaving out the part where he pretended to be one of their grandchildren and spoke perfect Czech!” Salesa says, beaming. “Jonathan is, as always, my most valuable associate.”

“Does it play?” Bouchard asks, reaching for it, and Jon freezes.

“It shouldn’t ,” he says, rigidly, and Bouchard laughs.

“You and Mr. Keay down in the Archives have a lot in common, it seems,” he says, which makes Jon absolutely bristle with anger, as he’s sure Bouchard knew it would. He reaches to turn the phonograph on, and Jon slams back his scotch, wincing hard at the taste. Salesa refills it, for him, giving him a sly wink. 

“I’m not in the mood for whatever this is,” Jon says, standing up, and Salesa subtly pulls the back of his jacket, and he sits, sighing heavily. “I’m busy, tonight, actually, and--I appreciate the invitation and all, but I don’t have an interest in getting devoured by the Spiral, or whatever this is.”

“You think it’s the Spiral?” Bouchard asks, cocking his head. “I really can’t tell. I think it’s been touched by several. Traces of the Lonely, I think, as well--maybe the Stranger?”

He says it like he’s pretentiously describing a vintage wine. Jon despises him. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to stick around and listen, thank you.”

“Frankly, I’d prefer not to either,” Salesa says. “I make it a point never to, uh--get high on my own supply? Except quite the opposite of that, I think.”

“And I have plans,” Jon says.

“But you like the taste of fear, don’t you?” Bouchard asks, staring through Jon. Salesa raises his eyebrows. Jon’s proclivities aren’t really something that’s ever come up with him. “Certainly more than the scotch.”

“I have no connection to the Eye in your--cathedral, here, so I’ll stick to the scotch, I think,” Jon says, tightly. “Congratulations on your new acquisition.” He slams the second glass of scotch back before he consciously remembers that Salesa’s an extremely strong pourer, and he tries not to choke on it.

“Your boyfriend--is he the one downstairs?” Bouchard asks.

“...yes,” Jon says, through an absolutely shredded throat, trying not to immediately vomit the absolutely disgusting liquor.

“He’s talking to our Gerard about the horrors of dating you,” Bouchard says, smirking. “You might want to go.”

“Dear god,” Jon says, involuntarily.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” Salesa says, looking genuinely hurt that Jon didn’t confide in him.

Jon sighs. “Well, not for much longer, if I leave him with Gerry. Excuse me.”

“Didn’t he apply for a job here?” Bouchard asks.

“Uh--yes.”

“Ah. I’ll have to consider him more seriously,” Bouchard says, eyes dancing. “I didn’t know he was affiliated with you.”

“Thank you for the scotch and the...hospitality,” Jon says, setting the glass down and leaving as quickly as he can, shuddering off the awkwardness and strangeness of the interaction. He really would prefer not to ever interact with Bouchard again. Maybe he’ll have to bring it up with Salesa.

He makes it down to the Archives as quickly as he can, which isn’t very fast, between the bad leg and the unintentionally more-than-healthy amount of hard alcohol those stiff middle-aged bastards forced on him sinking into his bloodstream. Gerry and Martin are still in the interview room, talking animatedly, and Jon catches “--long were you together?” from Martin, and “The first time? About six months. The second--” from Gerry before Jon knocks on the door.

Gerry opens it. “You’re not supposed to interrupt statements,” he says, beaming toothily and joylessly at Jon.

“That wasn’t a statement.”

“Oh, no, Martin’s was finished, I was giving one.”

“About me.”

“About you,” Gerry says, and some genuine delight sinks into the smile. “How’s Bouchard? You smell like his worst whiskey.”

“Glad it doesn’t get any worse than that, at least,” Jon says, sighing. “Can I have my boyfriend back?”

“I don’t know, mate, he might not want you, after--”

“Hey, babe,” Martin says, cheerily, squeezing by Gerry and giving Jon a definitely-not-agreed-upon kiss on the cheek. “Giving a statement was both surprisingly freeing and oddly traumatic and I don’t think I was adequately warned.”

“Well…” Jon says, shrugging, not really finding an end to that thought. 

“Turns out my gran’s haunted doll really was haunted, I think!” Martin says, still keeping up the relentless, pointedly bitchy cheer. Jon sort of admires him, really. “I’m starting to believe if she’d kept dressing me in its clothes we might’ve swapped places, which is pretty terrifying, actually, and I could’ve lived without that thought forever.”

“Classic Stranger,” Gerry says, closing their eyes and nodding. “The fucker. Don’t think it’ll be much help, but I might as well add it to Gertrude’s red-string conspiracy board.”

“I have absolutely no clue what you’re talking about,” Martin says, shrugging.

“That’s fine,” Jon says. “How’s Gertrude’s crusade going?”

“Oh, you know, none of your fucking business,” Gerry says. “The world hasn’t ended yet, has it?”

“Good luck keeping it that way,” Jon says.

“Sorry, what?” Martin asks, blinking quickly. 

“Nothing,” Jon and Gerry say in unison.

“It’s an old inside joke,” Gerry says, waving her hand dismissively and winking. 

“I--okay,” Martin says, voice getting small. “Well, uh! Should we head out, then, babe?”

“Sure,” Jon says, still taken aback by the extent to which Martin’s gotten into character. 

“Great,” Martin says, smiling at him. “Nice to meet you, Gerry.”

Gerry blinks in surprise. “It’s never nice to meet me.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Martin says, cheerily. Jon gives Gerry a small, sarcastic salute, and slides his arm under Martin’s, partially using him for support as they head back out into the evening.

“Thank you for that,” Jon says, detaching, and Martin looks at him with raised eyebrows.

“I think you have a lot to explain,” Martin says. “I have no fucking clue what’s going on, but I’m at least convinced I’m in danger, so. Cool. Thanks for saving me? I guess?”

“If I explain, you’ll be in it ,” Jon says. “I’d rather spare you. That was the point of ‘saving’ you.”

“Yes, well, see, if something’s after me, I’m already in it,” Martin says, patiently, like he’s explaining it to a child. “So I appreciate your stupidly masculine protective instinct, but I’m an adult, and I can handle it.”

“Fine,” Jon says, running a hand over his slightly numb and tingly face. He doesn’t drink much, and Bouchard and Salesa’s heavy-handedness really is catching up with him. Martin caught him at a good time if he wanted to get information out of him. “We should do this indoors, though. How far’s your flat?”

“Half an hour between the Tube and the walk,” Martin says, and Jon sighs heavily.

“Alright.”

“We can do small talk in the meantime,” Martin says, cheerily. “Since we’re boyfriends now.”

“Yes, ha ha,” Jon says.

“If I get the job at the Institute, I’m probably going to get asked about you, so I think we’re going to have to keep up appearances,” Martin says.

“Or we could say we broke up,” Jon says, flatly. “That’s an option.”

“Hmm, nah,” Martin says. “This was your idea. Do you really want to give Gerry the satisfaction of thinking they ruined our relationship?”

“...no. I really don’t.”

“Ex actly .”

“You’re diabolical,” Jon says, with a degree of admiration.

“I’m efficient,” Martin says, beaming at him. “I’m also a decent cook and I make great tea, so, you know--all the qualities you’d need in a fake boyfriend. What about you , Jon, what do you bring to the table?”

“Omniscience,” Jon says, yawning.

“...sure. Well, we’ll see!”

Chapter Text

Martin’s flat is--well, it’s what Jon expected, because he had a little look in with the Eye. That’s part of the reason he doesn’t drink: it completely erodes his sense of boundaries, and he skims through people’s minds like he’s alone in their rooms with their diaries and no threat of consequence. 

The point. Right. The point is that Martin’s flat is spare and small and dim and not at all the bright, cozy sort of place Jon expected from looking at him. Not that Jon can judge--his place is the same. When you can choose to see just about anything in the world, your surroundings don’t matter much. Martin doesn’t have any such excuse.

He sits on Martin’s couch, and Martin sets himself to making tea. “So! We’re indoors now, time to explain,” he says.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea for you to know,” Jon says, sighing. 

“Jon,” Martin says, so firmly and irritatedly that Jon feels like he’s known him for years, and Martin’s just an old friend getting frustrated with him. “Is whatever was after me still after me?”

Jon blinks through the surface of reality. There’s a wall of fog outside the door, tendrils slipping in under it. “Yes, very much so.”

“Right. Then, as I said , I should know what’s going on,” Martin says, matter-of-factly. “D’you want something to drink? I’m making tea, you’re welcome to some. Or wine? I could use wine after the evening we’ve had, though it really doesn’t agree with me. I honestly don’t know why I buy it, but. Well.”

The correct answer to that is ‘Tea would be great, thank you, I don’t need anything more to drink’ which is true , because Jon is still a horrendous lightweight, but he also has this compulsion to push everything to its limits, just to know what’ll happen. He hates the Eye a lot sometimes. 

“If you’re having wine, I wouldn’t mind joining,” he hears himself say, and curses himself and his shithead god internally. 

“Alright!” Martin says, brightly, taking the kettle off the stove and reaching up in a cupboard. He sets plastic wineglasses in front of Jon with an apologetic look. “I’m not particularly classy, I’m sorry—financial limitations of a grad student and all.”

“Why do you keep doubling down on that lie?” Jon asks, as Martin heads back and grabs a bottle of cheap white wine out of the fridge. 

“Why do you keep insisting it’s a lie?” Martin asks, raising his chin defiantly as he falls into the couch next to Jon. 

“Because I know it is,” Jon says, tiredly, unscrewing the cap of the bottle of wine and pouring himself a glass, not offering it to Martin, who watches him with a raised eyebrow. 

“You know it,” Martin says, flatly, taking the bottle and pouring himself almost a completely full glass. 

Jon doesn’t care about looking classy, so he slams the glass back and makes a face. “I know a lot of things,” he says. 

“And how’s that? Are you the second coming of Sherlock Holmes?” Martin asks, snorting.

“No, though Sherlock Holmes would certainly be an avatar of the Eye,” Jon says, before he can think through what he’s saying. 

“See, what the fuck does that mean?” Martin asks. “Because it sounds like—like a cult or something.”

“Yes, it’s a cult, don’t join the Institute,” Jon says, drily, reaching for the bottle and pouring himself another glass. He should stop. He really should. 

“What’s your issue with the Institute?” Martin asks. “Is it just because of Gerry?”

“No,” Jon says, and at least he manages to keep it at that. 

“That’s all you’ve got? You’re trying to convince me not to take a potential job without any reasons?”

“Do you want to know about what’s after you or do you want to know about the Institute?” Jon snaps. 

“Yes,” Martin says. “Why is that either/or? I feel like I deserve to know, considering.”

“It would’ve been a lot less trouble to just let you get eaten,” Jon says, bluntly, because he’s maybe a little farther over the edge to drunk than he’d like to admit. “Would’ve felt better, too.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry helping innocent people is such a hardship for you,” Martin says, voice tight with passive-aggressive anger. “Feel free to leave, then. Let me die, after I did you a favor. Good to know what kind of person you really are.” He makes a disgusted, annoyed sound, and chugs from his huge glass of wine, sliding the bottle out of Jon’s reach, a clear indication that the rest is his , which is probably better anyway.

Jon sighs. “You know I’m not going to do that.”

“Do I?” Martin asks. “You’re a complete stranger, despite the fact that you seem to think you know everything about me.”

“I don’t,” Jon says, sipping the remainder of his wine. “I could , but I don’t.”

“Good for you,” Martin says, voice dripping with icy sarcasm. “What does that even mean ?”

“It means if I put the least bit of effort in I could tell you why your father abandoned you, or why your mother hates to look at you, or--” Jon starts, and Martin chugs the rest of his glass, slamming it down on the table.

“Right, I don’t know what the fuck you are or what on earth is wrong with you, but get out of my flat,” Martin says, now completely cold and detached, pointing towards the door.

“But you’ll--”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“No, I--” Jon starts, and Martin shakes his head, face set.

“What are you?” Martin asks.

“I don’t want you to disappear,” Jon blurts, then scrabbles for a reasonable follow-up. “I--because I--well, Gerry seemed--”

“I changed my mind. We can break up.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says. “Really, I--I am. I shouldn’t--I shouldn’t have said anything about your parents. I’m just drunk, and...and it’s been a long week--well, a long few years, actually, and I--I’m sorry. Give me a chance. I can explain everything.”

“You’re this desperate for a fake boyfriend?” Martin asks, flatly, raising an eyebrow. He drinks straight from the bottle of wine, not breaking eye contact.

“Something like that,” Jon says, laughing breathlessly.

“Fine. Apology begrudgingly accepted, don’t do it again,” Martin says. “And I get to ask you anything, and you answer, yeah?”

“Within reason,” Jon says.

“You get two vetos. Use them wisely.”

“If I don’t agree to your terms?” Jon asks.

“Then you can leave,” Martin says, with an obviously fake smile.

“So you’d risk your own life--”

“Try me.”

“I don’t understand you,” Jon says, with a hint of wonder in his tone. It’s nice to have something be sort of unknowable again. Now that he sees everything, old mysteries from his life have lost their sheen--Gerry broke up with him brutally the first time because they wanted him to stay away for his own safety, for one--but Martin’s...different. He hopes it’s not because of the Entities. He’d like something in his life to have nothing to do with them, for once.

“Good,” Martin says, a hint of something genuine flickering in his false, bitchy smile. “Right. Let’s get started, then, shall we?”

“Fire away.”

“What’s after me?” Martin asks.

“That’s not quite so simple,” Jon says, sighing. “In short, The Lonely.”

“You said that before, that doesn’t tell me anything. What is that.”

“A formless god that causes and feeds on fear,” Jon says. “There’s fourteen. Well, there’s rumors of a fifteenth, but--doesn’t matter.”

“Huh,” Martin says, and Jon blinks.

“Huh?” he repeats, surprised at the nonchalance of the reaction.

“You’d expect it to be thirteen,” Martin says. “Y’know. The scary number .”

Jon can’t help but snort. “Yes, I--I suppose you would.”

“So…the one that’s after me is loneliness, then,” Martin says. “Well. That’s not unexpected, I guess.” He clears his throat, shakes his head, and drinks deep. “So what do you do, then? Are you some superhero fighting them off and rescuing people?”

Jon means to laugh, but ends up sounding like he got punched hard in the gut. “No,” he says, shaking it off. “No, I’m not. I--I used to be. I wanted to be.”

“What do you mean? What changed?” Martin asks.

“Nothing. Veto.”

“Fine,” Martin says, putting his hands up and nodding. “Deal’s a deal. Right, then, just--tell me more about the...the gods .”

“Entities, they’re called Entities--people call them that, at least. I mean, it’s not as if they can communicate anything directly in any way we can manage to understand. They just--manifest, and in odd, fascinating ways, too, they’re--” Jon says, taking a sharp breath and shaking his head.

“You admire them,” Martin says, tone inscrutable. “Do you work for them, then?”

“Veto,” Jon says. “Not because the answer is yes, but because it would take too long to explain.”

“Fine. You’re out of vetos. What’s wrong with the Institute?”

“They collect victims’ experiences with the Entities, which feeds one of them,” Jon says. “The Eye.”

“What’s so special about the Eye?” Martin asks, a mocking edge to his tone.

“It’s sort of--it’s like the rest of the Entities’ boss,” Jon says. “Everything the rest of them do makes it grow stronger. It oversees them and benefits from their successes.”

“...sure.”

“The Institute is a shrine to the Eye. They offer It fear, and It provides them power in return. Could you in good conscience be part of that?” Jon asks. 

“I really need a job, is the thing, and it seems like if anyone could keep the god that wants to consume me off my back it would be the--fucking--temple to a rival god,” Martin says. “Look, they haven’t even called me for an interview yet, and it’ll just go how every other--”

“They’ll hire you,” Jon says, sighing. “Precisely for the reason you just said. You’re desperate and isolated, you’re perfect for them.”

“And you’re not?” Martin asks, cocking his head.

“I’m not desperate,” Jon says. 

“Why did Gerry join?” Martin asks. “Was he there when you two were together?”

“Not the first time, no,” Jon says. “And it’s none of your business why.”

“Fair enough,” Martin says. “Um. D’you--are you hungry? I did say I’d make you dinner.”

“And then I was horrible to you,” Jon says.

“Still, I’m a man of my word,” Martin says, with a half-smile. “I do have another question, though, first.”

“Alright.”

“Will the Lonely--will it get me if I’m alone in a room? Like if I sleep alone?” 

“Are you afraid to sleep alone?” Jon asks.

“Can’t be afraid of something if you’ve done it your whole life,” Martin says, with a single nervous burst of laughter. 

“Then you should be fine,” Jon says, shrugging.

“Sorry, should be?” Martin asks. “You think should be is good enough for me? I’m doing a lot for you, the least you could do is not let me die.”

“For the last time, it wouldn’t kill you.”

“ Ugh .”

“Yes, alright, fine, I’ll sleep in the same room as you,” Jon says, rolling his eyes. 

“I appreciate it,” Martin says. “Right! Let me--uh--dinner.”

“Can I help?” Jon asks.

“You seem a bit like you might not be in the best state for handling hot things or knives,” Martin says. “I appreciate the offer, though. You don’t seem like you cook much.”

“I know every recipe in the world, actually,” Jon says, scratching his eyebrow. He’s surprised at himself for saying it. Just can’t help himself sometimes. “Seriously. Even something your gran made you when you were six, I could help you exactly replicate it.”

“Well, thankfully, there was never enough love in my family for there to be meals worth remembering,” Martin says, brightly, though he does genuinely look pained. “So I don’t have to know how terrifying that weird assertion really was.”

“Alright,” Jon says, putting his hands up. “Your loss.”

“Somehow, I really don’t think so,” Martin says, patting Jon on the shoulder and standing up, taking the bottle with him.

Chapter Text

The whole situation with Jon’s new boyfriend really--Jon would say irks , but fuck Jon, it really pisses Gerry off. It’s absolute bullshit, him thinking he needs to drag someone down in the Archives just to say ‘look how much I don’t need you, I can date a nice guy ’. It’s gloating, or--or something.

Whatever it is floods Gerry with an abundance of reckless energy he doesn’t quite have an outlet for, and the Hunt starts digging teeth into his heart and pulling, panging for him to chase something down and break it. They can’t focus on the statement Gertrude set them to follow up on, even though it’s supposed to be an important one, Gerard with potential leads on the Unknowing . They just drum their fingers on the desk, bounce their leg, think about nothing other than getting fucked up enough to drown this out or--or doing the thing Bouchard’s written them up for multiple times.

Write-ups are bullshit at the Magnus Institute, though, and they both know it, so it’s not as if that dissuades Gerry much. Artifact Storage’s probably cleared out by this time of night, it wouldn’t be hard to slip in, grab some cursed shit, and slip right back out before anyone notices. Gertrude’s still in her office, but after years, she’s pretty much resigned to Gerry coming and going however and whenever they want.

They get up, slam the lid of their computer, slide it into their bag, and start to head out, the blood in their body pulsing faster and hotter in anticipation. He hasn’t indulged his patron shithead in a long time, and It’s excited . He’s about to leave when he notices--someone else is still here , for some fucking reason. The new assistant. Some boring name...Tom or something? Just like Gertrude to hire an insufferable workaholic.

Gerry moves to avoid having to speak to him. Doesn’t quite work.

“Hey,” Tom (?) says, looking up from his computer. “You’re, uh--you’re Gerard, right?”

“Gerry,” Gerry says, sighing. “Yeah. You’re…”

“Tim,” Tim says, with what looks like it was once a practiced and charming smile, fallen into ruin. Is he hot? He might be hot. The lighting in the Archive isn’t good enough to tell. “I had a question for you.”

“Fire away, I guess,” Gerry says, squinting in frustration. “I sort of have somewhere to--”

“Yeah, I’ll keep it short,” Tim says, with a hint of annoyance. “Listen, Gertrude said--well, I asked about this when I got the job, and she said she gives you the follow-ups on--this is gonna sound weird.”

“Thought we were keeping it short?”

“You’re quite fucking warm and cuddly, huh?” Tim asks. “Clowns. Gertrude said you’re the clown guy.”

“Clown person , and...yeah, you’re right, that does sound weird,” Gerry says, raising an eyebrow. This is at least more interesting than he expected. “... why ?”

“I--” Tim sighs. “It doesn’t matter. Just...could you let me read a few?”

“Are you some kind of fetishist?” Gerry asks, smirking with some kind of sadistic delight at putting another person in this awkward of a position.

“The opposite,” Tim says, then looks confused at himself. “I don’t actually know how you can be the opposite of a fetishist, but if it’s possible, that’s what I am.”

Gerry snorts. “Alright, fair enough. So...what, then.”

“I’m, uh,” Tim says, blinking as he obviously searches for an excuse, “I’m doing research for a book I’m writing. Clown horror. Like, uh. Like It , but preferably without the fucking bizarre child orgy.”

“Clown horror,” Gerry repeats, still smirking.

Tim sighs. “Can you just go with that? It’s the best I can do.”

“Sure,” Gerry says, laughing and shaking their head. “Yeah, alright. I’ll let you read some old statements.”

“Brilliant, thank you."

“It’s definitely a sex thing.”

“It’s definitely not,” Tim says, smiling at his desk. “If I were attracted to clowns, I’d desperately want to fuck you, wouldn’t I?”

Gerry laughs at that, head tilted back. “Who said you don’t?”

“Watch it, or we’ll both have to have a very awkward sexual harassment conversation with Gertrude,” Tim says, trying to repress a smile, chin quivering.

Gerry snorts. “Fuck, can you imagine?”

“I really can’t, and that honestly makes it more tempting.”

Gerry’s impulse control is near-completely faded out, and they sort of can’t stop themself from blurting “D’you wanna go steal something from Artifact Storage with me?”

Tim blinks in surprise, eyebrows up. “Um.” He cocks his head, clearly searching for a semi-diplomatic answer. “No?”

“Coward,”  Gerry says, clicking their tongue.

“Yeah, sure,” Tim says. “I’m just not a big fan of getting fired, is the thing. I sort of need this job.”

Gerry laughs at that. Can’t help themself. Cute that this guy still thinks he can get fired. “What sort of dire straits do you have to be in to desperately need this job?”

“None of your business, actually,” Tim says. “Wh-- why are you stealing from Artifact Storage?”

“I like burning cursed shit,” Gerry says, pulling a cigarette out of the pack in their chest pocket with their teeth and lighting it.

“Alright, I respect that,” Tim says, half-smiling. “Godspeed, then.”

“You sure you don’t wanna come? Nothing more satisfying than a good burn.”

“Still sticking with ‘no’, based on the whole, y’know, job security thing, but I admire your persistence,” Tim says, fully smiling now, and it’s genuinely charming, in a wholesome, warm sort of way. “Hey, what was with that guy who came in a bit ago? Weird energy.”

Gerry snorts. “You’re telling me.”

“The boyfriend seemed fine, but…” Tim makes a noise. “I guess it’s the Magnus Institute, you’re bound to get oddities.”

“How drastically would your fledgling opinion of me drop if I told you he was my first long-term boyfriend?” Gerry asks, smirking, and Tim laughs. 

“Seriously?”

“Yep,” Gerry says.

“I mean, he’s hot, nice work,” Tim says. “Seriously, though, what’s his deal?”

“He works for the guy who sells us most of our artifacts,” Gerry says, shrugging. “He’s in here a lot.”

“So is the burning artifacts just...to spite him?” Tim asks.

“Nah, he doesn’t know I do it,” Gerry says. “It’s more for me. I like taking evil out of the world.”

“You believe in all this shit, then?”

“Don’t act like you don’t,” Gerry says. “Everyone in the Institute believes, at least a little. Why else would you work here?”

“Fair,” Tim says. “What made you believe?”

“Bit personal, that.” Gerry smirks. “Besides, no one ever believes me when I tell them.”

“I might.”

“I was raised to believe,” Gerry says. “Specifics don’t really matter.”

“Alright,” Tim says, putting his hands up.

“What about you?” Gerry asks, a hint of mockery in his tone. “If we’re bonding.”

“Thought you had somewhere to be,” Tim says. “Artifacts to burn and such.”

“Fine, be like that,” Gerry says, smirking. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see ya,” Tim says. “Good luck, I guess?”

“Thanks.” Gerry gives Tim a wicked grin. “I have it out for that calliope.”

“Sorry, the--the what? There’s a cursed calliope here?”

“I’d say ‘you’ll see’, but I guess you won’t.”

“How the fuck are you going to steal an entire calliope from the building without anyone noticing?” Tim asks.

“Come with me and find out,” Gerry says, and Tim cocks his head, nodding in consideration.

“As compelling as that is…”

“Christ, Gertrude hires such squares.” Gerry rolls his eyes. “Get a drink with me after work tomorrow and I’ll tell you how I end up doing it.”

Tim smiles, looking down at his desk. “Maybe,” he says.

“Maybe?”

“I, uh…” Tim shrugs. “Sure. Yeah. Sure. I don’t drink, though.”

“Your loss,” Gerry says, shrugging.

Tim exhales a startled laugh. “You know, it really is.”

“Right, well, have fun working late, I guess,” Gerry says. 

“Thanks,” Tim says. “You get that calliope.”

“Believe me, I will.”

Chapter Text

As it turns out, Gerry maybe didn’t think through the calliope thing. She lights another cigarette and stands just inside the entrance to Artifact Storage, staring at it, head cocked, considering. They’re pretty sure they exude enough fuck you don’t question me energy to just...wheel it out without question, but then what? Burn it in the street? Not like she can take it on the Tube.

“Fuckit,” they mutter, taking a long drag and squeezing themself into one of the long, narrow aisles of artifacts. Ever since Jon started working for Salesa, the Institute’s been accumulating them at a record rate. He shoves a small wooden jewelry box, a pack of cards, and what looks like a Leitner into his bag and slips back out, leaving the Institute and shoving into the night.

Their heart hammers against their chest, that addicted ache--they really haven’t indulged the Hunt in a while, and they can only drown It out with cheap substitutes for so long. This is honestly cheating. It’s like being an alcoholic bartender, access is so fucking easy that it doesn’t have the same sort of thrill. It’s been a long time since they hunted a Leitner out in the wild like they used to. 

Honestly, they’ve never been sure why the Hunt got anything out of that, or why It gets anything out of this. That would be a question for Gertrude, if they ever felt like admitting they’re two-timing the Eye to Gertrude. Besides, they have a nagging suspicion the Hunt might be settling for a fear not quite the one It rules--fear of Gerry losing themself to pursuing the Entities so hard they forget how to care about other people and end up as the second coming of Mary Keay.

But that’s a lot of projection. Gerry isn’t even sure what an Entity does if It decides It chose the wrong person. When he gets home, back to his tiny, dark flat--doesn’t spend much time there, doesn’t make much of a difference--he rips a page out of the book he stole from the Institute, rolls one of his ceremonial and utterly shitty Leitner-joints with it, and smokes it as he blindly gropes under his bed for--

“Hey, dad,” he says, idly, pulling the still alarmingly-textured skin page out from under his bed. He sits up and reads it out loud, still trying his very best to not register any of the horror of his dad’s death, and--

“Gerry!” Eric says, smiling at him.

“Hey,” Gerry says, trying to smile back. “Wh--”

“Don’t you dare ask what’s up, Gerard,” Eric says, and Gerry can’t help but snort. “How are you? What do you need?”

“Nothing,” Gerry says, scratching her eyebrow. “Just wanted to talk to you.”

Eric sighs, smile turning sort of sad. “Look. Gerry. I love you, but if--”

Gerry knows how that sentence ends, and doesn’t want to hear it. Doesn’t want to be reminded of how--how being selfish and wanting to have a father--she really is Mary, isn’t she. “Uh, Jon’s got a new boyfriend,” she says, and Eric pauses, raising his eyebrows.

“ Really ?” he asks.

“Yeah, I know,” Gerry says. “Nice guy, too, maybe?”

“Huh,” Eric says. “How d’you…"

“Don’t know.” Gerry shrugs. “Not like I have a right to care.”

“You have a right to care, you just don’t have a right to do anything about it,” Eric says, shrugging back.

“Yeah, fair,” Gerry says. “I may’ve met someone anyway.”

“Really.”

“Yeah,” Gerry says. “ Maybe . A new archival assistant.”

“Red flag,” Eric says. “Definitely don’t do that.”

Gerry laughs. “Why?” She takes a long hit, which makes Eric look a bit wistful.

“Uh.” He snaps himself out of it. “Because they’re all sad and desperate? Just look at you and me. Plus, Gertrude finds us deeply disposable. Not good to get too attached.”

“Sorry, are you trying to give me advice about getting attached to the wrong people?”

“I’d know, wouldn’t I?” Eric asks, shaking his head and sighing. “I know it’s been years, but it’s still hard to believe someone finally took her out.”

“You can’t honestly miss her,” Gerry says.

“Honestly, I do, a bit,” Eric says. “Obviously she was a fucking monster. But really, I mean, in the end, all I resented her for was taking me away from you.”

“Which is ridiculous,” Gerry says. 

“Maybe.” Eric sighs. “How is Gertrude?”

“Cold, driven, excellent at destroying shit,” Gerry says, taking a hit. “So same as always.”

“You really like her, don’t you,” Eric says, with a soft, faded smile, and Gerry shrugs, shoulder brushing his ear.

“Yeah. She’s the most efficient person I’ve met,” Gerry says. 

“And she’s got you convinced you’re saving the world.”

“We are,” Gerry says.

“Just--look, Gerry--you know she doesn’t care about you, right?” Eric asks, a bit sadly, and Gerry instinctively bristles a bit at that, stiffening defensively. 

Of course he knows it. Gertrude always reminds him of what Mary could’ve been, if she’d been closer to the right side of this cosmic war. But, for that reason, he’s always sort of convinced himself that he can make her care. That he’s worth it. That he deserves it, that Gertrude somehow owes him for Mary’s deficiencies.

“Yeah,” Gerry says, after a long moment. “Yeah, I know. Uh. I won’t...I won’t keep you. I know this hurts.”

“You could make it stop hurting.”

“I’m not ready,” Gerry says. “Not yet. Not—“

“It’s not me.”

“I know,” Gerry says. 

“I’m not going to beg you,” Eric says. "But you have to know this is--I mean, it’s something she --”

“You’re dismissed,” Gerry says, and Eric disappears. Gerry tilts her head back, slides the page back under the bed, and finishes the Leitner-joint with a ferocious abandon. It calms the self-loathing a little, and the sick anxious anticipation from the Hunt as well, which is good. Gerry never wants to be too desperate to please it.

It’s not quite enough, though, and he slams through his cupboards looking for something to drink. He only comes up with a cheap and long-forgotten bottle of wine, decides it’ll do, and uncorks it, chugging straight from the bottle as he shakes the stolen shit out of his backpack and into his ashy bathtub (he’s never actively cleaned it, he just sort of lets his showers do the grunt work).

He lights a match and drops it in, sitting on the edge of the tub and drinking, letting his vision blur a little as they stare at the flames. It’s not going to be a good night. They can tell this won’t be enough.

She sighs, waits for the artifacts to burn away until they’re unrecognizable, finishes a good three-quarters of the wine, and heads back to the Institute. Tim’s gone, which Gerry feels a brief pang of disappointment about, but the light in Gertrude’s office is still on.

They shouldn’t talk to her in this state. She’ll rip them apart. Maybe that’s what they want. They hesitate outside her office, and then, mercifully, their phone buzzes in their pocket. A text from Jon, of all people. Gerry dimly wonders how Jon has their number, and then remembers--the Eye. Right.

Hello, Gerard, it’s Jon Sims. Do you know how to ward off the Lonely in a more permanent way than just not being alone?

Gerry responds before she can think it through. why u still text like that. also if u want me back u could just ask.

I’m not asking for me, comes the response, and Gerry rolls their eyes.

idk yr a smart eyeboy youll get it , they send, then fall into their desk chair, leaning their elbows on their desk and pressing their face into their hands. It’s going to be a long night. They might as well work, or something, but they end up just falling asleep like that.

Chapter Text

Gerry startles out of unconsciousness to the simultaneously pleasant and semi-nauseating smell of coffee. There’s a mug in front of him, steaming gently, and he sort of groans at it, squinting around to see who did him this kindness.

There’s only one other person in, at present, and Gerry...doesn’t recognize him, not quite. He looks familiar, but--

“Good morning,” he says, cheerily, and--oh, that’s Tim. Why...why does…

“Why do you look different?” Gerry asks, squinting. Their voice comes out gravelly and a bit painful. 

“What?” Tim asks, with a gently startled laugh. “I’m pretty sure I don’t.”

“I do not appreciate being gaslit,” Gerry says, pointing vaguely in his direction. “Got enough of that from my mum to last me a lifetime.”

“Mate, you look rough ,” Tim says. “Maybe something from last night hasn’t quite worn off, yeah? I promise nothing about my appearance has changed.”

Gerry groans. “Well, thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome,” Tim says. “How was your calliope burning?”

“Fantastic, yeah,” Gerry says, rubbing her face. 

“Really,” Tim says, with a smirk. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah, dead sure,” Gerry says, taking a long sip of coffee. It burns the inside of their mouth badly, but they do their best not to react at all. 

“Because, uh, I took my first trip to Artifact Storage this morning,” Tim says, chin shaking as he tries to repress a smile. “And basically the first thing I saw was a calliope.”

“There were two,” Gerry says, yawning. 

Tim snorts. “Sure, mate. Look, you can just admit you couldn’t figure out how to steal an entire calliope, I won’t think less of you.”

“I could’ve if I’d tried hard enough,” Gerry says. “Just figured it wasn’t worth the effort.”

“And that’s completely fair,” Tim says. 

Gerry yawns harder, presses his hands hard into his face, and wills himself to stand. He manages, barely, and starts grabbing loose Stranger statements he’s pretty sure he’s finished with. He finds about five, and drops them unceremoniously onto Tim’s desk. “Get at it, clown fucker.”

Tim laughs, smiling up at Gerry. It’s faintly disarming, yet Gerry realizes they couldn’t exactly describe any of his facial features to anyone if they tried. They blink it off and shudder involuntarily. “Thanks,” Tim says.

“Yeah,” Gerry says. “No problem. You, uh, you still up for going out after work?”

“Are you ?” Tim asks. “You look like you’re about to drop dead--no offense.”

“I’ve had worse, believe me,” Gerry says, waving a hand. “This is nothing. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright,” Tim says, shrugging. “Your call.”

“Gerard,” Gertrude says, tightly, stepping her usual single foot out of her office. The sound of her voice, as always, makes Gerry’s back straighten. 

“Yes, ma’am?” he says, only half-joking. Gertrude is the only person who’s ever successfully managed to bring out his practically nonexistent respect for authority. 

“I need to speak to you,” she says, and Gerry nods. She disappears back into her office, and Gerry raps their knuckles on Tim’s desk, which hurts more than they expected. 

“Duty calls,” Gerry says. “Statements to research, people to discredit, monsters to kill.” They smile at Tim. All teeth, no warmth. “See you later.”

“Good luck?” Tim says, raising an eyebrow. 

“Thanks.”

Gertrude’s already wrapped up in something by the time Gerry lets himself into her office. She gives him a quick, piercing look, scoffs, then looks back at what she was reading, glasses low on her nose. “You look dismal.”

“I wish, just once, someone would compliment me,” Gerry sighs, sitting down across from her and putting their legs up on the single bare corner of her desk. It’s a show. She loves scaring him and he loves pretending like he’s not scared. 

“You’re not all that deserving at present,” Gertrude says, putting her paper down. “You’re slipping, Gerard. You’ve been unfocused. Playing into the Web’s hands, as well, I might add.”

“How so,” Gerry says, flatly. 

“You’re all impulse and habit,” she says. “Get a handle on that.”

“What did you want to talk to me about?” Gerry asks, rubbing her face and leaning forward, taking her legs off the desk. “Is it about the Stranger statement I took last night? Because that’s decades-old, and artifacts that far back are really more of a Salesa special, I think.”

“We already have the artifact in question, actually,” Gertrude says, tightly. “Follow-up without prodding isn’t your strong suit, is it?”

“Fine, then don’t leave me in suspense,” Gerry says, throwing their hands up. 

“It’s about our new hire,” Gertrude says. “Stoker.”

“What, Tim?” Gerry asks. 

“Mmm. Bouchard chose him, which always makes me nervous, but in this case I believe it may have been throwing us a bone,” Gertrude says. “He hides what brought him to the Institute well, but I suspect it may have some relation to the Unknowing.”

“That...would explain the clown-fucking.”

“The...the what ?” Gertrude asks, shaking her head. 

“Nothing,” Gerry says, waving a hand. “So take his statement, then.”

“I’m not going to pry it out of him by force,” Gertrude says, make a face like the thought is just kind of faintly distasteful. “Not yet, at least. I’d rather use a more precision instrument first.”

“Which would be…?”

“You,” Gertrude says, then pauses. “I realize that ‘precision instrument’ may have been the wrong phrase.”

Gerry snorts. “Probably.”

“See what he knows. What he experienced. I don’t know if it’ll mean much to us, but you seem to have an extracurricular interest in him anyway,” Gertrude says. 

“Fine,” Gerry sighs. “The things I do for you.”

“You made a deal, Gerard,” Gertrude says. “You could always quit.” She almost smiles at that, and Gerry half-smiles back.

“Not ‘til you do.” Gerry rubs their face, then remembers Jon’s question from last night. They could at least be a decent person and try and help him out. Be the bigger not-man and all that. “Hey, do you know any techniques for getting the Lonely off your back that don’t include scathing thinkpieces?”

Gertrude’s lips twist. “I’m still quite proud of us for that.”

“It was a crowning moment, for sure.”

“Is the Lonely after you?” Gertrude asks. 

“Not me, no,” Gerry says. “A friend of a friend.”

Gertrude blinks at him, and he feels the Eye regarding him. “Not a lie. Surprising.”

“I know my life seems empty, but I manage,” Gerry says. 

“Poorly.”

“D’you have an answer, or are you gonna continue insulting me?” Gerry asks, scratching their eyebrow. 

“It tends to lose interest once one stops being lonely long enough,” Gertrude says. “That’s about all I know.”

“Right, that’s what I thought, thanks,” Gerry says. “Alright. I’ll get on Tim.” They register what they just said, eyes widening. “Not like that. Well. Maybe a little like that.”

“I don’t need or want the sordid details, Gerard, thank you,” Gertrude says, drily, some degree of amusement in her eyes. 

“Anything else you require, God-Queen Robinson?” 

“Just do your job,” Gertrude says. “And feel free to continue to address me like that.”

Gerry laughs. “At your service, ma’am.”

They get up to leave, and as they reach out for the doorknob, Gertrude says “Oh, and Gerard?”

“Yeah?” he asks, not turning around.

“You have to let Eric go.”

“You have the rest of the book, he’s not your fucking problem,” Gerry says, hand tightening around the doorknob. 

“You can give him to me. I’ll do it for you.”

“No,” Gerry snaps. “I know this is impossible for the Eye’s little minions, but mind your own fucking business.” 

“Watch how you speak to me.”

“What, are you going to fire me?” Gerry asks, then scoffs, wrenching the door open and slamming it behind her. She storms back to her desk, sits down hard, lays her face down on the wood, and sort of scream-growls.

“Don’t say anything, but that’s about how Gertrude makes me feel too,” Tim says, a bit softly,  with a furtive hand over his mouth. 

Gerry can’t help but snort at that. “You have no idea, mate.”

Chapter Text

The second it hits five o’clock, Gerry leans on Tim’s desk and flicks his arm, blinking expectantly at him.

“Good lord,” Tim says, startling slightly. “You didn’t strike me as the frighteningly punctual type.”

“When it comes to getting out of the Archives?” Gerry asks, shaking her head and snorting.

“Fair enough,” Tim says, smiling, starting to shove stuff on his desk into his bag, including the statements Gerry left him. Gerry squints at that, but doesn’t comment. Not like they haven’t taken statements home before. “So where are we going?”

“Decent pub down the road?” Gerry says. “I don’t know, what are you up for.”

“If the food’s alright, I’ll take it,” Tim says. “I’m fucking starving.”

“Yeah, it’s good enough,” Gerry says. “I mean, I’ve only had it while pretty hammered, so take that with a couple salt rocks, I guess.”

Tim laughs. “I’ll trust your clouded judgment, then.”

“It’s usually better than most people give me credit for,” Gerry says. “I mean, I haven’t died yet, so it must be alright.”

“All ringing endorsements,” Tim says, getting up and sliding his bag over his shoulder. “Right, shall we?” He puts an arm out, and Gerry can’t help but smile incredulously at it.

“We shall…?” Gerry says, tentatively wrapping their arm around his. “This feels simultaneously wildly intimate and extremely distant.”

“I know ,” Tim says. “Very Regency romance.”

“You’re a Regency fiend, then?” Gerry asks, smirking. “You’d be the type.”

“Nah,” Tim says, shaking his head. “I had to read a few for my last job, though. Popular genre for young, lovelorn writers.”

“Your last job was…?” Gerry asks. They sort of naturally drop each other’s arms as they get into the elevator. Tim hits the button, Gerry leans on the wall. It’s the slowest elevator in the fucking world, cuz Entities forbid this place run with any degree of efficiency.

“Publishing,” Tim says. He tries to smile, but it quickly fades. He swallows hard. Gerry watches his Adam’s apple.

“Why the career change?” Gerry asks, a bit cautiously.

“Oh, you know,” Tim says, shrugging, like that’s an answer. “I mean, how did you end up here? How does anyone?”

“I made a deal with Gertrude,” Gerry says. “She did something for me and I sold my soul to the Institute to work with her.”

“...ah,” Tim says, eyebrows shooting up. “You...what did she…?”

“Like I tell everyone, that’s third date material,” Gerry says.

The elevator finally reaches the ground floor, and Gerry has to walk a bit faster than normal to keep up with Tim. Long-legged men are a fucking plague on humanity.

“So is this a date, then?” Tim asks, looking at him.

“I don’t know, is it?” Gerry asks, batting her eyes innocently up at Tim, who smirks and looks away.

“I don’t know,” Tim says. “See, if this is just friendly coworker drinks and dinner that happens to turn into something else, that’s one thing, y’know? Dating...that’s another. Not sure I’m ready for that.”

“So--so it can be a date, we just can’t call it a date because of your fragile psyche,” Gerry says.

“Exactly.”

“Got it,” Gerry says. “Why aren’t you ready?”

“That’s third date material,” Tim says, grinning at Gerry.

“Okay, fair,” Gerry says, putting their hands up. Tim opens the front door for them and waves his arm in a grand ‘after you’ motion. 

“Also, uh, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Tim says, quickly catching up. “What should I...uh. Call you. Pronouns and that.”

“Anything,” Gerry says. “I mean it. Just don’t call me late for dinner, am I right?”

“Alright,” Tim says, nodding. “Good to know.”

“Ignoring my stupid joke?”

“It wasn’t worth a response.”

“Rude!” Gerry says. They sort of just make vaguely mean, teasing smalltalk until they reach the pub. Tim orders a frankly disgusting amount of fries, telling Gerry that they’re his favorite food group, and Gerry orders four shots of vodka.

“You know I’m not helping you with those, right?” Tim asks.

“You were serious about not drinking?”

“Yeah, deadly,” Tim says. 

“That’s fine, I can handle ‘em,” Gerry says, shrugging. “I’m not helping with your fries, so.”

“Good,” Tim says. “I can definitely handle those.”

The shots come, and Gerry downs two and coughs, pressing his face into his sleeve. “Not my smoothest execution,” he chokes.

“I don’t judge,” Tim says, though his eyes are dancing in amusement. “Alright, well, now that we’re sitting, we might as well go over the basics.”

“The basics? Is this a job interview?”

“No, just, you know,” Tim says, shrugging. “Fuck, I don’t know, I used to be good at this. Uh. Where are you from?”

“Morden,” Gerry says. “Whole life. You?”

“Brixton,” Tim says.

“Oh, nice,” Gerry says, and Tim nods.

“Right, this sucks, I’m shit at this, I’m sorry,” Tim says, after a moment of silence, laughing airily into his hands. “I...don’t know what happened to me. I used to be what they call a charmer .”

“I don’t buy it,” Gerry says, shaking her head and smiling in what she hopes is a reassuring way. 

“You shouldn’t !” Tim says. “Augh, fuck ! I’ll be back in a moment.” He sighs and pushes away from the table, heading for the bathrooms. In his absence, Gerry takes a third shot, and their mind wanders, as it tends to, to Jon. They forgot to text him Gertrude’s unhelpful advice earlier, might as well do it now.

grandma gertrude says only way she knows to get the lonely to fuckoff is to just not be alone until it loses interest , they send.

Wonderful , comes Jon’s reply, and Gerry snorts. A waitress sets down the wildly large quantity of fries, and sort of smirks at Gerry.

“Expecting company?” she asks, and Gerry squints at her in confusion.

“What d’you mean? I’m just waiting for my friend to come back from the bathroom,” he says, and she raises an eyebrow.

“Friend?”

“You literally took his order,” Gerry says, and she blinks, vacantly, clearly trying to remember, brain skipping like a record. Gerry knows the look, and it doesn’t bode well.

“There was someone with you, yeah,” she says.

“I know.”

“I can’t…” she starts, then shakes her head and walks away. 

“Brilliant,” Gerry mutters to the fries in front of him, furtively shoving a few into his mouth.

Tim comes back from the bathroom and sits down, smiling at Gerry. “What’d I miss?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Gerry says. “Did your piss make you better at conversation?”

Tim laughs. “I guess you’ll have to be the judge,” he says. “I thought of a good question. Well, maybe. You’ll see.”

“Don’t leave me in suspense,” Gerry says, drily, contemplating whether to take the fourth shot before the other three catch up with her.

“What’s the best lie you’ve ever told?” Tim asks, then does jazz hands.

“That is a new one,” Gerry says, raising their eyebrows. “Alright, uh. I told someone I was in love with that I never wanted to see him again. That count?”

“If it was a lie, yeah,” Tim says, shrugging. 

“Huge,” Gerry says, scratching at his jawline and choking back the last shot. Tim raises an eyebrow at that.

“You, uh…” Tim starts, and Gerry shakes her head.

“I wouldn’t comment.”

“Noted,” Tim says. “Not gonna ask me?”

“Nah,” Gerry says. “Not the sort of thing I feel the need to know about someone. I’d rather be surprised by how good of a liar a person is. Or bad, I guess.”

“Alright,” Tim says, cocking his head and nodding. “Fine, then I’m back to boring chat, I guess. You close with your parents?”

It’s such an innocently-meant and nonchalant question that Gerry can’t help but snort hard at it, pressing his hand over his mouth as laughter overtakes him. “I--” he starts, then shakes his head, unable to stop himself.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Tim says, eyebrows to his hairline. “Good lord.”

Gerry takes a long, rattling breath. “Yeah. No. Uh. My parents are dead, so.”

“Oh,” Tim says, blinking in surprise. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Nah,” Gerry says, waving a hand. “It was a relief when my mum died and I barely knew my dad, so.” They shrug. “You?”

“Used to be close,” Tim says. “Not anymore. They, uh. They blame me for something, sort of, and so we don’t really...I can’t deal with them.”

“That sounds like a story.”

“Not one I feel the need to share,” Tim says, smiling tightly, then turning his full attention to his fries. 

“Why don’t you drink?” Gerry asks, flicking one of the empty shotglasses in what he’s sure is a wildly annoying manner. 

“Because it doesn’t fix anything,” Tim says. “Makes a lot of things a lot worse, actually. Why do you drink?”

“Because my brain’s a broken piece of shit,” Gerry says. 

“Can’t argue with that, I guess,” Tim says. “Don’t know you well enough. I hope to eventually, though.”

“Are you really gonna eat all of those?” Gerry asks, pointing at the fries.

“Why?”

“Because I really want to get the talking portion of this over and stick my tongue in your mouth,” Gerry says, bluntly, and Tim blinks a few times. 

“I’m gonna finish the fries first,” he says, somewhat slowly and deliberately, and Gerry sighs, biting their lip hard.

“ Really ?”

“Yep,” Tim says. “Sorry. See how you feel once I’m done.”

“You are…” Gerry says, and then the force of the alcohol sort of hits her, and she can’t quite find a word to finish the sentence.

“I sure am, buddy,” Tim says. “Nicely observed.”

“Calling a grown person ‘buddy’ should register as hatespeech,” Gerry mutters, and Tim snorts, tilting his head back.

“I do like you,” Tim says. “I really do.”

“Then--”

“Let me finish my fucking fries and we’ll see, Gerard,” Tim says, and Gerry closes their eyes and sighs.

“This is inhumane.”

“I know. Ungodly suffering.”

“ Yes .”

“Hang in there,” Tim says, and Gerry groans with operatic force for as long as they can manage. A good half of the pub turns to look at them, and Tim smiles and waves back at them all. “Nothing to see here!”

The people’s eyes seem to glaze over when they see Tim, and they return to what they were doing with effortless grace.

“What are you?” Gerry asks, the words slipping out before she can stop them.

“What?” Tim asks, a breathless, confused laugh escaping him. 

The Eye doesn’t give Gerry much in the way of useful abilities, which is fine, because Gerry learned to spot a lie from a pretty young age, and he’s pretty sure Tim isn’t lying. This is genuine confusion.

“Nothing,” Gerry says, slowly, scanning Tim’s handsome and unremarkable face. “I guess...nothing.”

“Alright, then.”

Chapter Text

It’s been a very, very long time since Jon’s been with another person for 24 hours straight. He’d expect it to be incredibly, overwhelmingly exhausting. Basic pleasantries and work necessities with Salesa is about all he can handle in the way of social interaction most of the time, so being stuck with Martin has been...well, it should be unpleasant, but Jon finds that he doesn’t quite hate it, actually?

Not that it’s completely relaxing and stress free, but it’s also not a completely draining nightmare. Jon sort of just sat in Martin’s flat and idly skimmed his books while he ‘applied for jobs’, as he told Jon--in reality, he was mostly endlessly scrolling through various social media and picking at writing poetry.  

They didn’t really discuss the night before. It had been...fun, maybe? Martin, fairly pissed, had attempted to make risotto. Jon told him about fifteen times that that was unnecessarily fancy, but Martin insisted , and said stubborn insistence only got worse the more he drank. 

He was...cute? He is cute? But especially with his cheeks flushed, stumbling over his words as he told Jon that you could make risotto with regular rice and what the fuck even is Arborio rice and he was a good cook fuck off . 

By the time he was finished cooking, neither of them was actually hungry, and Jon was pretty certain the finished product would’ve been inedible anyway. They’d just sat on the floor of the kitchen bitching about the world, and Jon had possibly almost felt happy. On the other hand, that might’ve been the alcohol. He doesn’t drink much. Maybe it’s better than he remembered it being, it’s always possible.

Jon had managed to convince Martin that he should sleep in his bed and not just on the kitchen floor, which took some doing. Martin had passed out quickly. Jon...well, he’s more or less beyond sleep, so he’d just sat there, eyes closed, looking into Martin’s dreams out of boredom and curiosity. 

The Lonely never entered the flat, and Jon thought maybe it was gone, but it’s still there this evening, lurking outside the door. Jon keeps a watch for it, checks every hour or so, hoping it’ll fuck off before he starts actually feeling any of the things for Martin he suspects he might.

“Gerry says the only way to get the Lonely to leave you alone is to stop being alone for long enough that it gives up,” Jon says, sighing and putting his phone away.

“Great,” Martin says, sighing. “So I’m stuck with you, then.”

“Unless you have someone else,” Jon says. “Also, ouch.”

“Jokes, I’m joking,” Martin says, looking up from his computer and half-smiling at Jon. “I don’t mind you that much.”

“I could just leave.”

“You wouldn’t,” Martin says.

“If that’s a dare…?”

“It’s not, please don’t,” Martin says. “Can’t believe that yesterday I was blissfully--well, that’s a strong word. Can’t believe that yesterday I was just going about my life and today I’m being hunted by a dread god.”

“Life comes at you fast,” Jon says, drily, turning a page in the book he’s not really reading.

“How’d you get into all this?” Martin asks. “I’m assuming it wasn’t ‘weird stranger in a bathroom tells you you’ll die without company’.”

“No,” Jon says, laughing a bit darkly. “Well, there’s really two answers to that.”

Martin waits a moment for follow-up, which Jon doesn’t give. “So...are you going to tell me what they are, or do I just have to read your mind.”

“Bit personal, isn’t it?” Jon asks.

“Oh, come on . You apparently know all about my parents. I know approximately nothing about you, other than you’re ‘in antiques’ and have a spooky Goth ex.”

“I’m twenty-five,” Jon says, intentionally unhelpfully, and Martin closes his eyes and sighs through his nose.

“Cool, me too, but--”

“My favorite color is dark green,” Jon says, keeping up the willful obtuseness with a smug smirk. 

“Great,” Martin says. “Great, so we’re doing preschooler introductions?”

“That’s what I was going for, yes,” Jon says.

“Is your favorite animal a frustrating asshole?” Martin asks, and Jon laughs.

“I’m a fan of moths, so I suppose that depends how you feel about them,” he says.

“Who likes moths ?” Martin asks, looking genuinely bewildered.

“I appreciate their singular devotion,” Jon says. “Must be nice to have that level of commitment to something.”

“Huh,” Martin says. “Never thought of that. You’re not wrong, I suppose.”

“My parents are dead and I don’t have any siblings,” Jon says. “That enough basic info for you?”

“You still didn’t answer my actual question,” Martin says. “Sorry about your parents.”

“I’d rather have dead parents than horrid unfit ones,” Jon says, shrugging, and Martin sighs heavily, hardening again.

“Stop poking it,” he says. “My mum tried . Not that it’s any of your fucking business.”

“She--” Jon starts, a thread of knowledge poking itself into his mind, then sighs, cutting himself off. “Never mind.”

“Good,” Martin says. “How--I mean, how do you know , anyway?” 

Jon sighs. “I might as well be honest about that , I suppose, if we’re stuck together.”

“I’d appreciate some fucking honesty and clarity, yes.”

“I...belong to the Eye,” Jon says. “In a sense. I...serve it. Sort of--like a priest of a pagan god in ancient times, more than anything else. I feed it by--collecting knowledge and observing fear, and in exchange, it gives me tools to serve it better.”

“That sounds…” Jon waits for an end to Martin’s sentence, but it doesn’t come. He just shrugs, with a little headshake.

“I’m aware,” Jon says.

“So...so you read minds, then?” Martin asks. “Or x-ray vision? Or…”

“More the former,” Jon says. “But not even that. Not really. I just... know things.”

“How long have you…”

“Five years or so,” Jon says. “Only been able to control it in any capacity about four. The first year was...bad.”

“So--so did it just-- happen to you?” Martin asks, face squinching.

Jon sighs. “More or less. I--well, Gerry and I were sort of...poking at the Entities. I wanted to know about them, because of--because of something that happened to me a long time ago, and Gerry wanted to destroy them, and based on that we were...claimed. That’s my theory, at least. That’s something I’ll never be able to know for sure.”

“Why not?” Martin asks, making a face.

“The Eye isn’t all that keen on letting me know anything about It.”

“Convenient.”

“For whom ?” Jon asks, snorting.

“It,” Martin says. “Obviously.”

“Ah. Yes. Quite.”

“Gerry was your gateway drug, then?” Martin asks, with a level of obviously fake nonchalance.

“Sort of,” Jon says. “I had an encounter as a child. Gerry was my--how are you being so calm about all this?”

“About what?” Martin asks, batting his eyes innocently.

“About--about a literal fear god hunting you, and--and me telling you I can know anything, and--” Jon shakes his head, cutting himself off. “I...I spent twelve years of my life convincing myself that I was insane and that what I experienced wasn’t real, and even when I had something close to proof, some part of me still didn’t believe it. How--how do you do it?”

Martin shrugs. “I guess I’m willing to believe anything as long as it’s interesting enough.”

Jon helplessly searches for words, mouth opening and closing involuntarily. “I-- sure ?”

“Having something after me at least makes my life exciting,” Martin says. “Better than just sitting around watching YouTube videos and drowning myself in tea.”

“I guess ?”

“Were you happy with your life before all this?” Martin asks, raising his chin in what looks like a challenge. 

“I was a child. I don’t know.”

“No, but--before you really got into it,” Martin says. “The second time, I guess.”

“No,” Jon says. 

“Exactly.”

“Martin, this isn’t a lifestyle, it’s not--it’s not fun , it’s not--” Jon starts.

“No, but it’s something , and that’s a damn sight better than what I had a day ago,” Martin says, eyes burning, and Jon sighs, shrugging helplessly.

“Fine,” he says, shaking his head. “I won’t fight you.”

“Why not?” Martin asks, with a hint of a smile.

“I see myself in you, I guess?”

“Is that a promise?” Martin responds. Jon blinks in surprise, fumbling for words, and Martin immediately flushes bright red. “Oh, oh god, I’m so sorry, I don’t--it--it seemed like--like the cool thing to say--oh god .”

“I…” Jon says, still blinking.

“No, don’t--don’t say anything, I’m going to go, uh, go outside and feed myself to the Lonely, don’t wait up for me,” Martin says, flailing a hand in Jon’s direction, putting his laptop aside and standing up.

Jon laughs at that. “Martin, it’s fine. It wasn’t a good joke, but it was still just--Martin, sit down, it’s fine .”

“It isn’t , but I’m glad you’re willing to pretend for my sake,” Martin says, sinking back down and pressing his face into his hands before half-screaming into them. His phone starts ringing, and he ignores it, not dropping his hands.

Jon knows who’s calling, and almost wants to let Martin ignore it, but, well. The Eye wants Martin, so Jon has to tell him, doesn’t he. “You might want to answer that.”

“I can’t talk right now, I’m too busy--”

“It’s the Institute.”

“Ah,” Martin says, dropping his hands and quickly answering the phone. “Hello, uh, this is--um, Martin speaking? Yes, I did. Ye--yeah, yes, I am. Yeah, that works great. Uh, thank you!” He hangs up, blinking blankly in surprise, looking at Jon.

“Interview tomorrow?” Jon deadpans, and Martin nods.

“Yeah,” he says.

“You really shouldn’t take the job.”

“Have you heard a word I’ve said, Jon?” Martin asks, and Jon once again has the uncanny feeling he’s known Martin for years, his tone pulling them together with its odd familiarity. “You know, for someone who apparently knows everything , you’re a horrible listener.”

Jon laughs, a bit breathlessly. “That’s why I don’t work at the Institute.”

“Alright, fair,” Martin says. “Well, looks like we can’t ‘break up’ for a bit.”

“Give it a few weeks once you start?”

“Once the Lonely’s off my ass, how about?”

“Sounds good.”

Chapter Text

Gerry’s wasted and that metaphysical hunger pounds through them, even though their brain and body are absolute miles away from each other. They want to rip into Tim’s flesh and fucking devour him, they want to destroy him, it’s--he’s some kind of--he’s marked , or something, he must be, because people glaze over him and treat him strangely, and Gerry still can’t name a single feature on the man and they’ve been looking at him all night.

It’s the Hunt mixing with her own desire-- need --no, definitely desire, and it’s a dangerous, dizzying mix, and she really wishes she hadn’t gone for a fifth shot, and certainly not a sixth. They’re still at the pub. Gerry has no idea how long it’s been. His mind’s been on wrapping his teeth around Tim’s collarbones, digging nails into his skull--not appropriate thoughts to have in public, and he’s very glad he’s sitting across a table from Tim.

“You alright?” Tim asks, and Gerry jolts, knee slamming the table. 

“Yeah,” they breathe, staring hungrily into Tim’s--they should be able to tell what color his eyes are, shouldn’t they, but it shifts inscrutably every moment and Gerry can’t pin it down--eyes. They shouldn’t have gotten this fucking drunk.

“Riiiiiight,” Tim says. “Okay. Yeah. I’m gonna get you home, alright?”

“Please do.” She hopes she’s smirking somewhat wickedly, but she can’t feel her face, so that’s really about fifty-fifty.

“Yeah. No. To your home. So you can sleep.”

“Sleep is for the weak,” Gerry says, scoffing, and Tim laughs, softly, shaking his head and looking down at the table.

“You need to take better care of yourself,” he says, reaching across the table and taking Gerry’s hand where it’s endlessly restlessly tapping the wood. “I know I don’t know you well, and you can tell me to fuck off, but--”

“I’m young and I have my life ahead of me and I should stop being a fuckup and get my act together, yeah, I’ve been told,” Gerry mutters. They have. By Gertrude, most recently, but by Jon as well, and their dad, and Mary, even though she was the reason they even started drinking like this. 

“I was going to say you’re young and have a life ahead of you, yeah, but you’re--I mean, Gerry, you’re smart, you’re funny, you’re--you’ll be happier if you take control of your life, yeah?” Tim says, shrugging.

“I’ll never be in control of my life,” Gerry says, snorting. “Never have been, never will be. What, you quit drinking to take control of your life ?” He means to mimic Tim’s voice, but realizes as he tries that he...can’t even pin down the accent.

“I quit drinking because I nearly died upwards of twice and because I couldn’t really remember how to be a person anymore,” Tim says. “I still feel like I’m pretending. Poorly, at that.”

“Why’d it get bad?” Gerry asks, scratching at her face, digging in deeper and deeper when she realizes she can’t really feel it. Tim grabs her wrist and pulls it down until it’s resting on the table again.

“My brother died,” he says. “We were close, I took it hard, that’s all. What’s your excuse?”

“My mum killed herself in front of me,” Gerry says. “Blamed me for not helping her do it. The cops arrested me because they thought I killed her.”

“ Jesus ,” Tim says, eyebrows all the way up.

“It wasn’t that as much as the--she haunted me? For years after? She was one of those extra shitty vengeful ghosts. Not like she was great when she was alive, but it was definitely worse after.”

“Ghosts are real?” Tim asks, sounding genuinely winded.

“Sort of,” Gerry says, waving a hand dismissively. “Only if--if the End has them in some way, or...I mean, Mary--that’s my mum--she skinned herself and got bound into this book that preserves people’s souls. Ghosts aren’t--they’re an End thing, and they’re never quite right. Your brother’s probably not still out there.”

“A--a skin book that--okay,” Tim says, voice small. “Yeah. Uh. Christ. What the fuck did I get myself into?”

“The real world,” Gerry says, darkly. “Welcome.”

“Okay,” Tim breathes, running a hand over his face. He looks completely different when he drops the hand than he did before he raised it, and Gerry squeezes their eyes shut and shakes their head. “Yeah, I’m taking you home, where do you live.”

“We should go to yours,” Gerry half-whines. “My place is shit.”

“I doubt mine’s much better,” Tim says. “But fine. Not like we aren’t gonna end up in the same place tomorrow morning, might as well.” He leaves a few quid on the table and stands, sliding his jacket on, and Gerry’s mind redirects itself back to his body, muscular and gentle and dubiously soft-skinned. 

He comes over to Gerry and puts hands under their armpits, pulling them to their feet, and then wrapping an arm around their shoulder to keep them upright. “You’re strong,” Gerry says, a bit admiringly, and Tim snorts.

“Thanks,” he says. “I think it might just be that you’re a frighteningly thin twink. Someone needs to feed you better.”

“Is that one of your kinks, because I can’t say I’m into it, but I can try,” Gerry deadpans, and Tim laughs, doubling over slightly as he pulls Gerry out onto the street.

“No,” Tim says. “No, it’s not.”

Gerry loses the plot a little, and then she’s on the Tube, sitting with her head resting on Tim’s shoulder. He’s on his phone, doing sudoku like an absolute basic , and Gerry pulls her own phone out, nuzzling her head a little deeper into Tim. He raises an eyebrow and looks down at her, smiling faintly. “Almost there,” he says, and she just sort of ‘mmm’s in response.

They shouldn’t text Jon. They really want to text Jon.

i Also have. anew bf. probbly. just f. y. i.

imm also drunk but

fucku ppl want this diiiiiick

They put the phone away and immediately forget they texted him anything, until the response dings a moment later. Charming . Gerry can’t help but smile. He does still miss Jon, despite himself.

“Should you be texting?” Tim asks, eyebrow still up, and Gerry moans.

“Probably not.”

“Who’re you texting.”

“My ex-boyfriend,” Gerry says, pouting slightly in performative shame. “It’s not fair , he’s got a new man, I just wanted to tell him I’m out with someone and I don’t care.”

“But you do,” Tim says.

“Only a little .” Gerry sighs heavily. “You don’t have anything to worry about, it’s been years and I don’t like him anymore.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Tim says, smiling at the ceiling of the train. “But thanks for the reassurance.”

Something in Gerry snarls again, suddenly, and they have to breathe hard to fight down that aching, desperate, rabid hunger, that wolf growling in her guts. She bites her lip so hard it bleeds, closing her eyes and leaning forward, leg bouncing rapidly, trying not to look at Tim and his shifting, pretending-to-be-a-person face.

“Shit,” Tim says, putting a hand on their back, and they wince away from it. “Are you gonna puke on the train? Please don’t.”

“No,” Gerry hisses. “Don’t touch me.”

“I don’t get you, mate, you go from wanting to swallow my tongue to telling me not to touch you?” Tim says. “I respect your boundaries, obviously, I’m just--I’m struggling, here.”

Gerry reins himself in a bit, breathing shallowly and slumping back on the seat, head tilted towards the ceiling, blinding himself with the fluorescent lights of the train. “It’s fine. Sorry.”

“I get it,” Tim says, softly. “Look, it’s not like I’m judging you on what you’re like when you’re this drunk. I just...I wanna help, yeah?”

“You can’t,” Gerry says, laughing breathlessly and shaking her head, not looking away from the lights. “But thanks.”

Tim sighs and reaches down to take Gerry’s hand. He squeezes it, and Gerry freezes, going completely rigid. Their veins are screaming to break his hand, to dig his jugular out with their teeth, to--

“I--” Tim starts, and Gerry rips her hand away.

“I told you not to touch me,” she spits.

“Fuck,” Tim says. “Yeah. You did. I’m sorry. I thought--”

“You were wrong.”

“Okay,” Tim says, nodding. “Yes. I was. I’ll ask next time. I’m--”

“I’m going,” Gerry says, standing up and grabbing onto the bar over his head to keep himself from falling and making his way to the door.

“I’m sorry,” Tim says. “Are you gonna be safe ? I’m gonna--I can’t let you go out on your own and die, I--”

“Everyone thinks I’m fucking fragile ,” Gerry says, voice breaking a little, a bit louder than they meant or expected. “I’m fine . I always have been.”

“Okay,” Tim says, putting his hands up and nodding, slowly, like he’s dealing with a wild animal. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, then, hopefully.”

Gerry breathes a bitter laugh. “‘Hopefully’ might not be the right word.” The train stops, the doors open, and Gerry manages not to slam his face into the platform getting out.

The Hunt boils her blood, urging her back onto the train, muscles clenched. It’s not too late, they have his scent, they could--

--they couldn’t. They force themself to figure out where the fuck they are and how to get home.

Chapter Text

Jon doesn’t make checking on Gerry a habit. They haven’t been close in a long while, Gerry’s life is none of Jon’s business, and they’re usually in the Institute besides. Sometimes, though, he gets a feeling . A spine-prickling Gerry’s in trouble again sort of feeling. He doesn’t owe them anything, but he does care about them, still, despite them brutally breaking up with him twice and denouncing all of his life choices on top of that. 

The obviously-drunk texts make him a little nervous, so he takes his attention away from the book he’s half-reading and from Martin furiously rehearsing answers to basic interview questions and directs it--it’s hard to explain the process of looking for someone in particular. It’s like burning the entire desert down into a single piece of glass, or--or like picking out a snowflake with an exact specific crystalline structure from a blizzard. It helps when he knows the person, especially if he knows them as well as he knows Gerry, but it’s still a half-migraine-inducing sprint.

He finds them, though, reeling through Whitechapel with the Hunt seething in their bloodstream, feeding off alcohol and desire. It bares Its teeth at Jon when he tries to know more about how they’re doing and if he can help, so he backs off. No sense crossing any other Entities right now, since he’s sure he’s already thoroughly vexing the Lonely by depriving It of a victim.

“Jon?”

Jon blinks back into his body, pinching the bridge of his nose to try and stave off the pounding headache the Eye still loves to give him when he uses It to do research It sees as extracurricular.

“Yes?” he asks, eyes squeezed shut.

“Are you okay?” Martin asks.

“Absolutely fine,” Jon says, grimacing as he forces his eyes open. “Why do you ask.”

“You went completely blank,” Martin says. “Your eyes--it--uh--” He struggles for words for a moment. “I don’t--I can’t actually describe it? But your eyes went...wrong.”

“Deductive reasoning, Martin.”

“So you were using the Eye just then?”

“Yes,” Jon says. “I mean, I’m--I’m always using the Eye, at a base level, I mean, it-it’s part of me, unfortunately. I just need to use more intention sometimes.”

“And that was you using It with intention.”

“Yes.”

“What intention?” Martin asks, and while he’s trying to act somewhat disinterested, the hungry curiosity in his eyes is so familiar it almost stings. The Eye will take to him. Jon’s sure of it.

“I was checking up on someone,” Jon says, shrugging. “Seeing if they were alright.”

“Are they?”

“No, but they never are, and there’s nothing I can do about it,” Jon sighs. “I’m not sure why I look.”

“I get it,” Martin says, softly. “That’s, uh, that’s how I feel when I call my mum. It’s never good, but I can’t help it.”

“I think some of the horror of the Eye is watching with your eyes forced open and not being able to change a single thing,” Jon says. “It’s a cruel god. Are you really sure you want to bind yourself to It?”

“I’m not going over this again,” Martin says, shaking his head, lips twisting slightly in annoyance. “You might know everything about me, or whatever, but that doesn’t mean you control me. I get to make my own choices, I--just drop it, is what I’m saying. Please. Don’t try to discourage me again. It won’t get you anywhere.”

“You’re so much like I was,” Jon says, shaking his head a little in wonder, feeling some level of empathy for Gerry five years ago, struggling to keep Jon away from everything that ended up consuming him. “And, for the record, I don’t know everything about you. Not even close. It’s all surface level.”

“But you could, right?” Martin asks.

“Sure.” Jon shrugs. “I try not to. Knowledge just bubbles up sometimes.”

“If--if you know about my dad, do you--I mean, do you know where he--” Martin shakes his head, clenching a hand in his hair and then dropping it. “Never mind, actually, I don’t want to know.”

“If you change your mind, I could tell you,” Jon says. “Wouldn’t take much effort.”

“It’s better not knowing,” Martin says, resolutely staring at the floor and avoiding eye contact. “I wouldn’t trust myself.”

“You don’t want to hurt him,” Jon says. It’s a statement of fact, and a question--if Martin doesn’t want to hurt him, why wouldn’t--

“I’d end up hurting myself,” Martin says, shaking his head. “This isn’t a conversation worth having, I’m--I don’t know you, and it’s not really--I shouldn’t be telling all this to anyone.”

“I’m a bit of a magnet for personal information, I’m afraid,” Jon says, genuinely apologetically. “Another one of the Eye’s unwanted gifts.”

“Maybe I should just go to bed,” Martin says, laughing nervously. “Don’t want to--to say anything else embarrassing, I guess.”

“Alright,” Jon says. “When’s your interview, then?”

“Eleven,” Martin says. 

“There’s no sense being nervous,” Jon says, with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “They’ll hire you. The only thing worth worrying about is how Gertrude will treat you.”

“G-Gertrude?” Martin asks, voice pitching up.

“Mm,” Jon says. “You applied to be an archival assistant, correct?”

“Yes…”

“Gertrude’s the Archivist,” Jon says. “She’ll be your boss.”

“And…” Martin starts, cocking his head, waiting for more.

Jon smirks. “You’ll see.”

“No-- no , Jon, that’s--”

“You’re the one who wants the job so badly,” Jon says, still smirking. He’s aware he looks like a smug prick, but he feels like one, so it’s fair. “Besides, you’ve got your masters in, uh, parapsychology, so I’m sure that’ll be looked upon very favorably.”

“ Fuck off,” Martin mutters, eyes still wide. 

“What? Are you finally admitting--”

“No,” Martin says, deeply stubbornly. “I’m admitting nothing.”

“Even though you know I know?”

“If you know, I don’t need to admit anything.”

“Is it that it’s harder to keep up a lie once you’ve already owned up to it being a lie?” Jon asks, genuinely curious, regarding Martin and his strange blaze of defiant energy.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Martin says, smiling brightly at him. “I’m going to go to bed.”

“Right,” Jon says, sighing. “I’ll come, then.”

“You--” Martin starts, then shakes his head. “Nope. Not doing that again. Uh--maybe you don’t have to be in the room this time?”

“You want to take the risk?”

“Well, you’re watching out for it, right?”

“Yes,” Jon says, “but--”

“You’re sort of, uh, unnerving,” Martin says, with an apologetic smile. 

“Alright, that’s fair,” Jon says.

Martin stands, sort of awkwardly hovers for a moment, like he doesn’t know whether to offer Jon something or say something or just leave. “Um. Goodnight?” he lands on, finally.

“Goodnight, Martin, sleep well,” Jon says, picking the book he was needlessly skimming back up. 

“Thanks,” Martin says. “You...too…?”

“I don’t sleep,” Jon says. “I just dream.”

“...I…” Martin says, then shakes his head. “Okay, sure.” He goes into his bedroom, and Jon stretches himself out on the couch, arching his back slightly and moaning involuntarily. He pulls his phone out and sends Gerry a Let me know when you’re home safe, I’m a bit worried , and gets a if yuo use the fuckin i to checkon me i m gonna kik yr ass im fine , which is nigh incoherent, but Jon’s used to Gerry, so.

He settles into the couch, closes his eyes, takes a few theoretically calming breaths, and lets the Eye take him where it will.

Chapter Text

“Right, so, um, how are we going to work this?” Martin asks, nervously smiling at Jon as they walk from the Tube towards the Institute.

“Work what?” Jon asks, half-paying attention. The sidewalk’s crowded, and the sheer volume of knowledge is a bit overwhelming. He can filter it out, but it takes some effort.

“The--the not leaving me alone thing,” Martin says. “Could you--you’ll walk me in, right?”

“Do I have to?” Jon asks, trying to wrench his full attention away from the scandalous affair someone they just passed is having with her boyfriend’s twin sister. “If Bouchard knows I’m there, he’ll probably want to talk to me, and I would really --”

“What, so you want to just--just wait outside and risk me being swallowed whole in the elevator? I see how it is.”

“Christ, Martin, you were fine sleeping alone last night,” Jon says.

“Well, yeah, you were in the next room, presumably keeping a lookout,” Martin says. “This--”

“Alright,” Jon says, sighing. “But I’m not coming into the Archives with you, if--”

“Yes, you are. You’ve talked up this scary...Gertrude...person, and I’ll be damned if--” Martin starts.

“Do you think it’s normal behavior to bring your ‘boyfriend’ to meet your new boss?” Jon asks, cocking his head.

“ Well !” Martin says, throwing his hands up. “Fine. Don’t. But I’ll flirt with Gerry.”

“Go right ahead,” Jon says. “They’re all yours. You’re the one who seems to want to keep up the facade, so--”

“Don’t call my bluff,” Martin says, raising his eyebrows and cocking his head, and Jon laughs softly. “I’ll do it. I--”

“Fine, I’ll go with you,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “I actually wouldn’t mind speaking to Gertrude, I don’t get a chance very often.”

“You still haven’t told me anything about her,” Martin says.

“She’s a scary old woman, Martin, there’s not much to say beyond that.” Jon shrugs, stopping in front of the Institute as the Eye’s spiteful blindspot washes over him. Martin sighs, anxiously rolling his shoulders.

“So, how’s, uh...Bouchard?” Martin asks, squinting down at Jon.

“He’s a self-entitled, cryptic, arrogant prick,” Jon says. 

“Oh, so we’ll get on great then,” Martin says, smirking.

“What’s that supposed to mean?"

“Well, you’re at least two of those things, and I think we’re hitting it off quite well,” Martin says, still smirking--radiantly, somehow? “By the way, how long have we been dating? Just to get the stories straight.”

“Two months,” Jon says, shrugging, pulling the number out of nowhere.

“And we met…”

“I heroically saved you from sitting on a Tube platform while deeply stoned and getting your legs taken off by a train,” Jon deadpans.

“Try again,” Martin says, then pauses, squinting. “Wait, how did you know--alright, I didn’t actually--it was just for a moment .”

Jon smirks right back at Martin. “You come up with a story, you’re the poet.”

“Wow,” Martin breathes, shaking his head in apparent disbelief. “I really don’t like you.”

“Sure,” Jon says. 

“We met because, uh--” Martin shrugs, helplessly. “I can’t think of any event esoteric enough for you to actually be at.” 

“Pub trivia,” Jon says. “You thought it was sexy that I knew every single answer.”

“Y’know what, fine, I don’t have the emotional strength to fight you on this,” Martin says. “And it just makes you look sad, since you know everything there is to know, so I’ll take it.”

“Are we just going to stand out here?” Jon asks, with a very smug look.

“No,” Martin sighs. “Ugh, I hate interviews.”

“Why? You’re a fantastic liar, I’d think you’d be excellent at them.”

“I still have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” Martin says, offering Jon his arm. Jon takes it, and lets Martin walk him into the Institute. He hangs back while Martin introduces himself to Rosie, who’s just as cheery as ever. She gives Jon a small smile and a wave, and as Martin passes her, she winks and tilts her head at him. Jon nods, raising his eyebrows, unsure of how else to respond, and follows Martin into the elevator.

Jon considers telling Martin that Elias has much the same skillset he does and already knows that Martin’s a liar, but decides against it. More fun to just let Martin go in cold and see what happens. Conversely, telling him right before he goes in--eh, but that’s just cruel, and Jon likes to at least be ambivalent with his abilities, since being benevolent is so fucking hard.

His shoulder’s pressed into Martin’s upper arm, and Martin looks genuinely flustered by it, blinking quickly at the doors.

“You’re going to get the job no matter what you say,” Jon says. “If that’s any comfort. Honestly, you might as well try and push the limits. Insult Bouchard. Vomit on his shoes. God, please vomit on his shoes.”

“I’m not going to do that!” Martin says, tightly, with an all-teeth smile, still staring straight ahead.

“Why are you so anxious? I’m telling you--”

“It’s the anxiety , Jon ,” Martin hisses as the doors open. 

“Fair enough,” Jon says. It’s a short hallway to Bouchard’s office, and Jon beckons Martin towards the door and takes a seat outside. It’s strangely uncomfortable to be separate from the Eye like this, in an itching, craving sort of way. His mind is desperate for a level of stimulation he can’t give it without supernatural intervention, which is faintly nightmarish, but only if he thinks about it.

He picks up one of Bouchard’s offensively banal selection of outdated magazines. Jon supposes he should be grateful Bouchard set up any kind of waiting area, when he could’ve just filled it with pictures of himself and forced anyone waiting to see him to stand and stare at them.

He wishes he could hear the conversation. He’s sure it’s a parody of an interview. It’s not as if Bouchard cares . Gerry didn’t even have to interview, as far as Jon knows. He struck his deal with Gertrude, and that was it. The Institute is just a fear factory for the Eye. Jon really wishes he could feel that, just for-- no , though, he doesn’t, because that’s sort of a monstrous thing to wish, and he’s just a sentient SatNav,  no monsters to be found here.

Jon tries to settle in and just...think normally for a few minutes, but his trains of thought get a bit delayed and derailed. Without infinite knowledge to fill in the gaps, he can’t even relate to himself . That’s a sad thought. He’s codependent with a fucking fear god.

Martin’s the most interaction he’s had with a person other than Salesa since--since Daisy, he guesses, and that was years ago. He’d really thought they were friends, until she tried to kill him. The Hunt destroys people in a way that makes Jon’s guts twist, and he worries for Gerry constantly. But they can, as they’ve always told him, take care of themself. Plus, the “new boyfriend”. 

Jon’s not jealous. He has no interest in ever being with Gerry again, not after all the pain they caused him. Still, though, it’s a little offputting, the thought of someone else knowing them like that. 

Thankfully, Martin interrupts his train of thought by walking out of the office looking flustered, Bouchard tentatively and delicately patting him on the back.

“You’ll do well here, Martin,” he says, and Martin just laughs nervously in response. Bouchard turns and goes back into his office, and Jon stands.

“Good news, then, I take it,” he says, drily, and Martin smiles a very forced smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s, uh, pay’s not terrible? And, um…”

“How many lies deep did you dig yourself?” Jon asks.

“ Several ,” Martin breathes.

“You really didn’t have to.”

“ Yes , Jon, I got it. Fuck, I should probably write them down so I remember them.”

“I’m glad you trust me enough to finally admit you’re a liar,” Jon says.

“I’m a fucking idiot, is what I am,” Martin says. 

“Does he want you to go down and meet Gertrude?” Jon asks, smirking, and Martin nods, eyes closed. “You know, you can still back out. I think you’re safe until you sign something.”

“No, it’s…” Martin says, then takes a deep breath, rallying. “I’ve got this, it’s fine.”

The elevator takes a solid two minutes to get down to the Archives, and Martin looks vaguely ill. “Relax,” Jon says. “Aside from Gertrude, these are all people of Gerry’s calibre, and, well.”

“Why do you talk like that?” Martin asks.

“Rude.”

The doors open. Jon leads the way, Martin groaning behind him. The Archives are quiet, save for a...man. Jon searches for descriptors, but can’t find any. No approximate age, no definitive hair or eye color, just...a man who might be handsome.

And, of course, Gerry, asleep with her face pressed into her arms. 

“Gertrude’s in there,” Jon says, pointing towards her office and heading over to Gerry’s desk. Martin flashes him a vaguely panicked look, makes a strangled sound, and knocks on Gertrude’s door, breathing so deep Jon can hear it across the room.

Jon flicks the side of Gerry’s face lightly, and Gerry startles awake, eyes fluttering.

“Fuck off, Sims,” he groans, and Jon smiles.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks.

“Oh god, what did I say.”

“That you ‘probably have a new boyfriend’, and--” Jon starts, and Gerry’s eyes go wide, darting over to the handsome-but-nondescript man. She shushes Jon. “So not a new boyfriend, then, I gather.”

“No, it’s--well, I said probably , and I don’t want to spook him or anything,” Gerry says, shrugging.

Jon nods. “Right,” he says. “Sure.”

“Look, sorry for drunk-texting you, I’ll delete your number right now and it won’t happen again,” Gerry says, pulling their phone out.

“No--” Jon says, putting his hand out. “Just, I...keep me in. If you ever--if you need to call someone in an emergency, or.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Good Samaritan shit won’t make up for the things you do to feed them,” Gerry says, shaking his head. “But I will. Thanks.”

“You need to--”

“--take better care of myself, yeah, thanks, Dr. Fuckin’ Phil. So your boyfriend’s working here now?” Gerry asks, quickly changing subject and attitude.

“I told him not to, but he’s...frustratingly stubborn,” Jon says. He doesn’t attempt to inject admiration into his tone, but it sort of creeps up anyway. He’s a better actor than he remembered.

“Wish I knew someone who was frustratingly stubborn ,” Gerry says, making a face. “Wasn’t as cute on you.”

“Nothing is,” Jon says.

“He seems nice,” Gerry says, quietly, looking away. “Long as he’s good to you, I guess that’s what matters.”

“I don’t need people to be good to me, necessarily,” Jon says, shrugging.

“Yeah, but wouldn’t it be nice?”

Jon sighs, running a hand back through his hair, not looking at Gerry. He misses them enough he feels it between his ribs, but he clears his throat and stretches it out. “Don’t be cruel to Martin,” he says, finally.

“I’ll do my best,” Gerry says, with a small salute. 

“And please do take care of yourself,” Jon says, softly. “I worry about you.”

“You should,” Gerry says, with a startling bark of laughter. Their ‘probably boyfriend’ turns to look, a concerned expression twisting his generically kind face. 

“They’re fine,” Jon says, waving a hand dismissively, and he shrugs and turns back around. 

“You know, right now, smelling the Eye on you like horrid cologne...it makes me want to--” Gerry starts, then cuts himself off, shaking his head, pressing his hands over his eyes. “Look, never mind, I’m fine, you’re fine, your boyfriend’s fine, it’s fine.”

“There has to be a way to cut you off,” Jon says.

“I’ve looked,” Gerry says, sounding dead exhausted. “Haven’t you? With all the knowledge you have? Why wouldn’t you try to--” She pauses, watching Jon’s face as he tries to come up with an answer to that question. “You don’t want to cut yourself off.”

“I--Gerry, it’s not that--”

“Hey, look, your boyfriend’s done with Gertrude, you should go,” Gerry says, completely hardening and pointing towards Martin, who is, indeed, emerging from Gertrude’s office, looking a bit rattled.

Jon stands, starts to say something to Gerry, then thinks better of it, shrugging and meeting Martin halfway to the door to the Archives.

“So?” Jon asks.

“Um, it seems that she...could not give a shit about me,” Martin says, nodding. “Sort of a relief, actually.”

“That’s about what I expected,” Jon says. “Gertrude has a reputation.”

“A...a reputation for what , exactly?”

“Oh, being a difficult boss . You’ll be fine. Would you like to go out to lunch to celebrate, dear ?” Jon asks, flatly.

“Yes, actually,” Martin says.

“Fantastic,” Jon says. “Since you’re going to have a full-time job shortly, you should pay.”

“What a catch you are,” Martin says, sighing.

Chapter Text

Gerry watches Jon leave through the pounding hangover and tries their best to ignore the deep, longing pain in their ribs. She drops her head back onto her desk and covers the back of it with both hands, digging under their greasy, shitty hair to the buzzed part of their head and aggressively ruffling it.

“So,” Tim says, voice from right above them. They look up to find him perched on their desk, smiling a bit nervously. “Would you like to talk about last night? Or are we going to pretend nothing happened. Because I’m alright with either, just wanted to know what the plan was.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gerry says, flatly. That’s only sort of a lie. He remembers having a decent time and getting too drunk, like he always fucking does, and then he just remembers hunger , blood in his ears, the--there’s the edges of something in his memory, something sharp and heavy, but he can’t pull it out. Nothing to do with Tim, though, he’s pretty sure.

“That’s another option,” Tim says, with a single, resolute nod. “Then forget I said anything. We had a nice time.”

Gerry snorts. “I appreciate you lying to protect me from myself.”

“I’m nothing if not chivalrous,” Tim says, starting to slide off the desk, but then he cocks his head, thinking, and hops back up. “Would you like to, uh. Do that again? Sometime? Maybe somewhere that doesn’t have alcohol?”

“What, I’m not a fun drunk?” Gerry asks, hoping the sarcasm comes through in his tone.

“Oh, no, you’re a delight ,” Tim says, equally sarcastically. “I’m just curious to spend time with you, y’know, when you’re not the life of the party.”

“Actually?” Gerry asks, a bit softly, sort of touched that Tim seems to actually want to spend time with her after whatever she did.

“Yeah, actually,” Tim says. “You’re different. I like you.”

“I’m different ?” Gerry repeats, leaning back and crossing their arms, both eyebrows raised. “Please justify that statement, you sound like some sixth form kid trying to convince his Catholic girlfriend to give him a pre-marital blowjob."

“Why was that so specific?” Tim asks, squinting and shaking his head. “ Were you that kid?”

“Nope, I was homeschooled.”

“That makes...so much sense,” Tim says. “Were you the girlfriend?”

“You think I was Catholic?” Gerry asks, making a deeply confused face.

“I mean, you don’t not have bitter ex-Catholic vibes,” Tim says. 

“Christ. Fuck. No. I just say shit, sometimes, Stoker, get used to it,” Gerry says, shrugging. 

“I’ll try,” Tim says. “Look, seriously, in all honesty, heart on the line, please don’t eat it: shit’s been really, really bad since my brother died. You...you’re the first person I’ve actually liked spending time with since him, even despite the alcoholism.”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” Gerry mutters, scowling. “But I appreciate that, embarrassing as it must be for you.”

“Incredibly embarrassing,” Tim says, nodding solemnly. “You think I feel good about saying kind things to an entity that may or may not have been birthed by the concept of Hot Topic?”

Gerry snorts so hard he chokes at that, pressing a hand over his mouth and coughing. “Fuck off,” he manages. “You belong in a cheap knockoff Calvin Klein ad.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, actually,” Tim says. 

“You go right ahead and do that, I can’t stop you,” Gerry says, semi-smiling at Tim despite herself. She has an overwhelming urge to just lean in and kiss him, just briefly, just to get it off her mind. 

“You, um,” Tim says, clearing his throat and looking away. “You said something to me last night, though, that I’m...I know you weren’t--but--”

“What?”

“You--you asked me--the exact words were ‘what are you’,” Tim says, biting the corner of his lip and rubbing at a spot on his jeans. “And I don’t really know what that means, but it frightens me, a bit. Because I was under the impression I was a hot bisexual human in his late twenties, and if I’m mistaken on this, I’d like to know.”

“Why would I ask you if I knew?” Gerry asks. Snaps, actually, a bit, which is unfair to Tim, but their brain is a danger zone at present and it’s sort of just spitting things out. “Look, I was just fucked up. Ignore it."

“I’ll try,” Tim says, but he still looks concerned. “It’s just that--once I started thinking about it…” He trails off and shrugs, shaking his head. “Never mind. It’s nothing--it’s nothing to do with you. I’m still processing what happened to Danny, I guess, and my mind’s...off.”

“Your brother?” Gerry asks, trying to soften his tone. 

“Yeah.”

“What happened to him?” Gerry asks. “I mean--how did he die?”

“I don’t--I don’t really know , is the thing,” Tim says. “It’s, uh. I don’t want to talk about it. Not--not here, not--seriously, never mind, I’m sorry I said anything.”

“Okay,” Gerry says, shrugging, turning her attention to opening her laptop and closing an eye to handle the brightness.

“Uh, when do you wanna go out again?” Tim asks.

“I could go for burning something else, you free tonight?” Gerry asks, looking back up at him.

“Sure.”

“I think the calliope’s a two-man job, I could use the help,” Gerry says. “If you’re up for it.”

“Fuckit, why not,” Tim says, shrugging.

“That’s the spirit.”

*

Jon and Martin end up getting takeout and sitting by the river because they kept sarcastically telling each other it would be the romantic thing to do , and unfortunately, Jon suspects they were right. He can’t help himself stealing furtive glances of Martin like some pathetic teenager. 

He hates that he hasn’t been close to anyone in so long that this happens the second he has consistent human contact. And it really does happen every time , he remembers his half-thought-out and rushed confession to Daisy, and the shock in her eyes as she gently, apologetically told him that men were really not her thing.

He’ll get past this stupid half-crush on Martin, he sort of has to.

They’re in the middle of a somewhat heated conversation about what constitutes a sandwich when Salesa calls Jon. He knows before he can even feel his phone vibrate, and he groans, putting a hand up.

“Sorry, I have to take this,” he says, and Martin stops dead, shrugging and somewhat petulantly taking a bite out of a burger (which is a sandwich, nomenclature means nothing, it is a fucking--Jon has rigid opinions about the world and he’s beginning to suspect Martin’s just disagreeing to rile him up).

He answers the phone, and Salesa starts talking before he can even say hello. “Jon! I have a lead for you, on something I think you’ll be interested in--Bouchard mentioned your boyfriend, who I still wish you’d told me about, is having something of a Lonely problem? I swear, the Lukases, no consideration.”

“What should I be on the lookout for?” Jon asks.

“You know how we’ve found a few anti-artifacts? Wards?”

“Yes, as we’ve discussed numerous times, I know functionally everything,” Jon says, flatly. “Especially things I’ve done . Could you get to the point?” He knows it sounds a bit harsh, but he’s found that Salesa latches onto kindness in a way Jon isn’t entirely comfortable with, and is mostly just amused by dry hostility.

“You and Bouchard are spookily similar sometimes!”

“Please don’t insult me like that.”

“I’ve heard about something that repels the Lonely,” Salesa says, brightly. “It may or may not be related to the Stranger, but that’s not the point--if you find it, I’ll let you keep it for your boyfriend for a bit until we sell it."

“Thank you,” Jon says, reluctantly, because his grandmother did raise him to be polite. “Any details beyond that, or…?”

“It’s a photo album,” Salesa says. “Unfortunately, that’s about all I can offer you at the moment. I’ll let you know if I hear more.”

“Wonderful,” Jon sighs. “I’ll keep several eyes out.”

“You’re a star, Jonathan,” Salesa says, before hanging up. Jon puts his phone away and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What was that about?” Martin asks. 

“My boss,” Jon says, waving a hand dismissively. “Wants me to look for something.”

“You talk to your boss like that?” Martin asks, squinting. “Horrifically rude, aren’t you worried you’re gonna get fired?”

“No,” Jon says. “I’m functionally irreplaceable.”

“You’re not actually in antiques,” Martin says. “What do you do? Are you a criminal? Cuz that’s a bit sexy, actually.”

“I--” Jon starts, then shakes his head and laughs. “You’re an odd one.”

“So I’m told.”

“I...find things,” Jon says, shrugging. “Cursed things, generally. Antiques, on many occasions, so I actually didn’t lie.”

“You actually managed to get a boring supernatural job,” Martin says, shaking his head in wonder. “That’s impressive.”

“You think I have a boring supernatural job, wait ‘til you’ve spent a week at the Institute,” Jon says, smirking.

“What’s the coolest thing you’ve ever found?” Martin asks, brushing his hands off and leaning his chin into them. 

Jon considers for a moment. “Ah. I have a story about a metal heart, actually, if you’re interested.”

“Do tell.”

Chapter Text

Gerry gets sucked into a research hole on an old statement on the Circus Gertrude dug up and loses basically the entire day to it. It’s nice to set the Hunt on something that’s actually useful, and they feel good as they start scratching the surface layer away. They’re familiar by now with most of the things the Circus consists of, but it’s always nice to get more information--sometimes they think about hunting each individual member down and--

Well, they don’t kill people anymore, but these aren’t really people , so maybe it’s worth a shot. Maybe it’s what Gertrude wants him to do, and that’s why she keeps giving him statements. There’s no point trying to analyze her, though, much like there was no point trying to analyze Mary.

The day slips by, the Hunt purrs contentedly in his guts, and when she finally registers that it’s night she looks up, remembering her plans with Tim. He’s still there, reading through the stack of Stranger statements Gerry left him, and Gerry takes the opportunity to pull the flask out of the bottom drawer of their desk, slam it back, and pop a piece of gum in their mouth to mask the smell. There wasn’t more than two shots maximum left in there, but that’s better than nothing.

He leans on Tim’s desk, and it takes Tim a full minute to realize, because he’s so invested in the statement he’s reading.

“Oh!” Tim says. “Is it time already?”

“Yuuup,” Gerry says. “You ready to fuck up a clown organ?”

“Which organ?” Tim asks, brightly, clearly taking the piss. “If it’s one of the really gross ones, I don’t know.”

“I feel like the calliope is the spleen of musical instruments, how d’you feel about spleens?” Gerry asks.

“Completely indifferent,” Tim says. “Does anyone actually have an opinion about the spleen?”

“I certainly don’t,” Gerry says. “I only have opinions on a couple organs, if I’m honest.”

“I’ll bite,” Tim says, smiling as he clears his desk.

“Brain: good in theory, shit in practice. Liver: made to be broken.”

“Heart?” Tim asks, and Gerry snorts, a little darkly.

“You have one of those?” she asks, and Tim rolls his eyes. Gerry’s starting to realize that not eating today may’ve been a mistake.

“I figured it wouldn’t take long for you to act as edgy as you look,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Fine, what’s your opinion on the heart, then?” Gerry asks, crossing their arms.

“I admire it,” Tim says. “Takes a lot of abuse, hurts like hell, but keeps beating through everything.”

“You are so fucking cheesy.”

“Gotta cope somehow .” Tim shrugs. “Alright. Lead the way.”

“Fine,” Gerry says, shrugging back and heading out of the Archives. “So, how d’you like the job so far?”

“It’s alright, yeah,” Tim says, following her. “I love reading, so that part’s great. I also sort of like calling people to follow up.”

“Freak.”

“Meeting people is fun ,” Tim says, shrugging. “Guess I was just isolated for a while. I like it, it’s like--like you copy them, and they get comfortable, because it’s like they’re talking to themself?”

“I...to reiterate, freak ,” Gerry says, smirking, as if he’s not wildly endeared. 

“What? I mean, how do you like working here?”

Gerry shrugs, helplessly. “Whether I like it or not doesn’t really make a difference.”

“Sure, but do you?”

“Yeah,” Gerry says, and finds it might actually be true. “I do, a bit.”

“If you could do anything, what would you do?” Tim asks, as Gerry slides the spare master key out of their pocket and unlocks the door to Artifact Storage, pushing it open and ushering Tim in with a grandiose flourish.

“I don’t know,” Gerry says.

“Not even for work, just in general.”

“Yeah, still don’t know,” Gerry says, following Tim in. Get drunk. Get drunker. Fuck someone or several someones. Drag myself into a spiral I can’t get out of and finally fucking die . Not particularly lofty aspirations. “What about you?"

“I’m where I want to be,” Tim says, a bit tightly, so Gerry doesn’t push it. “So, how are we gonna, uh, fuck this pig?” He’s looking up at the calliope, and Gerry sighs, crossing their arms and following his gaze.

“Fantastic question. Unfortunately, I think we might have to take it out to dinner first.”

“What--what does that mean, in this case?” Tim asks, visibly trying to repress a full, stupid grin.

“Means…” Gerry shrugs. “I don’t know. Means we’re gonna need to find somewhere to burn it. Vacant lot or something.”

“In Chelsea,” Tim says, raising a skeptical eyebrow and crossing his arms.

“We could take it on the train--look, I went through all of this in my head the other night,” Gerry says, shrugging. “I guess we could just disable the smoke alarms and burn it in the bathroom here.”

“That sounds like an absolutely terrible idea.”

“Look at this fucking thing,” Gerry says, gesturing at the calliope. “Are you comfortable with its continued existence?”

“I’m not a fan of clowns or their accessories,” Tim says, shrugging. “So no. Not particularly.”

“If you’re not a fan, why do you wanna fuck one so bad?” Gerry asks, and Tim snorts.

“Christ,” he says, shaking his head. “Fine. Let’s burn it in a bathroom.”

“Let’s do it in the ladies’ so neither of us have to deal with the aftermath and we can have plausible deniability,” Gerry says. 

“Diabolical.”

“I mean, I like using the ladies’ better, but I can make a sacrifice for our greater good.”

“Is any of the stuff in here actively dangerous?” Tim asks, as both of them desperately strain to pull the calliope out the barely-large-enough door to Artifact Storage.

“Probably,” Gerry grunts, leaning their entire body weight into pulling. “I don’t know, there’s a catalogue somewhere, you can have a look.”

“What’s the story on this one?”

“Part of a fucked-up murder circus, disappeared, reappeared, killed some people,” Gerry says, shrugging. “Don’t really remember, that’s a rough guess.”

“Fucked-up murder circus?” Tim asks, stopping dead. “Are there many of those?”

“Just the one,” Gerry says, also stopping and panting. “I mean, I think a lot of circuses are secretly murdery, but not quite the same way.”

Tim takes a short breath, like he’s about to say something, then shakes his head. “Don’t like it.”

“Yeah, no one does,” Gerry says. “Are you gonna help with this, because--”

“Yes, yeah, sorry,” Tim says, starting to pull again. Somehow, they manage to force it into the ladies’ bathroom. It barely fits in, and blocks off all the stalls. Gerry stands on the sinks and systematically breaks the sprinklers and smoke alarms. 

“Okay,” Gerry says, sighing and vaulting back to the ground. “Wanna do the honors?”

“Why do you know how to do all that?” Tim asks, waving an arm at the ceiling.

Gerry shrugs. “Years of experience.” She looks at Tim. “I burn stuff. Sort of my thing.”

“Pyromaniac?” Tim asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Of a kind.”

“You have a match? Or--I mean, I feel like this thing won’t just burn,” Tim says.

Gerry digs out a box of matches and a small plastic water bottle of lighter fluid they, inadvisably, always keep with them. “I come prepared. The only way I’m remotely like a Boy Scout.”

Tim snorts. “Not sure what I expected.” He flicks the lighter fluid at the calliope, makes a I guess? face, and lights a match, stepping back and chucking it at the thing. 

It goes up faster than it probably should, and the heat is immediately a bit much for the confined space. Gerry beckons him out of the bathroom, and they let the door close behind them.

“How’s it feel?” Gerry asks.

“Not bad,” Tim says, looking somewhat troubled. “We’re gonna get in deep shit for that, though, aren’t we? I mean--”

Gerry makes a pfffft sound, waving an arm. “Archival assistants have the most job security in the place, mate, don’t worry. You’re not gonna get fired. Gertrude needs you.”

“For what, exactly?”

“Great question,” Gerry says, shrugging. “Don’t know yet.”

Tim pushes the door back open and watches the fire for a moment before letting it swing closed. “Is that--I mean, is the whole building gonna burn down?”

“The Institute doesn’t fall to shit like the Desolation,” Gerry says. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“I have absolutely no idea what that means,” Tim says. “But I’ll take your word for it, I guess.” He sighs, then opens the door again, just for another look, his eyes lit by the flames.

“You’re enjoying it, aren’t you?” Gerry asks, smirking.

“Just a bit,” Tim says. He lets the door close, sighs, and stares at Gerry for a moment, eyes combing his face. “I, uh. Fuck it.” He leans in and kisses Gerry, strong hand braced around the back of his neck, and Gerry closes their eyes and melts into it, pressing themself closer, hand sliding up around Tim’s jaw. 

Tim pulls away, turning his head and breathing heavy, and Gerry fights for air too, at a rare loss for words. “Um. That, uh, that was--”

“Whiskey and gum don’t go great together, but it was a nice try,” Tim says, looking back at Gerry with an eyebrow raised, and Gerry sighs.

“Yeah, fuck.”

“That was nice, though,” he says, with a small smile. “I’m gonna go home. See you Monday.”

“Fuck, it’s Friday?” Gerry asks, and Tim nods slowly.

“Sure is.”

Gerry sighs. “Yeah, see you. No chance you’d wanna--”

“Not this weekend, mate,” Tim says, a bit apologetically. 

“Why do you--what’s your deal with clowns?” Gerry asks. “With the Circus?”

“They--” Tim starts, then shakes his head. “They took--there’s not a word for it, there’s--”

“Your brother,” Gerry says, and Tim nods.

“It’s...there really--I promise, it’s indescribable,” he says.

“I believe you,” Gerry says. “I’ve seen some indescribable shit myself.”

“Not like this.”

Gerry considers telling Tim about the Circus and the Unknowing and everything they’re working on with Gertrude, but it sticks in their throat. Gertrude wouldn’t want him knowing. Not yet. And there’s anger there, and pain, and shit that doesn’t need to get thrown into the equation.

They should tell him about the Entities, though, it’s--theoretically it’s comforting for there to be a pattern and reason to all this, maybe. Maybe. Gerry doesn’t know, can’t, since they’ve lived with it forever.

“There was this guy,” Gerry starts, sighing. “Uh, Robert Smirke--”

Tim recoils like he’s been hit, inhaling sharply. “You--why would you--look, I have to go, this--” He sighs. “Fuck. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t…”

“I’m trying to help you,” Gerry says, squinting, trying to figure out what’s going on here, but maybe he’s just doomed to associate exclusively with people whose emotions and trains of thought he can’t possibly understand.

“I don’t know if I want to be helped right now,” Tim says, numbly heading for the exit. “Uh. I’ll see you.”

“See you,” Gerry says, a bit confused, watching him leave. They should tell Gertrude what Tim’s attachment is to the Circus, but it’s not really useful for the Unknowing--well, not as of yet, at least--and the poor guy should have his privacy.

Back to the drawing board on what to do with their night, then. Not like there’s a whole lot of options. Besides, it’s Friday. No better excuse to get fucked up.

Chapter Text

When they get back to Martin’s flat, rather late, after a genuinely quite pleasant day and evening of just sort of walking around the city, Martin looks Jon dead in the eyes and asks him, solemnly, if he plays chess.

Jon’s not sure what sort of attempted power move this is, because he knows for a fact that Martin doesn’t particularly play and definitely doesn’t enjoy it--some vague memory of someone yelling at him to do it properly and keep your hand on the piece if you’re not sure because that’s what people do they commit --but he’s curious to find out, so he says yes, slowly.

Playing a game that’s all about seeing openings with someone who can see just about everything seems like a terrible idea--not as bad as playing with a Web avatar, Jon has to assume, but pretty damned bad. And Martin really is dismal at it. He puts Jon in check at least once without even noticing.

Jon can’t help himself after about fifteen minutes of a truly horrible game that neither of them is enjoying. “Why are we doing this?” he asks, and Martin jolts, hitting the bottom of the table with his hand and rattling the pieces.

“Uh…” Martin starts, then shrugs, running a hand back through his hair and laughing a bit nervously. “I don’t know. You’re all--you look like the sort that would be into-- intellectual games ?”

Jon has to laugh at that, pressing a hand over his mouth. “I--” He shakes his head. “I look like an intellectual?”

“Well, just--” Martin says, flushing. “Okay, yes, stupid idea.”

“Martin, honestly, this...you don’t have to entertain me,” Jon says. “I’m here to keep you from dying. I’m like a pro-bono metaphysical bodyguard. I’m the help. Don’t worry.”

“See, you say things like pro-bono metaphysical bodyguard and expect me to think you’re not at least pseudo -intellectual?” Martin asks.

Jon snorts. “Fair point.”

“It’s not--I don’t feel obligated , I just...I mean, yeah, you’re--you’re helping me, so...so I should help you back,” Martin says, shrugging again. “Obviously chess wasn’t the way to go.”

“What do you like to do?” Jon asks, even though he could easily get the information. 

“Uh. Read. Write. Play video games.” Martin looks away, a bit bashfully. “Not really social activities."

“We could always just talk more,” Jon says, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, foot up, knee pressed against the table. 

“I’m boring, though,” Martin says, waving a hand, with another small burst of nervous laughter. 

“So is chess, Martin.”

Martin smiles at the table. “Fair enough.”

“And you’re not that boring,” Jon says, with a smile that he hopes carries through to his tone, so Martin knows he’s joking. “If you were, I’d just leave you to die.”

“Christ, even more reason to try my hardest to be entertaining,” Martin says. “Tough crowd.”

“Who taught you to play?” Jon asks, gesturing at the board. Easier than poking through memories Martin has complicated attachments to and risking violently untangling them in a way that ends up hurting him.

“Oh,” Martin says. “My grandfather, actually. He...he was very intense about it. No self-respecting Blackwood was ever going to get through life without learning the world’s greatest game .” There’s fondness in his tone, even despite the discomfort of the memories Jon brushed.

“Were you close?”

“Until he died when I was about ten, yeah. Probably for the best. No idea how I would’ve come out to him.” Martin smiles at Jon, a bit sadly. “But anyway. Were you, uh--were you close to your grandparents?"

“My grandmother raised me,” Jon says, shrugging. “I’m not sure I’d call us close.”

“Is she still alive?” Martin asks, and Jon reaches out, just to check.

“Yes,” he says, nodding. “We don’t speak to each other often.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Martin says, genuine sympathy in his eyes.

“No need,” Jon says. “I think we’re both alright with it.”

“I can’t imagine just--just being alright with not having a relationship with the person that raised you,” Martin says, and then he continues, something about how he doesn’t, but--and Jon means to listen, but something wrenches his focus hard, some ominous feeling, and--

His phone rings. Gerry. Cold dread fills his chest as he answers, putting an apologetic hand up to Martin.

“Jon--oh, thank fucking --” Gerry says, voice panicked and breathless, and Jon immediately reaches out and searches for her, but only hits a staticky, snarling void. 

“Where are you,” Jon asks, as calmly and evenly as he can.

“I’m--my flat, but--uh--”

“Do you need me to come?”

“Yeah,” Gerry says. “Yes. I--yeah, I--I did something. And I think it was the right thing to do, but I can’t--I can’t know , and you, Jon, you can, and I need you to. I need you.”

“What did you do.”

“Just, I’ll text you the address, please come.”

Jon doesn’t even get a chance to respond before Gerry hangs up, and he blinks in confusion as the phone beeps at him.

Martin’s eyes are full of questioning concern. “What’s going on?”

“I have to--uh, I have to go check on--” Jon says, genuinely rattled. He can only remember Gerry sounding quite that scared once, after the man they killed years ago. He stands up, flapping a hand uselessly, trying to figure out what to do with his body. Leave it to Gerry to make him feel genuinely unsettled for the first time in a long while. “I’ll--I’ll be back.”

“No the fuck you won’t,” Martin says, also standing. “You leave me alone, I get eaten , remember?”

“Oh,” Jon says, blinking, because he genuinely forgot. “Right. Yes. Shit.”

“So-- what’s going on?”

“I don’t exactly know,” Jon says, as his phone buzzes with Gerry’s address, typed with their typical drunken lack of grace and coherence. He can figure it out, though--Gerry translation skills paired with the Eye. He’s a regular Rosetta Stone.

“So who --”

“Gerry,” Jon says, a bit dismissively, making sure he has everything he needs on him and heading for the front door.

“So your ex calls and you just drop everything to go--”

“They don’t ask me for anything ,” Jon says, turning on Martin. “Not unless they really need it, and--I--I don’t owe them, but they’re important to me, and--”

“You’re still in love with them?” Martin asks, looking genuinely hurt, and Jon doesn’t have time to poke at why, nor does he particularly want to.

“No,” Jon says. “But they said they need me, and I seem to have something of a savior complex lately.”

“Wait, so, do you think it’s--”

“It could be Entity-related, or they could just be dangerously fucked up, or both,” Jon says, rubbing his forehead. “It’s Gerry, so probably both. It doesn’t matter.”

“I get the sense they broke up with you,” Martin says, following Jon out and locking the door behind him.

“None of your business,” Jon snaps. 

“That’s a yes.”

“What does it matter ?” Jon asks, stress pulling his casual cruelty loose. “Are you actually , truly jealous ? We’ve known each other a few days, and we’re in a fake relationship. This--Gerry--I’ve known them a long time, and they take priority over--”

“Alright, I get it,” Martin snaps back, a deeply petulant frown twisting his face. “I’m not jealous, I just--you know, what if you’re rushing to get hurt again, that’s all.”

Jon sighs. “No, that’s--sorry, I just--I’ve been enjoying spending time with you, Martin. I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t important.”

“Okay, sure, whatever,” Martin says, visibly sulking. “Supernatural ride-along. Love it.”

Chapter Text

Martin somehow manages to sigh in a new irritated (and irritating) way every other minute on the way to Gerry’s flat. It’s almost impressive. Jon thinks he might be good in the theater.

Or, he would think that, if he could think about anything other than the steady stream of questioning anxiety he has about what Gerry’s done. He doesn’t engage Martin, lets him mutter under his breath and heave his bitchy little sighs. If he engages, he’ll snap, and he doesn’t want to make Martin hate him, not when they’re stuck together. He understands that this is a frustrating inconvenience.

Gerry buzzes them in, and Jon tries to keep taking deep breaths as they head up the stairs, perfectly aware that he has no idea what to expect. He knocks on the door, and Gerry wrenches it open after a moment, looking fucked-up and haggard, hands caked in dried blood.

Martin’s eyes widen, and Jon takes yet another deep breath, trying to keep himself calm. 

“You brought him ?” Gerry asks, gesturing at Martin, looking genuinely disdainful.

“Yes,” Jon says, tightly. “If that’s a problem, we can go.”

“No, that’s…” Gerry says, then sighs, rubbing his face, a smear of blood attaching to his nose. “Come in.” 

He steps aside to let them in. Jon gives the flat a cursory glance, taking in the empty bottles and cigarette butts and general ruin of the place and moving on, because he’s not here to save Gerry from themself. That’s not and has never been his job. Martin makes a truly horrified face and tries to catch Jon’s eye.

“You going to tell me what’s going on now?” Jon asks, crossing his arms and looking at Gerry, who’s lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. 

“Yeah, uh. It’s. In the bathtub,” Gerry says, gesturing at a door. “Keep your boyfriend out.”

“No, his boyfriend is staying,” Martin says, tightly, high-pitched. “He’d like to know what to say to the police.”

Gerry snorts, then sobers briefly. “Wait, you’re serious? Bootlicker.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Martin asks, incredulously.

Gerry sneers, gearing up for some deeply shitty response, but Jon cuts her off before she can start. “A great many things, most of which I doubt you’d want to hear about.”

“What he said,” Gerry says, deflating a bit. “Just--look.”

“Alright,” Jon says, sighing and opening the bathroom door, stepping in. It’s as much of a mess as the rest of the flat, but his attention is immediately drawn to the body in the tub, blood congealing in wild, messy wounds.

Gerry presses their shoulder into his back. “It’s not a person, right?”

“I don’t…” Jon says, mildly stunned by the violence of the image. Panic claws in his chest, memories of the two of them in a soon-to-be-burnt house with the man they killed. He can’t get a breath in. 

“I know,” Gerry says, softly, huskily. “You want something to take the edge off a bit before you go all. Deep scrutiny?”

Jon numbly registers Martin’s hand tightly holding his, so tight it hurts, but he doesn’t try to pull away. It’s a bit reassuring. “You-you-you k-killed someone,” Martin says, stuttering slightly.

“I don’t think it’s a someone , in my defense,” Gerry says, opening a mirrored bathroom cabinet, shaking a few pills from an unmarked bottle into his hand, and slamming them back, chasing them with an opened beer on the bathroom counter. 

“What does that mean ?” Martin asks. “Some--some entity thing?”

“Ding-ding-ding,” Gerry says, with a condescending fingergun. “So you’re not totally clueless.”

“It looks a lot like a person,” Martin says, still keeping his deathgrip on Jon’s hand.

“Yes, that’s the point.”

“The point of what ?” Martin asks, voice squeaking firmly into ‘shrill’ territory.

“Jon, explain the Stranger to your very loud boyfriend,” Gerry says, rolling their eyes and looking at Jon, who’s still blankly staring at the body in the tub, trying to will his eyes-- the Eye--to focus on it, but freezing panic holds him back. 

“I, uh--” he starts, a reflexive response to hearing his name, but he didn’t process what Gerry said, and can’t continue beyond that.

“How did you even--I mean-- why would you--” Martin starts.

“Got drunk and started looking for trouble,” Gerry says, shrugging. “Caught a scent, after a bit. Smelled like my mum’s perfume, but just off. Y’know, when you smell something, and it’s just... so close but not quite, and you just--you keep--you have to figure out why you know it, and you finally do, but then the memory’s wrong and you can’t figure out how to make it right?” She stumbles over her words, tongue audibly heavy, but somehow gets it all out.

“What?” Martin breathes, which doesn’t seem to faze Gerry.

“Obviously thought--yeah. ‘s the Hunt. Leading me to something . And, y’know, fuckin’ Everchase--the Hunt doesn’t give a shit about the other Enti--tities. And I figured the way it was making me feel probably meant it was the Stranger, and I’m after the Unknowing anyway, so--” Gerry shrugs. “It led me to--to this --and I swore I knew it from somewhere, it was already getting its fucking roots in me, and I had to kill it before it could dig all the way in, so.”

“What are you talking about?” 

“Or you got paranoid and killed a person,” Jon says, numbly, squeezing Martin’s hand back without really meaning to.

“Or I got paranoid and killed a person,” Gerry says. “I’m hoping you’ll be able to shed some of your lovely fucking Eye-light on the matter soon, here, Jon?”

“I’m--I’m trying,” Jon says. “I’m scattered, it’s...I just need to breathe.”

“Thinking about last time?” Gerry asks, and Martin’s eyebrows fly all the way up. “Me too.”

“It’s a bit hard not to, Gerard,” Jon says, tightly. “Though at least there was a good reason for it that time.”

“Last time?” Martin asks. “ What ?”

“Poor fucker what got his brain eaten by the Hunt begged me to kill him and then took a huge chunk out of my arm with his teeth,” Gerry says. “So I killed him.”

“I really wish you hadn’t just confessed to murder in front of an outsider,” Jon hisses

“Manslaughter at worst . Besides, you’re dating.”

“As you well know, that doesn’t mean anything,” Jon says, and Gerry hisses through her teeth.

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, ouch,” Martin says, a bit incredulously. “I...look, I don’t really know how to--uh, Gerry, is there tea in your flat? Anywhere?”

“Probably somewhere,” Gerry says, gesturing vaguely out at the kitchen.

“Okay,” Martin says, nodding. “Right. Yeah. I’m gonna make tea and try to process even a little bit of this. Uh. Do either of you--”

“No, thank you, Martin,” Jon says, as gently as he can manage through clenched teeth.

Gerry whistles and tilts their head in Martin’s direction as he leaves to find tea. “He’s a bit dim and bitchy for you, isn’t he?”

“Fuck off,” Jon snaps, trying to force himself forward to crouch next to the tub, staring at the dead--thinking of it as a thing is easier. He makes himself remember to swallow, takes a jagged breath, and pries the Eye open.

The thing in the tub looks human. A perfect facsimile, just about, but stolen skin--a handsome young man, nondescript. He’d be pleasant to look at if not for the wounds. There’s edges underneath where the skin doesn’t quite fit, though, where the thing beneath pokes through, and Jon can see them with the Eye--the thing under is...vibrant and unfamiliar and welcoming and terrifying. The Stranger’s brand. 

“So?” Gerry asks, hugging himself.

“Not human,” Jon says, absently, looking deeper. Used to be human, but, well, didn’t everyone. Jon searches for a name, for anything, but knowledge of the dead is really more of Terminus’s wheelhouse. Jon can’t find the threads that connect corpses to the souls that used to own them. “Was there anything on it? ID or anything?”

“Didn’t check,” Gerry says.

“You dragged a body all the way back here and didn’t--”

“It was already here when I killed it,” Gerry more or less mumbles, and the picture clicks into place.

“You brought an aspect of the Stranger home to fuck it knowing that it was--”

“ I know , Jon, okay?” Gerry snaps, but there’s no bite to it. “I know. I--I didn’t, if that makes you feel any better? I’m pretty sure I was just trying to lure it in?”

“Gerry, I’m worried about you,” Jon says, softly, and Gerry scoffs.

“ You fuck off,” Gerry says, shaking her head. “I’ll look for ID.” They stagger, fall hard onto their knees, and dig a hand into the dead thing’s pocket, coming out with a wallet. “What do you know?”

Jon takes it out of their hand and opens it. “Daniel Stoker. Poor bastard.”

Gerry’s eyes widen. “S-sorry, did you say Stoker .”

“Yes, like Bram Stoker, I kn--”

“Oh, fuck.” Gerry sits back. “Wow. That’s…”

“Enlighten me? I don’t really want to go digging through your mind right now,” Jon says, feeling and sounding deeply , existentially tired.

“Not your business,” Gerry says. “Something I’ll handle. Look, thanks for the assist and the reassurance and all, I’ll deal with the body, you take your boyfriend home and give him a decent crash course in how fucked the world is so he’ll be better prepared for Gertrude.”

“Are you going to be alright?” Jon asks, and the words nearly get stuck in his chest.

Gerry makes eye contact, and something in him seems to soften. “No. But thanks.”

Jon sighs. “Alright. Text me tomorrow, please.”

“Sure.”

Chapter Text

Gerry wakes up on her bathroom floor at three in the afternoon with a horrible pain in their neck and a dry dullness pulsing at her entire being. 

There’s dried blood in his bathtub, as well as--some otherworldly kind of residue, translucent and rainbow and--it’s nasty, and Gerry has a near-irresistible compulsion to just. Taste it.

But they know better. Mostly. So they turn the shower on and watch the stuff swirl down the drain and try to remember for the life of them why it was there to begin with. He doesn’t remember a whole lot after leaving the Institute, just--a hunger, and a scent, and a desire to not feel or think about anything, and then it sort of. Blacks out.

They manage to get themself into the kitchen for water after dousing their head with frigid water for as long as they can stand, and find...someone did her dishes? Not all of them, just...a few, and a mug he hasn’t used in years is sitting by the sink, neatly cleaned out.

So someone was there. Someone other than him, unless he stumbled on the combination of substances that makes him capable of taking a modicum of care of himself and his surroundings, which he somehow doubts. Coupled with the blood and residue, that adds up to him having someone over and killing them, which makes panic coil in her stomach.

They only know one person who both knows just about everything and isn’t their boss. She calls Jon, a bit shaky, trying to breathe. The tinny, metallic ringing pierces their skull and makes them hiss in pain, but they tolerate it.

Jon picks up, audibly already annoyed from his greeting of “I’m in the middle of something, Gerry.”

“Do you know what I did last night?” Gerry blurts, quick as she can, not eager to have a long conversation.

“Yes,” Jon sighs. “You seduced and murdered an aspect of the Stranger.”

“Stop saying murder in public, Jon,” comes another voice on the other line. Right. The boyfriend.

“Okay,” Gerry says, sighing in half-relief. “Thanks.”

“Mmm,” Jon responds. “That all?”

“Yes.”

Jon hangs up without saying goodbye, and Gerry sighs, dropping the phone and massaging her temples, panic slowly subsiding. Killing a monster’s way better than killing a person, but still, could lead to consequences , and she’s not generally a fan of those. He and Gertrude are after the Stranger, yeah, but that was probably better from the shadows. This could be a declaration of war. Might even accelerate the Unknowing. Gertrude’s gonna be righteously pissed at him.

There was something else, too, though. Something she was supposed to remember from last night. She can feel it scratching the inside of her mind. They wander back into the bathroom, hoping they’ll remember, and--oh. There’s an ID on the counter. Daniel Stoker . Right.

Could just be a coincidence, but nothing ever is, not in a world where the Web exists. Tim had a brother who got killed by the Circus, and Gerry killed an aspect of the Stranger using the same last name as him.

That’s a lot, and he can never tell Tim, ever. Or--or maybe it’s better if he does? But that’s--ugh. He doesn’t know. And it’s not like there’s really anyone to ask for advice. Well, anyone except for--

They pull their dad’s page out from under their bed, and read it, choking just a bit on ‘and so Eric Delano ended’, like they always do. He appears, and gives her his customary weak, brief smile.

“Hey, kid,” he says. “What’s going on?”

“I killed someone,” Gerry says, and Eric just nods. 

“Not the first time, is it?” he asks, softly.

“No,” Gerry breathes, laughing bitterly in his throat and shaking his head, pressing his palms to his forehead. “And it--it wasn’t a person, it was a-a thing . A Stranger thing.”

“Not so bad, then,” Eric says.

“I’m turning into her ,” Gerry says, the words sticking. “I know I am.”

“You’re not. Not yet, at least.”

“Reassuring,” Gerry says, with a bark of laughter. “It’s--look, I wanted advice.”

“Are you going to listen to what I tell you, or are you gonna do whatever you were gonna do before asking me?” Eric asks, a bit tightly, but he’s half-smiling, so it’s hard to read him. 

Gerry ignores it, not wanting to play into being his mother any more than he already is just by existing. “My, uh. Crush, I guess, though that’s a fucking juvenile thing to say. Um, his brother got eaten by the Stranger. And...and, uh, he was the thing I killed last night. Or the thing I killed was--y’know-- wearing him.”

“That’s a predicament,” Eric says, nodding. 

“Should I tell him?”

“No. Why would you? What would it help? In his mind his brother’s already dead and gone, no sense dredging it back up just to say you killed him again.”

“Yeah,” Gerry says, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Gerry, are you okay?”

Eric’s voice is soft and drenched with pity and concern. It makes Gerry nauseous, making their dead, barely-a-ghost father worry about them. 

He thinks about being honest for a moment. Thinks about saying no, dad, fuck, no, I’m not. I’m hungry at my core and I’m always compelled to riprendbitekill anything that smells like the Entities and drowning it out’s only making it worse but I can’t stop that either and no one is ever going to love me again if they ever even did to begin with because I throw rocks at them like I’m trying to chase a dog away in a shitty tearjerker movie and sometimes I think I don’t actually care because I’m turning into Mary I’m already Mary--

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just hungover to fuck.”

“Gerard,” Eric says, and a shudder runs down Gerry’s spine.

“Thanks for the advice, dad, you can go.” Eric disappears, and Gerry just sits there and tries to cry, to maybe get the pressure out, but it just congeals behind his eyes, hot and burning, refusing to release.

She heads back into the bathroom, pops a few loose Xanax, and starts scrubbing out her tub for the first time since she moved in. 

The strange, psychedelic, shifting residue gets under his nails, crusting on his skin, and he stops scrubbing in favor of staring at his hand, squinting intently. Something’s wrong with the skin he never noticed before. He can’t quite put his finger on what it is, but--it doesn’t look human. It’s got an almost plastic sheen to it. They flick it, and there’s a dull thunk, and bile rises in their throat.

This isn’t their hand and they have to get it off before the rest of them becomes also not them, they can’t be replaced like Tim’s brother, it’s--they remember to breathe. They can be calm about cutting their own hand off, it’s--they can manage this, they’re a professional. If Mary could slowly, painfully kill herself, they can at least do this. 

They stand, and drugged, hazy sluggishness washes over them, sending them stumbling into the counter. They experimentally run water over their not-hand and dig nails in, scrubbing it raw. It bleeds like her hand, in deep, thin scratches. 

They call Jon. He picks up, with a snapped “Fuck’s sake , Gerard, I said I was busy.”

“Then stop answering,” they say, tongue heavy.

Jon sighs. “No. What is it.”

“Is--can you tell me if my hand’s my hand?”

“Gerry.” Jon sounds sad, and put-upon, and hopeless . 

“I just don’t wanna cut it off if it’s actually my hand,” Gerry says, and there’s a sharp intake of breath on Jon’s end.

“Do not cut your hand off,” Jon says, voice low but deeply insistent. “It’s your hand.”

“Did you check?”

Jon hesitates a moment. “Yes. Yes, I did, and it’s-- don’t . Alright?”

“Whatever you say,” Gerry says, shrugging at no one. 

“I can’t come over. Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” Gerry says, and he doesn’t know if it’s a lie. It at least won’t take much more than a shot or two to render him incapable of movement, so worst case, he can keep himself okay that way. 

“Okay,” Jon says, softly. “Okay, I’ll take your word for it. I’ll, uh-- check on you --later.”

Gerry hums quietly in acknowledgement as Jon hangs up, still staring at the hand that might or might not be hers. It’s gonna be another long night, and an even longer day after. He sort of gets why Gertrude basically never leaves the Institute. It’s better in there, somehow.