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Chapter Text

“Arkham is nothing like New York”

It's all Oscar can bring himself to think as he wanders along the crooked cobblestone path of these rain-slicked streets.

The cold here bites, with a snarling, wolf-like hunger, ready to bury its teeth into Oscar’s skin.

He buries himself impossibly deeper into the feeble warmth his trench coat provides, winding the fabric tighter around himself in a weak attempt to block out this chill.

As he walks, Oscar lets his eyes roam over the people he passes. It’s early in the day. A soft Sunday morning, but the people he sees are anything but soft.

Oscar is used to the isolative nature of a city, used to the downcast gazes, and the frenzied pace everyone moves with. Always in motion, in a city that never sleeps.

The cold of Arkham seems to live in the people here too. There is a hardness to these people, one that reminds him of a snowy cliff face. Arkham’s streets are small, but Oscar can nearly feel the distance between the souls that walk them, a frozen lake stretching impossibly wider with each stride.

He wonders if the people came to the city already cold, or if the cold sank its fangs into its inhabitants.

A pointless question, if he’s being honest, to mull over now. Especially with where he’s going.

Oscar makes his way through the streets of Arkham, steady in his stride, concealing the shiver of his hands inside his pockets, headed swiftly towards a small church on the outskirts of town.

-

Throughout his life, Oscar had been labeled as many things; a drunk, a coward, a friend, a queer- But at the top of that list “a fool” rang clear as church bells as he folded his belongings into a suitcase, packing for a trip to Arkham.

If someone had come to Oscar years ago, and told him that one day, he’d travel miles to catch a glimpse of a self-declared prophet, he would’ve laughed in their face. A mocking, shitfaced howl. Sure, the drunk, off to find religion. Guess there was a ring of truth to that whole “finding God at the bottom of a bottle” business. Granted, Oscar would’ve laughed if someone had told him he’d be a P.I. in a few years' time too.

P.I. work had found Oscar, not the other way around, a few years back. Having felt aimless for so long, the investigative drive gave him something of a purpose. He needed the direction, needed the work. If there was anything worth chasing over the bliss found at the bottom of the glass, it was the feeling of a loose end becoming a tied one at his hands. He would chase the satisfying fullness that only came with gaining the answers to questions that had left him hungry for so long, and he would chase it with everything he had. There’s a certain thrill to the hunt. A rush to the mystery that can’t quite be beat.

Oscar always preferred to take the more, let's say it, curious cases. A simple case about a missing husband or girlfriend didn’t entice him all too much. But a mention that this could be the work of some cult, or that perhaps something more.. supernatural was at play? Well now, now you had his attention.

Which is why when Oscar received a tip regarding some priest living out in Arkham, a blind man, who claimed that the voice of some eldritch deity spoke directly to him. Well, his curiosity might’ve gotten the better of him on this one. Ignorant to any objections, including his own, he began to pack his bags for Arkham. It’s not every day now you get the chance to witness the blind prophet of an eldritch god, and Oscar certainly wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity. This was his purpose, after all. To find people like him, people marked by the sinister beings and forces that lay restless, jaws spread and drooling, at the edge of our world. To find them and to help. If he couldn’t dig himself out of his nightmares, couldn’t he at least try to dig out others from theirs?

-

The chill had not relented in the slightest, still viscous in her bite as Oscar nears the church. His attempts to block out any cold were forgotten about four blocks ago.

As he approaches the church, Oscar can’t help but feel a little.. well, disappointed. One would think that the church run by the supposed prophet of a malicious entity would look a bit more, well.. menacing. The building reminds Oscar of churches he would see in picture books when he was younger. Faded white paneling lined the exterior. A sharp, obsidian-boldened peak lifted a cross high above the church, resting just below the peak, a hallowed out arch, where a rusting bell hung dormant.

A sign is planted firmly in front of the building, its painted message faded yet still legible: “St. John’s Church” and a little below in a matching tilted font: “Arkham, Massachusettes”

Oscar’s pace slowed as he neared the stairs leading up to a main set of faded double doors. Like everything in this town, the darkened paint that had at one point held such deep shadows was now faded and chipping, resembling some subdued fog. He’d planned to arrive after mass had started, giving himself a chance to see what this priest was all about, while not having to talk to anyone while settling in. As he stood in front of the doors, an unexpected reluctance flooded him. Something about this place, about Arkham, about this priest, it all struck him as if it wanted to stay a secret. His presence here struck him as, nearly, invasive. Oscar held this feeling inside him, for the briefest of moments, that perhaps he shouldn’t be here. Maybe this isn’t a scent he should trace. Perhaps it would be best if he just turned around now, let whatever linger behind the doors of St. John’s stay there.

But Oscar was nothing if not devout.

So, with a shaky exhale, and two strides closer to his purpose, Oscar reached for the doors to the church, and pulled them open.

Chapter Text

The doors to St. John’s swing open, the aged hinges audibly voicing their discomfort at the action. Oscar hurries to scramble inside. Desperate to escape the chill he’s been walking through this morning. As he steps past the door’s threshold, he turns to ensure the doors stay shut. Once he hears the click of the doors sealing shut, he swivels then to find a place to sit, mindful to stay quiet and not disrupt the ongoing service. He spots an empty pew only a dozen or so paces up the aisle, to which he walks towards and promptly seats himself.

Oscar tries and yet fails to suppress a shudder as he settles into his seat. The warmth of the church chases away the cold that Oscar thought might have made a home for itself in his numbing hands. Not bothering to remove his coat or scarf, he settles deeper into his seat, taking this time to take in the people around him.

In a stark contrast to the people who wandered the streets of Arkham, the people within St John’s all look, so pleasantly warm. All of them have a relaxed posture to themselves as if settling into a family gathering, rather than the stiff posture one assumes that Oscar typically associates with worship. While the churchgoers don’t seem to be smiling, there is a gleam in each of their eyes, a gaze one would associate with wonder and admiration. Oscar follows their gazes towards the front of the aisle, directing his own to the man who stands at the pulpit.

The man who stands behind the pulpit is like no priest Oscar has ever known. He is a younger gentleman, Oscar would place him close to his own age. The man has a thin build, one not concealed by the cassock he wears. The late morning light catches on his hair, nearly blond but with hints of red, that drapes just past his ears. He gestures as he speaks, his fingers dancing with grace through the air as he preaches, Oscar guesses to himself they look like the hands of an artist.

It’s the man’s eyes that catch Oscar’s attention the most. While it's hard to make them out in great detail from the distance that Oscar is sitting, there is that shared gleam within his eyes that Oscar saw reflected in that of the churchgoers. Oscar knew the priest was blind, one of the few details he was given about Arthur before traveling all the way out to Arkham. While Oscar has not encountered many blind people in his time, he has never witnessed one with such a pointedness to their gaze. The way Arthur’s gaze moves around the mass as he speaks has Oscar nearly captivated. He swears, that for just a moment, Arhur’s gaze lingers on him, and Oscar has the distinct urge to suppress another shudder as the moment slips past.

Arthur speaks with a voice that is soft yet one that demands the attention of everyone in that room.

“Darkness is a certainty in this life, my friends. Beyond the doors of this church, our lives await us, and with them, the struggles and throws of our day-to-day, week-to-week, month-to-month even, and for some of us, those hardships that bleed from one year into the next."

"We are not alone in this darkness, my children. God keeps an eye out for us. He is our guiding light, through these dark and deep forests. Know, that when you leave today, you will walk home with God’s hand in yours. Let him guide you to make the right choices, to keep yourself safe, to persist, even when you think you might’ve hit your own rock bottom, know that God is there, to reach out a hand to yours, and offer you guidance upon a righteous path."

"We may not know the reasonings behind the darkness that haunts us. But my friends, we know how the light works. I know that God is here, as a lantern for all of us."

"Take care unto yourselves, and care unto others."

"May God bless you and may you walk forth with faith in your footsteps.Amen.”

“Amen.” the congregation echoed.

Oscar sat with the priest's words. Letting the sentiments take root in his mind as he watched the congregation members slowly rise and make their way out of the church. He watched as people flocked towards their friends or neighbors, some going up to Arthur, to thank him for the service.

He took this time to make some quick notes on the service. Producing a small notebook from one of his jacket’s pockets and a pen, he began to write some notes on Arkham, and the people he’d witnessed so far. The peculiarity of St. John’s. How far it was from the main town, the nearly offsetting casualty of the congregation, the abundance of warmth in this town that had proven so relentless in its insisting cold, a cold that Oscar couldn’t help but feel seeped into every corner of this town, including its residence, but for some reason, here, in this church, only a myriad of warmth.

Oscar was finishing up his notes on the sermon, and what he’d observed of Arthur so far, when he felt more than heard the pew creak beside him. Startled, he flipped his notebook shut and jerked his head to the left, to be met a gaze of golden brown.

Arthur, with that same soft voice, if now only quieted that he was closer, greeted Oscar as if he was an old friend.

“Hello there”

“Hello”

“What’s your name, friend?” Arthur asks.

“Oscar.” He answers.

“Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Oscar. I’m Arthur, Arthur Lester, but you can just call me Arthur”

“Not ‘Father Arthur’?” Oscar joked.

“Hah-- no. Not unless you’d like that.” Smile evident in Arthur’s tone.

“Ah, no I, ah” Oscar could feel a blush building beneath his scarf. Which he still had not yet removed, despite the prevalent warmth within the chapel.

“It’s alright, I’m just teasing you”

“Aye, right” Oscar quickly nodded.

“So, Oscar, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before” Arthur prompted.

“No, I don’t think you would’ve” He confirmed.

“Is this your first time?”

“Hmm?”

“At St. Johns, is this your first service?”

“Yes. It’s a wonderful place you have here.”

“Why thank you, that’s very kind of you to say” Arthur smiles softly at the compliment and Oscar swears he could drink in the sight all day if he was able. “So, are you new to Arkham then?” Arthur inquires.

“Aye.” Oscar responds.

“What brings you to town then?” Arthur asks. Oscar thinks briefly about the unfairness of this situation, he’s supposed to be the investigator here, yet Arthur is full of questions for him.

“Oh, uh, work, nothing much” Oscar shrugs, forgetting that Arthur couldn’t see the gesture, but hoping he could read his dismissive tone.

“Nothing special?” Arthur presses.

“Well, I was actually hoping-” Oscar trails off. He watches Arthur’s face tilt slightly as if studying him. He squirms under Arthur’s gaze. A not quite unpleasant feeling, yet not unwelcomed floods Oscar. He feels like he’s burning sitting here next to Arthur, and he’s not sure what to make of himself.

Arthur is patient, not pushing Oscar, but not giving up either.

“I wanted- I wanted to talk to you, actually.” Oscar finally manages.

“Oh,” Arthur replies, surprised at the request. “Well, would you like to talk somewhere quieter?” Arthur asks.

“Aye, I would.” Oscar agrees, hoping to conceal the eagerness in his tone.

“Well-” Arthur proclaims as he stands, “Right this way then.” He cocks his head towards the back of the church as he begins to walk.

Oscar, evermore the curious, is helpless to follow.

Chapter Text

Oscar couldn’t help but watch, nearly mystified, as Arthur led them down the aisle parting the rows of pews, towards the back of the building.

He thinks to himself how seemingly strange it is, that Arthur, a blind man, can move with such ease through this place. It didn’t strike Oscar before, when they were speaking, how Arthur was faced towards Oscar, but never truly looking at him. The surety with which Arthur moves forward is captivating to Oscar. It’s most likely that Arthur’s familiarity with the space of the church makes it that much simpler to navigate, quite similar to how Oscar can make his way through his apartment on the occasions he makes it home in the middle of the night, too exhausted to turn on any of the lights. Granted, Oscar’s own attempts at navigating a space without sight often included a great deal of drunken stumblings, reflexes dulled, and mind too far gone to give a damn. It doesn’t hold a light to the way Arthur moves. As if his priesthood had him walking in blind faith to wherever he needed to be.

They reach a door to the left of the pew, along the back wall of the church. Arthur reaches out and pulls the door towards him, stepping aside and gesturing for Oscar to step through. Whispering a soft thanks, Oscar steps through the doorway and into the small room. He takes in his surroundings as Arthur shuts the door behind them.

The room is small, similar in size to a bedroom. There is a desk tucked into one of the corners, and bookshelves lining the rest of the wall. From what Oscar can make out it’s a great deal of religious texts, maybe some historical novels and textbooks, and others with their titles faded away from their spines. A large window takes up the neighboring wall. Even through the sheer yellow curtains, the sun casts a glow through the room. Shadows cast from nearby tree branches dance upon the wooden floor as the leaves waltz in the wind outside. A large armchair sits in the far corner of the room, and a small ottoman, matching in its blue shade, sits in front of it. The rest of the space is littered with boxes, which Oscar guessed to himself hold mostly miscellaneous storage. In the center of the room, a circle rug lays, its edges and surface worn from years of use.

Oscar returns his gaze to Arthur who is making his way over to the armchair in the corner, when he suddenly stops and turns his head, ever so slightly, as if listening to something in the distance. “I-” he starts, and then lets out a short sigh, shaking his head dismissively. He then turns to face Oscar.

“Oscar, would you like anything to drink? I could get you some coffee, or tea, if you’d like.”

“That- That would be lovely, Arthur. I’d take some tea if you’re offering.” Oscar answers.

“Sure! We only have a breakfast blend if that’s okay.” Arthur responds.

“More than,” Oscar assures.

“Of course. How do you take it?” Arthur asked. Oscar didn't miss the soft beginnings of a grin that tugged at the corner of Arthur’s mouth.

“Um, if you have any honey that would be lovely, but I’m fine with it plain.”

“Brilliant. Listen, you make yourself comfortable here” Arthur makes his way over to the door as he continues speaking “I’ll pop on over to the kitchen but I’ll be right back, promise” He assures him.

“Aye. Thank you, Arthur” he responds.

“Oh, don’t thank me yet.” Arthur dismisses, as he heads out of the room. Leaving Oscar to settle into the space.

Oscar takes the time to gather his thoughts. He settles for seating himself at the desk. Taking care to remove his coat and scarf and fold them over the back of the chair, now that he was properly warmed from his chilly walk here, before swiveling it around to face the armchair in the corner, which he was certain Arthur would settle into once he got back.

Resting his hands on his knees, Oscar tried to narrow down the mess of questions in his mind into a comprehensible, sensible list. He wanted to be gentle with Arthur. He didn’t want to scare him away. He needed to know more about this eldritch god. If there even was a god or entity in the first place. He couldn’t handle what waits for him at night. Well, he could. It’s just that handling it looked a lot more like racing to the bottom of a bottle than anything else. Oscar needed to know if there was any hope for him. He wanted there to be. Hell, if Arthur was able to interact with some eldritch being and still keep his sanity and maintain his composure as a priest? Well, maybe there was a chance for Oscar after all. All he knew was that he was tired. Tired of falling into bed each night, if he even made it that far, and battling with whatever hell Scratch chose to torture him with night after night. He needed there to be a chance that all of this could stop. He needed there to be a way out. A way to escape this madness, or at the very least, make peace with it.

If he was really honest with himself, all Oscar really wanted, was to stop feeling so scared all the time. To stop feeling so alone in the battle with it all. He wanted Arthur’s help. He needed Arthur’s help.

As if on cue, Oscar was pulled from his spiral as Arthur made his way through the door. Two mugs balanced with care in one hand, he turned and shut the door gently behind him. Taking the time to seemingly gather himself before he turned, transferring one of the mugs to his other hand as he made his way over to Oscar.

Oscar took care to reach for the cup Arthur offered towards him. Ignoring the heat of the mug he focused on the gentleness with which Arthur’s hand brushed his as he took the steaming cup of tea into his own. “Thank you, Arthur.” Oscar whispered. Hoping Arthur could hear the sincerity in his tone.

“Of course.” Arthur whispered in kind. There again, that soft smile from Arthur as he retreated back. Making his way across the room, and sure enough settling into the large armchair placed across from where Oscar was sitting.

He watched as Arthur gathered his own mug into both hands, taking note that one of Arthur’s pinkies appeared to have a different color and texture than the rest of his fingers. Arthur slowly took a sip from his own mug and Oscar mirrored the action, as he watched Arthur settle into his seat. The delicate lines of his body sinking deeper into the furniture that cradled him.

“So, Oscar.” Arthur smiled. “What did you want to speak to me about?”

At the gentle tilt of his name from Arthur’s mouth, Oscar felt a warmth spread through him. Although that could just be the tea. Still struggling to land on the perfect question to lead with, Oscar figured he’d get the basics out of the way. “Well, Arthur. I apologize for being evasive about my occupation earlier. I work as a private investigator, back in New York.”

“Oh.” Arthur responded. The relaxed posture he was sitting with once before all but disappeared as he straightened up in his chair. Eyes widening ever so slightly, but still never connecting with Oscar’s own.

“It’s alright!” Oscar was quick to assure. “You’re not, in trouble or anything like that.” He needed to be gentle with Arthur. He needed to.

Arthur seemed to release a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Still not settling back into his chair, but noticeably less tense than he was just seconds ago.

“I- I heard about you, and your church, back in New York.” He explained. “Arthur I-” He started and then stopped himself. Trying best to figure out how to continue. “The detective work I do, a great deal of the cases aren’t what one would call ‘typical’.”

“How do you mean?” Arthur asked. Failing to mask the concern in his tone, not knowing where Oscar was headed with all this. “A lot of the cases I look at, deal with things, let's say, are not of this world,” Oscar confessed.

Arthur only nodded his head in confirmation. Not offering any response, simply letting the information sink in.

“Arthur” Oscar assured. Needing Arthur to know he was safe here. “I’m not here on a case. I’m here 'cause I wanted to learn more about you.” “You’re not being investigated, Arthur. There’s not a case out for you.”

“Okay.” Arthur whispered. Still hesitant, still nervous.

“Someone back home had mentioned hearing about your church. They said-” Once again starting and stopping himself. Wanting to say it as best he could. “I was told you were blind.” A nod of confirmation from Arthur was all Oscar needed to move forwards. “And that- that you were able to speak to an eldritch god, or at least, that an eldritch god could speak to you.”

Oscar watched as Arthur took a sharp inhale, his gaze pointed towards the floor, avoiding Oscar’s once again.

“I don’t know, if what they said was true.” Oscar continued. “Or if there was even any point to me coming out here.” “But Arthur, this place, this church. It feels,special. I know, even if all I’ve seen is one service, and not even a full one at that, that what you do here is special. I believe, Arthur, that you are special.”

Arthur slowly started to lift his gaze from the floor. Looking towards Oscar with an expression he couldn’t quite read.

“Now, whether that’s all from the influence of some eldritch god, I don’t know. But I know that it’s not nothing.” A breath, to steady himself. “I came here for a reason, Arthur, and you are that reason.”

A tense silence followed before Arthur finally broke it with a shaky inhale.

“They’re not wrong,” Arthur whispered. “About any of it.” He confessed.

Arthur still looked so small sitting there, across from Oscar. He still looked like a trapped animal. Nothing like the man Oscar had seen during the service. This isn’t what Oscar wanted, he didn’t want to scare Arthur. He only wanted to learn from him.

“Arthur,” Oscar hesitated, not knowing how much he should risk. “I wanted to talk to you cause I- I also have a connection, to something,,, not of this world.”

Now Arthur was looking directly towards Oscar.

“I hoped, that we could learn from each other. Figured that if you could deal with something like this and still continue peacefully, well that, maybe there’d be hope for me, with my um, connection.”

“Well I certainly wouldn’t call it ‘peaceful’” Arthur laughed, startling Oscar.

“No?” Oscar pressed. Curious as to what was so seemingly funny to Arthur.

“I don’t know if I’d call what John and I have been through as ‘peaceful’.” Arthur shrugs.

“John?” Oscar questioned.

“Sorry I-” Arthur huffed in frustration. “None of this is easy to talk about, is it?”

“No, no I don’t suppose it is.” Oscar agreed.

“Would it-” Now it was Arthur’s turn to stop himself. “Would it be helpful if, if we did this where you couldn’t see me?”

It took Oscar a minute to piece together what Arthur was asking him.

“Oh, I um, I suppose so. Yes.” He agreed. Noting that it might be easier for both Arthur and himself to speak about such things in a confessional setting.

“Well then,” Arthur grinned, smaller than he had before, but a sight Oscar was still grateful to see. “Would you care for a change of scenery?”

“I’d like that very much.” Oscar smiled in return. Not caring that Arthur couldn’t see his gesture returned.

Wordlessly Arthur rose to his feet. Electing to leave his coat and scarf still draped over the chair Oscar rose to join Arthur, leaving his cooling mug of tea on the desk behind him, as they walked together back towards the heart of the chapel.

Chapter Text

They traveled in silence.

Arthur and Oscar’s footsteps echoing off the arches of the ceiling and the aged wooden floor creaking below them as they walked were the only two sounds that arose as the two walked towards the confessionals.

It felt as if they were walking towards the point of no return. As if nothing would be the same once they entered those booths. Wasn’t that what Oscar wanted, though? Shouldn’t this be fulfilling? Arthur, sharing with Oscar the truths that would satiate his hunger for answers. Truths that might change everything about Oscar’s life. This was a chance, a chance for everything to be different. And isn’t that all Oscar wanted, for things to be different? To not fall into bed night after night heart pounding in anticipation and dread for what awaited him behind closed eyes. The simultaneous adrenaline rush and exhaustion that came with waking from every nightmare, mind still reeling like some poor creature hunted for sport. So why the knot in his stomach as they moved? Oscar couldn’t help but feel like he was fated by some doomed narrative coming here. A dread inescapable rose along with the bile in his throat as the two approached the booths.

Arthur turned then, still silent, and offered Oscar a meager smile before stepping into one of the booths. Oscar could see it there, even if Arthur couldn’t look him in the eye, not really, the fear echoed in Arthur’s own. And meager a smile as it was, it gave Oscar something akin to faith, that everything would be okay. Arthur had that effect on him he supposed. Oscar hoped that no matter what was said in these booths, that afterward, Arthur would still look at him and he could feel safe in his gaze. He held the wish in his mind like a prayer as he stepped into the opposite booth, its sentiment calming him as he settled into his seat. A darkness by no means unfamiliar engulfed him as the silence settled.

For a while, the two just sat there, not fully certain where to begin. This silence was sacred, something with weight, neither of the men quite ready to break its hold.

It was Arthur who spoke first. A shaky inhale before his voice filled the space. “I suppose,” Arthur began, another breath before he continued, “that you’d want to know about John. Or, the um, “eldritch being” that speaks to me, is that right?”

“Aye.” Oscar agreed. “It was what brought me here in the first place. Hearing about you and your um, ability to speak to it.”

“But why?” Arthur nearly snapped. Oscar could practically hear the hackles raised in Arthur’s tone. He was scared, that Oscar could tell. “Why here? To, Arkham, to me? What about this brought you all the way here?” Arthur pressed. Not understanding it yet. “I know you said that you also had, “a connection”. I just-” another pause, “I don’t see why you wanted to talk to me.”

Oscar steadied himself before answering. This, here, was the tipping point, the point of no return. “I do,” he started, “have a connection, to something not of this world.” Where does one begin when sharing something like this? He wondered to himself. “It, it calls itself ‘Scratch’.” Oscar started, already feeling as if he was speaking past a stone in his throat. “At night, when I sleep, it- it visits me then.”

Oscar couldn’t see it, but he could almost feel Arthur nodding in the booth next to him. Patiently letting Oscar share his side of the story.

He continued on, “Every night, I go to bed, knowing, that hell is waiting for me when I close my eyes. It’s terrifying Arthur, what, what it makes me see.” Oscar can feel himself choking on the words. His hands relentless in their trembling as he speaks through the discomfort. “It knows what terrifies me the most. I- I’ve had dreams where I kill the people that I love- dreams where I have to watch them die, over and over again. Dreams where it’s my fault.” The image of Oscar ascending the bell tower flashes in his mind. Seeing Alexander there, and the horror that flooded his friend's eyes, mirroring his own, as his hands shoot out around Alexander’s neck. “I have dreams sometimes, where, where it feels like it's the end of everything. I look around, at this wasteland, that I never before could’ve fathomed our world to look like. Like this thing is some fifth horseman I don’t remember reading about and it's just giving me a taste of what's to come.” Oscar wraps his shaking hands around himself, holding his sides like an anchor. “I remember the dreams where I die. It’s never painless. Even if- if you would think it couldn’t hurt in a dream. Scratch makes it hurt. And sometimes-” He feels like he’s hyperventilating, drowning on dryland trying to choke it all out of himself. “Sometimes those are the worst of em’. Not because of the dying part, but the cruelty of it all. Cause sometimes I think that it's finally over, you know? That it can’t hurt me anymore, on account of being dead and all. And then I wake up. And it’s just, it’s so awful. Cause I think to myself, how fucking exaughsting it all is. Trudgin’ through hell night after night, and then it gives me this hope. This hope that I’m finally done. No more nightmares, just, just an end to it all. But no-” There is fire in Oscar’s tone. An anger that bubbles up with drink now coating his tongue. “It’s never, done. Night, after night, I fight through what it brings me, and I just want it all to end.” Oscar confesses.

He takes a moment, to reel himself in. Breaths coming in unsteady gasps. Not noticing he’d been crying until he wiped his face on instinct, the warm tear tracks a surprise to himself.

“I came here, Arthur-” He begins. “Because I heard about your connection to the otherworldly. To, ‘John’ is that its name?”

“Yes, he- he goes by ‘John’” Arthur answered. Voice soft, after listening to Oscar.

“Alright.” Oscar nodded. “I- When I heard, about you, and your connection to John, I wanted to learn more, if I could. You see,” he paused for a moment, trying to figure out how best to explain it all to Arthur. “The investigative work I do, I look into a lot of cases that deal with otherworldly stuff, cults, and the like. There’s some real terrifying stuff out there.” Oscar swears he hears Arthur snort beside him, as if what he said was funny in some way. “I take these cases cause while a big part of me wants to help these people, help them get out of whatever mess this alien world has made for them-” another beat while he musters up the energy to speak past the boulder of guilt that's grown in his throat. “A small part of me, hopes that one day, maybe some of it will lead me to answers that might help me escape what I’m dealing with. Make this whole, mess of nightmares go away, or help me find some way to end it.” He continues on, “When I heard that you had this connection with John, it- Arthur it brought me hope. I’ve only ever known these beings to be like Scratch, to be something monstrous and malevolent in their nature. But when I heard about you, being able to speak, to communicate even with one of these beings, I knew I wanted to speak to you.” “If I could learn, how to communicate with it, maybe there’s a chance for me, that I could make peace with my tormenter, you know? Maybe, I could finally, find a way to make it end.” He confessed.

Oscar felt foolish sitting there now, all his torments now out in the open, suspended in this space between him and Arthur. “It’s probably a foolish notion, I know-” he dismissed himself “but I had to try. You give me hope, Arthur, that things can be different. That’s worth something to me.”

Arthur, voice still softened after listening to Oscar speak, broke the silence, “Oscar, I- I don’t really know where to begin.” He spoke quietly, as if it was his turn to be gentle with Oscar, to not scare him away. As if his voice could have frightened Oscar away as quickly as the things in his nightmares would.

“I suppose that makes two of us.” Oscar chuckled in spite of himself. Nearing hysterics at how absurd this entire situation was.

“Normally I would tell you that I, couldn’t imagine what you were going through, but this,” a beat “it isn’t altogether unfamiliar to me, dealing with the otherwordly, as you put it.”

“Has John ever,” Oscar started, trying to figure out if John was similar in ways to Scratch.

“What?” Arthur stated, confused for a moment to what Oscar was asking. “Oh, no- no, never um, well I mean” He paused, Oscar waited as Arthur took a moment to sort out what he wanted to tell him. “Any, torment as you put it, I have suffered through, none of it-” another pause. “I have been hurt, because of my connection to John but, none of it, he’s never treated me like how you described with Scratch,” Arthur confessed.

Oscar only nodded silently. Wanting to make space for Arthur to share.

“I um-” a huff of frustration. “I don’t know how much-” Arthur started, a statement Oscar wasn’t entirely sure was aimed at him.

Before Oscar could interject Arthur pressed on.

“I’m sorry Oscar it’s just-” he began. “I’ve never talked about John like this, to many people, before. It’s- I want to be honest with you Oscar, you deserve as much it’s just that,” another sigh of frustration “It’s difficult to tell a story like this, as I’m sure you know. I don’t-” Arthur seems to interrupt himself. “I know.” He whispered. “Sorry, again Oscar I just, John doesn’t- have a way to tell his side of the story to you. I’m only, treading carefully because I want, I want my words to be fair to us both.” he finished.

“Oh,” Oscar replied. “I can see, how that could provide a challenge. I don’t know what it must be like, to hold two perspectives inside like that, but I- Arthur I appreciate you wanting to tell me a story that’s fair to both of you.” Oscar agreed.

“Thank you.” Arthur nearly whispered. A moment while he collected his thoughts.

“Well I, supposed you might have guessed but, John, he um, he has my eyes,” Arthur confessed.

“Oh, I um- no, I admit I hadn’t drawn that connection.” Oscar continued, “I knew and could tell that you were blind but I just supposed that your ease in navigating the space was just, due to familiarity with it.” he confessed.

“Familiarity certainly helps but, no- John um, he has control of my sight. As well as one of my hands, and a foot.” Arthur admits. “He gained control of my eyes when we, fused, I suppose.” he continued, seemingly unsure about the wording of ‘fusing’ with John.

Arthur continued, “I had opened a book, that was delivered at my friend's house. Parker was, he was investigating some cult I think- he was an investigator, like you,” Arthur admitted, his voice taking on a gentle tone. “I was staying there at the time because I just couldn’t return home after-” Arthur stopped himself. When he spoke again it sounded nearly tearful. “I just couldn’t go home. Parker was a good enough man to let me stay there. I don’t remember much about the morning that book arrived at Parker’s place. Just, everything that happened after I opened it.” Oscar only nodded again. Still not caring that Arthur couldn’t see the motion. Only wanting to assure Arthur he was safe to continue.

After a moment Arthur began again. “I- I woke up and I couldn’t see. All I could do was panic I just, I felt so lost and the only thing waiting for me in that darkness was John’s voice asking me if I remembered what had happened. I-” He stopped himself again. “I don’t remember what happened when I opened the book, but I know that it led to me killing Parker.” Arthur’s voice was a whisper now. “I knew I couldn’t stay there I just-” Arthur breathed in shakily. Oscar could hear the tears in his voice. “So much happened after that, Oscar.” Arthur continued. “I knew I had to leave the apartment, I couldn’t stay in Arkham. My um- my quest, into figuring out what had happened to me, why John and I were connected, what could get us separated, it took me everywhere. It was-” A small laugh bubbled out of Arthur, startling Oscar. “You, Oscar you spoke of your nightmares being some hellish torment. The places I’ve been, The Dreamlands, the Prison Pits, the mines, Addison, it- it was its own breed of hell.”

A shiver ran through Oscar. Knowing that now what Scratch had shown him, knowing that some of it could exist outside, of his nightmares? It terrified him.

“John and I, we, well- we reached a point where we didn’t, neither of us wanted to separate from each other. It- well it just seemed easier to continue our lives together, as one. To come back home. To Arkham.” Arthur finished.

“To the church?” Oscar continued.

“Yes. To, St. Johns.” Arthur confirmed. Oscar could hear the smile in Arthur's voice and at that moment, draped in darkness and with the terror of recollecting some of his worst memories of Scratch, Oscar would do nearly anything to see that smile.

“I wasn’t always a priest though,” Arthur confessed suddenly. That Oscar was not expecting.

“No?” He asked, failing to mask to shock in his voice.

“Oh certainly not-” Arthur laughed. “I used to compose music, before everything.”

“Music?” Oscar pressed.

“Mhmm- Piano, actually.” Arthur confirmed.

“That’s beautiful,” Oscar admitted. He pictured now Arthur sitting at a piano bench, his delicate fingers dancing along the keys. Something in him ached. “What um- what lead you then, to, to priesthood?” He asked.

“I- Believe it or not but it was actually John’s idea,” Arthur admitted.

“Oh?” Oscar entertained.

“John, well, he’s a fragment of this god, the King in Yellow,” Arthur explained. “John already had lifetimes upon lifetimes of experience commanding a group of people, commanding followers, worshipers, and the like. John may not be the king, but, he holds memories of his time as him.” Arthur laughs again, the sound tugging at something deep in Oscar. “When we arrived back in Arkham after all our time away, and while we were trying to figure out where to stay and what to do, John noticed this abandoned church on the outskirts of town. Suggested that we clean it up and that I could pose as a priest there, while we built our lives back up again.” Arthur sighed to himself softly. “I obviously had no experience as a priest. I mean, I was raised Catholic but never thought to preach the stuff myself. John suggested that I just follow his lead. He knew how to command a group of people, and knew how the influences of a God worked. I knew how to speak to people, and how to frame things into a poetic light. It was a joint effort. Creating this place. A risk we both took, in hopes of creating a better future for ourselves. One I wouldn’t have taken if I didn’t trust John. And I did- I trusted him. I still do.” Arthur finished.

Oscar could only sit there and let everything Arthur told him sink it. Let the story cement itself in his mind so he could remember everything later. Silence settled over the two of them once again.

“I,” Arthur started. “I admit, Oscar that I-” a beat before Oscar heard Arthur shuffling in the booth next to him. “I’m sorry I just,” Oscar heard the door to the booth Arthur was sitting in open, as Arthur stepped outside. From outside his booth, he heard Arthur’s voice call out to him, if now just a bit more muffled than it was prior. “Oscar, I- I’m sorry I just, could we continue this out here?” Arthur asked.

Oscar stood shakily. Not expecting to feel so physically drained from his conversation with Arthur. He slowly reached through the dark towards the door of the booth, pushing it open and stepping back into the open hall of the church. Arthur stood there in front of him. Eyes widened and hands softly trembling. Even if he couldn’t see Oscar, he looked at him as if he was terrified. The sight was enough to rip Oscar in two.

“I’m sorry Oscar I just,” Arthur huffed in frustration. His right hand came up to run absentmindedly through his hair. “I felt it would be better to continue the conversation out here,” Arthur gestured to the empty hall of the church. “Plus I was feeling a little, trapped in there,” Arthur added softly at the end.

“It’s alright” Oscar assured him. He wanted to calm Arthur, wanted to help.

“Thank you,” Arthur whispered, as he turned and walked towards the nearest pew. Sitting down and looking towards Oscar as he joined him.

“Oscar,” He began. “I don’t- John and I, our relationship is, from what I can read so far, much different from the one you described having with this, Scratch.”

“Aye.” Oscar agreed. Nodding solemnly.

“Right now, I, I don’t know exactly how to help you, Oscar.” Arthur looked like it pained him to say it.

Oscar fought against the pit growing in his stomach. Dread splitting his insides like a deep sea trench. Challenger Deep opened up inside of him, swallowing the light whole.

“But I want to-” Arthur said. Snapping Oscar out of his spiral. “You, Oscar you told me earlier, that you came here for a reason, that I was special.” Arthur shook his head as if dismissing the idea that he could ever be special. “I feel that way about you Oscar. I feel like you came here for a reason. When you were telling me your story, about your time with Scratch. Oscar, you are special.” Arthur turned to face Oscar. “I want to help you, however I can.”

The honesty and devotion with which Arthur spoke threatened to shatter Oscar. This care Arthur was directing towards him was something too great to handle.

“I-” He started. “Okay, okay.” Oscar agreed. Willing the tears that were beginning to cloud his vision not to fall. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“Oh, Oscar of course I-” he paused. “I wish there was more I could do right now, but we’ll figure this out for you, okay? Oscar, I promise” Arthur insisted.

“Okay-” Oscar nodded. Afraid that if he said anything else he might start crying.

“I don’t- I don’t know how long you’re in town for, but I’m free tomorrow if you’d like to come by. We could even grab food together or something and just, try to sort more of this out, figure out how best to help you.” Arthur suggested.

“I um- I’ll be in Arkham for a few more days” Oscar admitted. To be honest with himself, Oscar wasn’t sure how long he planned to stay in Arkham. He’d simply given the inn a week's deposit and decided he’d re-evaluate once the week was done. “And um, that, that sounds nice,” Oscar added. “We could- we could get lunch and, like you said, try to figure more of this out, together.” He agreed. The idea of having lunch with Arthur was doing something to Oscar that he was pointedly not going to analyze right now.

“Oh, that's wonderful news,” Arthur replied. His tone was genuine. As if someone really was happy for once to have Oscar sticking around for a while longer.

“Aye.” Oscar nodded. “Well I um, I’m sure I should get going I, don’t mean to keep you if you have more to do this evening, before seeing each other again tomorrow.” He admitted, standing up to begin making his way out of the church.

“Oh, right of course,” Arthur said quickly standing to meet Oscar as they both began walking.

They had gotten about halfway down the aisle when Oscar remembered his jacket and scarf were still folded over the desk chair back in Arthur’s office.

“I um-” Oscar said as he abruptly stopped, Arthur coming to a halt just behind him. “I forgot my coat and scarf back in your office.” He admitted.

“Oh dear-” Arthur exclaimed. “You wait right here, I’ll go back and grab those for you” he assured Oscar, before quickly pivoting to head towards the back of the church.

“Are you sure? It’s not a problem I could always-” Oscar gave up his protests seeing as Arthur was already moving swiftly towards the door to his office, not likely to budge on this one.

Oscar stood in the middle of the church waiting for Arthur to return. Not many moments later, Arthur re-emerged back into Oscar’s field of vision. Walking towards Oscar carrying his scarf and coat.

Once Arthur reached him, Oscar attempted to reach out to take his coat and scarf when Arthur pulled both garments back towards himself, beginning to unfold Oscar’s coat as if to put it on Oscar himself. “Ah-ah, I insist.” Arthur grinned.

Oscar, speechless, could only turn around and begin to lace his arms through the coat that Arthur now held out to him. When Oscar finally finished fitting himself back into his coat he turned back around to meet Arthur, to take his scarf back.

Once again, Arthur withheld the scarf from Oscar’s reach. Placing a hand softly on Oscar’s chest as if to steady him before slowly leaning closer to be able to loop the scarf around the back of Oscar’s neck. Oscar could only hold his breath and watch Arthur’s face close to his own. He studied the scars that littered Arthur’s face, this close it didn’t escape Oscar that there was a scar on Arthur’s neck that peaked out just beyond his collar. Arthur’s eyes were cast downwards, towards his hands as he finished fastening Oscar’s scarf. Taking the extra care to button up Oscar’s coat over the scarf.

“There.” Arthur breathed softly, smiling up at Oscar as he dragged his hands back to his sides. “It’s awfully chilly out there this time of year.”

“Aye.” Oscar sighed. Not trusting himself to say anything else as he turned to follow Arthur towards the doors to the church.

Arthur reached the main doors of St. John’s. Slowly reaching out to open them, gesturing for Oscar to follow him outside.

Oscar stepped through the doorway and past Arthur, stopping by his side.

“Goodbye, Arthur,” Oscar said. “Thank you, for letting me speak to you, today. I’m- I’m grateful you shared what you did. It’s been wonderful, to meet you.”

“Thank you, Oscar. It was lovely to meet you too” Arthur smiled. The lights from inside the church haloed Arthur from the door still opened behind him. Oscar felt something stutter in his chest. Something he didn’t have the name for.

“Thank you, Arthur.” Oscar nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Oscar began to walk down the steps when a hand reached out and grabbed his own.

“Oscar-” Arthur exclaimed.

He turned around to see Arthur looking right at him. Still not meeting his eyes, but Oscar could feel the embrace of Arthur’s gaze nonetheless.

“Oscar-” Arthur started, “I wanted to thank you, for what you said today. It’s, it’s never easy. Talking about things like this. You, you came all the way out here, and you shared these things with me, and it was a very risky thing you did. It was very brave of you.” Arthur looked towards the ground now, as if he was embarrassed. “I just, I want you to know that I’m grateful you did, Oscar. Thank you, for coming here, for meeting me. I’m happy I met you.” Oscar could swear he saw a flush begin to spread across Arthur’s cheeks, perhaps from the cold, but perhaps not.

“Of course, Arthur,” Oscar reassured. “Thank you.” He emphasized, covering Arthur’s hand with his own, before softly pulling away, and continuing to make his way down the steps.

“Good night, Oscar,” Arthur called.

Oscar turned around and smiled, waving goodbye to Arthur. “Good night, Arthur.” He pivoted to walk back to the inn. These icy streets of Arkham no longer held the same chill they had when Oscar first made the journey.

Chapter Text

Oscar enters his room back at the inn feeling lost in a haze.

Reflecting upon the day’s events, it seems nearly unreal to him now. To have begun his day not knowing much about Arthur, not even what he looked like, only the vague mental images of some clergyman floating around in his mind, to now having shared such a monumental part of himself with the man, to know that Arthur wanted to help him, it all struck Oscar as nearly surreal.

His walk back to the inn had been less than pleasant. By the time Oscar had left the church, the sun was beginning its descent in the sky. The edges of an evening sky bloomed across the horizon line as the light slipped away from its shine upon Arkham. Oscar had stopped at a small deli on his way back to the inn, not realizing how hungry he had grown during the day, his conversation with Arthur in the confessional booth having left him simultaneously relieved yet drained. He’d gotten himself a sandwich that he’d eaten on his walk back. Arkham took on an entirely different feel when the sun began to set, when darkness started to sink her claws into what little remaining softness existed in the city. Oscar was used to feeling uneasy. Was used to staying alert and keeping his head on a swivel. His work called for him to remain ever so observant, to constantly be aware of the risks that potentially waited behind every turn, to be expectant of the monsters, both the literal and human, that plagued the edges of his vision. Arkham’s streets adopted a new degree of coldness, one that only grew more malicious when the warmth of the sun was no longer there to chase it away. Every alleyway seemed to stretch on eerily longer into the shadows. Shouts from the city’s residence echoed off of stone and into the evening, the resonance into the night sky sounding beastly. The taller buildings that Oscar passed seemed to swallow the sky whole, every structure looking warped, twisting towards the street and casting shadows that engulfed what little light the meager street lamps could’ve provided. Safe to say, Oscar did not waste his time getting back to the inn, desperate to have a few doors in between him and the wilderness of Arkham’s streets at night.

Once the door slid shut behind him, the loneliness hit Oscar like a train. This was the part he always dreaded. His time spent with Arthur had been such a respite from all that awaited him at night. Even when Oscar had felt like he was drowning in the confessional booth, choking on his words as the fear of his nightmares swallowed him during his recount, Arthur’s voice proved like an anchor, pulling Oscar back to himself. Even through the dark, he could find the softness of Arthur’s words, follow their resonance like a beacon cast across a dark sea, and find himself back on land, no longer afraid to drown. Now, left alone in his room, the reality of his situation sinking in, Oscar could feel the fear reaping up again. It wanted Oscar scared. Scratch needed him afraid, needed him cornered and petrified, helpless to do nothing but let the nightmares run rampant, wreaking havoc upon his guilty conscious until he woke again. A vicious cycle, one that only left Oscar worn down, as night after night he succumbed to this same, horrific, nauseating fate. Oscar itched to run, to flee from it all. His fingers ached to wrap themselves around a bottle. To drown out the roar of anxious thoughts that swirled in his mind, sending him spiraling deeper into his descent to dreaming. To numb the sharp sting of Scratch’s torments, in a hope that it would all just pass in a haze, and the worst he could wake up with was the discomforts of a hangover. A pointless endeavor, and one that never worked, Scratch kept its nightmares vivid for Oscar, yet that never kept Oscar from trying to dampen them out in what little ways he could.

Sleep was inevitable, this Oscar knew. A cruel fact, one combined with his work and his nightmares he wished wasn’t true, but a fact nonetheless. His conversation with Arthur had already left him feeling drained, the warmth of Arthur’s gaze and smile, combined with the tenderness of their final moments together had given him a spark to cling to on his journey back. But that walk through the dark streets of Arkham, fighting off cold and moving quickly to escape the horrors that lurked amongst the city, had made him all the more weary. Despite the chill that clung to his limbs, Oscar began to peel off his coat and unwind his scarf. The memory of Arthur’s gentle touch as he had placed the garments on Oscar earlier, lingered with him as he removed both and folded them once again to place on a small chair in the corner of his room. He smiled, softly to himself, remembering how soft Arthur had looked up close. How delicate Arthur had treated Oscar, the timidness in his approach did not betray the certainty in his movements and he had leaned in close to Oscar, looping his scarf around his neck. Oscar shuddered softly at the memory of Arthur’s breath ghosting the back of his neck as he had draped Oscar’s coat over him, a sensation Oscar was trying hard not to overanalyze.

He looked at his bed knowingly. Oscar was tired, his mind was exhausted from the events of today, between trying to comprehend all that Arthur had shared with him, atop his recounts of his torments at the hands of Scratch, he was worn thin, lacking any energy to fight off the anxious protest of falling to sleep. With the cold that had clung to him from his walk back through the frigid streets, Oscar ached to feel the warm embrace of bedding around him. Drearily, and with resignation, he began to shed off his clothes. Kicking off his shoes and undoing his belt to remove his pants. He was quick to remove his shirt. An old force of habit to rapidly undo the buttons before hastily slipping on an undershirt before turning once again towards the bed.

Oscar gently lifted the covers, sliding underneath them, he took his time to rearrange the pillows, wrapping the covers tightly around his shoulders before settling down upon the mattress. He shifted then, turned himself towards the window in his room, choosing to watch the uncoordinated dance of the branches outside as the wind blew through them. As he drifted off, Oscar held the sight of Arthur’s smile in his mind. That soft upturn of his lips, the gentle gleam to his eyes lingering with Oscar as the waking world faded away, and his dreams rose up to claim him.

-

Oscar knows he’s dreaming. There’s a distinct feeling to the movement that accompanies his dreaming states. Almost akin to being underwater, his steps feel ghostlike, he can see the floor beneath him as he stalks through the dark halls of the orphanage. He can see his feet collide with the wooden boards, but he can’t fully feel the impact of them, can’t register the give of the floorboards as his weight shifts on and off, a steady progression forwards.

He couldn’t diverge his path if he wanted to. No, here, in Scratch’s domain, Oscar is a puppet. Strung along like some marionette, helpless to play out whatever scene was devised for him.

Only the moon lights his path. It is one he knows well, one he has remembered time and time again, the floorboards in his dreams should be worn by his footsteps now, given the number of times he’s revisited this scene, crop circles paved by the frequency in which these very steps have been repeated.

There’s no need to look up when he reaches Father McKenna’s door. Oscar only watches with a removed horror as his right-hand reaches out to turn the doorknob. Is it silly? Oscar thinks to himself, that even now, even in his dream, he’s still afraid of being too loud. Still cautious to turn the knob ever so slowly, still mindful to keep his footsteps light as he moves across the length of the bedroom. After all this time, even here, in his dream, he’s still afraid of waking the Father.

As Oscar approaches the bed he raises his hammer, a motion he has no control over. He is now only a ghost in his body. Fated to be a passenger in his own skin, and observe the cruelty of his nature.

The figure in bed turns around and opens its eyes, and Oscar feels sick at the sight.

It’s himself, in that bed. He stares into his own eyes, watching horror flood his face. Oscar watches as the Oscar in bed begins to open his mouth, to voice its own protest at the threat he’s now become. When the Oscar in bed speaks, it is not with Oscar’s own voice, nor the voice of Father McKenna, but with Arthur’s.

“Oscar, please-” it pleads. Arthur’s gentle tone begging for Oscar to stop.

Oscar feels his own arm move. Watches as the silver claw of the hammer glints in the moonlight, before completing its arc, and smashing down upon the Oscar that lays in the bed. His hand repeats the arc. Again, and again, and again, and again. He can only watch, as his face becomes unrecognizable. A mangled, mess of flesh and viscera, sculpted by his own hand.

When it's done all Oscar can do is stand there, shaking. His hands tremble, but despite their shaking, he cannot bring himself to drop the hammer, only grip it tighter.

Something is growing within him, a sick, and angry urge. The Oscar in his bed didn’t say anything past the single plea in Arthur’s voice. He did not try to fight back against the onslaught of violence that Oscar enacted. Only lie there, looking up helplessly, as Oscar destroyed, and mutilated, and hurt. Whatever was building within him reaches its forte and with the strength that he has left, Oscar opens his mouth to scream.

The sound that escapes him could only be described as a howl.

-

Oscar jolts up in bed. Sheets a tangled mess around him. His chest is heaving with broken sobs and he couldn’t stop the tears that flow down his face if he tried.

He can only gather his knees to his chest, and rest his head between his knees as he rides out the storm of this attack.

There is no telling how much time has passed, but eventually, Oscar can stop the tears from flowing. His breaths are evening out and he can no longer feel his heartbeat in his throat. Slowly, he begins to lift his head from his knees. Through blurry eyes he takes in the soft light that coats the room, the gentle promise of a new day evident in the golden glow of sunlight cast along the far walls and the floor. Oscar takes another moment before he makes any attempts to leave bed. He hates this part the most. The frailty that his nightmares leave him with. His hands shake as he moves the covers off of himself. Slow and steady, Oscar reminds himself, as he swings his legs off the mattress to now dangle over the floor. Timidly, Oscar slides off the bed and stands, taking a second to collect himself before beginning to get ready. There’s no doubt he’ll have a headache later after all his crying, but it’s not worth dwelling on right now. Oscar feels fragile, his nightmare leaving him quivering like something that could be knocked over by a light breeze. He hugs himself, trying his best to anchor himself to the present moment. With his arms wrapped around himself, he can’t help but feel small, fear does that, Oscar thinks. It shrinks you down to bite-sized prey, the maw of your torment gaping wide and ready to swallow you whole. Oscar took a few deep breaths before dropping his arms back down to his sides, it helped, to feel his ribcage expand and deflate with each breath, a reminder that he was okay, he was here, he was awake, and he was in control of his body.

Oscar slowly moves through the process of getting ready. He is normally not one for longer showers, often rushing through them in the hopes of getting back into clothes as quickly as possible, but this morning he took his time in the shower. The warm water was a gentle, grounding sensation that Oscar allowed himself to bask in, as he took his time cleaning up. Still, he dried and dressed himself quickly after he was finished washing up. Oscar strived to be quick about the rest of his morning routine. Briskly making sure that everything he would need for the day was in his coat pockets, and scanning the room to make sure he hadn’t missed anything that might’ve been helpful to bring, he made his way to the door. He knew Arthur hadn’t specified a time to meet him today, but he still felt it rude to potentially keep him waiting. Before ducking out Oscar took one last look in the mirror at himself, whether or not he’d spent too long fixing his hair earlier was anyone's guess, but he certainly wasn’t going to analyze it now. With a final glance over, he nodded to himself, before turning and walking out of the room. Something that felt like hope bloomed in Oscar’s chest as he locked the door behind him. It will be nice, Oscar thinks, to see Arthur again.

-

St. John’s looks different to Oscar today than it did before. Its towering arches seem less intimidating and more like a subtle marvel of architecture. Oscar does not experience dread as he climbs the steps towards the main doors of the church. Perhaps it’s now just knowing what waits inside, but Oscar feels the warmth in his chest grow as he swings open the doors to the chapel, no longer a fear or suspicion and what the doors contained.

The inside of the church is silent, save for the soft echo of the doors as they swing shut behind Oscar. He looks around the main hall, not seeing any signs of life amongst the pews. His footsteps carry him up the main aisle as he wanders almost aimlessly around, just taking this moment to observe the building. Oscar has always loved stained glass. Considering it close to magic the way the deep colors would capture the sunlight just so. He could care less about the scenes they portrayed, content to marvel at the warmth those colored panes exuded, the spectacle of tinted light cast along the floorboards.

As Oscar’s gaze flitted from one window to the next, he heard the tell-tale sound of footsteps echoing from the back of the church. He turned to look towards the direction of the footsteps as he heard Arthur’s voice come into earshot.

“I just don’t understand what point you’re trying to make here, it’s not like we even told him a time to-” Arthur abruptly cut himself off as he came into view, now facing Oscar.

“Oscar! I’m glad you’re back.” Arthur greeted. The beginnings of a smile starting to spread across his face as he approached Oscar. “I hope you didn’t rush yourself to get here. I realized after you left I never told you a time to get here. There weren’t any services scheduled and I didn’t have anywhere else to be so I just thought that whenever you got here we could sort out where to go from then. I do apologize if I complicated things by not asking you about a time that might work best.”

“No, no you’re alright. I didn’t have anything planned for today so this worked out perfectly.” Oscar reassured. It was lovely to see Arthur’s smile again. A comfort that was desperately needed after last night’s terrors. “It’s good to see you again, Arthur.” He admitted.

Arthur grinned, now standing directly in front of Oscar, his voice softened no longer needing to project across the space. “I’m happy you’re here Oscar, really.” He then turned his head to seemingly glance towards the entrance of the church, as if expecting someone to burst through the doors at any moment. “Say Oscar,” Arthur began, “would you still be interested in joining me for lunch? If it's more comfortable to speak here that’s okay too. Or we could go somewhere else if you’d prefer.”

It was cute Oscar thought, how thoughtful Arthur was being about this whole thing. “Lunch sounds lovely,” he affirmed. “Anywhere you had in mind? I don’t have any clue what’s good in the area.” Oscar admitted.

“Delightful,” Arthur sighed. “And yes, there’s a diner just a few blocks up I’ve visited in the past. They’ve always had good food in my experience.” He answered.

“Sounds good to me,” Oscar confirmed. “Well, Father Arthur” he teased, pleased to note the bashful drop of Arthur’s head at the title. “Lead the way.” With that, Oscar pivoted towards the entrance of the church. Joining Arthur in stride as the two made their way out of St. John’s.

-

The walk to the diner was a brief one. Arthur was right in his telling Oscar that the place was only a few blocks away. It was warmer out today. Sunlight painted the city streets in a soft morning glow. Oscar took in the city streets as he walked along with Arthur, on occasion he would glance over at Arthur, allowing himself to drink in the sight of him. Arthur wasn’t wearing his typical vestments, instead electing to wear an outfit similar to Oscar’s. Slim-fitting pinstripe trousers hugged Arthur’s legs, he wore a nearly cream-colored button-up that he’d tucked into the trousers. The first two buttons of the shirt were undone, exposing the delicate curve of Arthur’s neck. Walking closely to him, Oscar could see the faded scar that spanned across Arthur’s neck. He wasn’t about to ask Arthur about the scar, but based on what had been said yesterday in the confessionals, Oscar figured its origins might’ve had something to do with Arthur’s time with John, maybe something he’d received in one of those hellish places he had listed. Arthur wasn’t wearing a coat, whether he was simply unbothered by the cold, a case that Oscar wasn’t inclined to believe, or was just too preoccupied on his way out of the church to grab one, Oscar couldn’t tell. A few minutes into their walk Oscar had asked if Arthur was cold. Arthur had simply shook his head, giving Oscar a reassuring smile and assuring him that the diner would do plenty to warm him back up.

They arrived at the diner shortly after the exchange. Arthur navigated them to a booth that had a window view to the street out front. It still amazed Oscar, to see how easily Arthur was able to navigate these spaces without his sight. He knew that John had Arthur’s eyes, and that must be helpful for Arthur in receiving points of direction, but it was still a wonder to Oscar, how one could put so much trust into another to guide, to help. Arthur held faith in the being that had his eyes, to that Oscar was sure of. They settled into their respective seats at the booth. Arthur simply took his time to relax into the booth, as Oscar looked over the menu. Both men ordered just a standard breakfast and some coffee, Oscar ordering cream with his while Arthur elected to take his black.

Once their coffees arrive and Oscar begins to stir some cream into his own mug, Arthur breaks the silence.

“So, Oscar” Arthur begins, “I think I just, well I firstly wanted to just thank you for meeting me again, today. I know I wasn’t able to help much yesterday.” He continues, “Don’t get me wrong, everything you shared with me yesterday was, well- I appreciate you sharing what you did with me. These things are,” Arthur shakes his head, his eyes fixed on the table, a far-off gaze reflected in them. “Well, they’re never easy to talk about. I just-” a huff of frustration “I want you to know that I’m grateful you came to me yesterday. Since coming back to Arkham there hasn’t been anyone to, speak to about these sorts of things. What you shared with me yesterday, John and I are thankful for it. I only wish I was able to do more to help. No one, no one deserves to deal with something like that. To be, tormented endlessly by the things you described. It’s a cruel fate, one you certainly don’t deserve, Oscar.” Arthur looked angry. His right hand was wrapped tightly around his mug, not yet moving to take a drink. His brows were furrowed, he spoke to Oscar as if it pained him to know what Oscar was going through. Oscar was familiar with Arthur’s pain, in this moment, the frustration of witnessing another going through torment and not knowing how to help. It was something that was, unfortunately, familiar in Oscar’s line of work. Dealing with the otherwordly was never easy, it’s never a fair fight, and it stings even more when you have skin in the game. Sometimes the only option is persistence. Survival was always important when it came to dealing with things like this, it was a depressing truth that sometimes, it’s the only option.

“Arthur, I-” Oscar started, “I know, how difficult it can be, dealing with things like this. In my line of work, I’ve become unfortunately all too familiar with cases where sometimes the only thing I can do to help a client is just guide them on how to survive. There isn’t always a clear path out, there isn’t always a solution to these things. It’s infuriating,” he admitted “to just sit back and watch these things happen. Wanting to do more to help, but now knowing how or what to do to make it better.” Arthur nodded softly at that. A truth familiar to himself as well, Oscar supposed. “Arthur, when I met with you yesterday I-”

Oscar was promptly cut off as the waitress arrived with their food. Both men were quick to thank her before turning back to their food. Their conversation was briefly suspended as the two took their time to eat. It had been a while since Oscar had enjoyed a hot meal, the food was quite delicious and Oscar was grateful for the company. Too much of his time had been spent alone. He was grateful to share a meal with someone, that someone being Arthur made the experience all the more lovely. After clearing away a sufficient amount of his plate, Oscar gathered his thoughts and tried to remember where he had left off in their conversation.

He cleared his throat before he began. “Like I was saying earlier, I know these things are never easy, Arthur.” He assured. “It’s painful, to sit back and watch as someone deals with horrific things like this, the sting only made that much worse when we don’t know how we can help. But Arthur-” Oscar continued, “yesterday, at the church, you- you listened to me. You cared about, about what I had to share with you. Hell, the fact that after hearing all that you still wanted to meet with me again, that-” Oscar shakes his head in near disbelief. “That means the world to me. You still want to help. Even if you don’t see a way right now, Arthur your kindness, your devotion, your support it- it means more to me than you know.” he admitted.

Arthur nods slowly. “Of course, Oscar I- you’re a good man, Oscar, I may not have known you for long but I can tell that you care, about making the world a better place for others. About saving people from their nightmares, when you can’t save yourself from yours.” The statement shakes something loose within Oscar, a silent pain he carries deep within him. The weight of isolation, in his suffering. A heavy shipwreck nestled in the ocean of his heart. “Your devotion, to helping others, Oscar, it speaks to something. I want to help you, however I can. Believe me when I say that I do.” Arthur continues, “I don’t know much about your relation with Scratch, outside of what you shared with me yesterday, but I, I’m hoping that if I knew more, then perhaps John and I could find a clearer way to help. I know you already shared a lot with me yesterday. As we established, it’s never easy to talk about these things but I wondered Oscar if, if you’re alright with it, if John and I could ask you a few questions, just to learn more about what you’re dealing with.” Arthur posed. “Only if you’re comfortable, of course.” He reassured.

Oscar nodded to himself. It only made sense that if Arthur and John would be able to help him, they would need to know more about what exactly they were walking into, they deserved that much. “Aye,” he confirmed. “If you and John, are willing to help me, it makes sense you’d need to know more about what we’re dealing with. I want to do what I can, to help you in turn.” Oscar continued, “So yes, I- whatever questions you have, I’ll answer them.”

Arthur took a final sip from his mug before leaning closer to Oscar, he folded both his hands on the table in front of him, resting his weight on his forearms. He didn’t look tense, he didn’t even look interrogative, only curious. His voice, still ever so softened whenever he talked to Oscar, posed the first question, “Oscar I, me and John were talking more about what you shared after you left last night. We were both curious as to exactly when you started being affected by Scratch. I mean- that's assuming this hasn’t been something you’ve been dealing with your whole life. I guess we were just curious when it all started for you, if there was a distinct event that bound you to Scratch, or if can remember when the nightmares began for you.” he let the question linger in the space between them, never pushing, just patiently waiting for Oscar to answer.

“Well,” he began, “you and John were right in your assumption that this hasn’t always been something I’ve been dealing with. I lived a good portion of my life without Scratch and its nightmares. I grew up in an orphanage, there was- a lot happened there, I-” Oscar took a moment to gather himself, “I hurt people, back then. I have done, monstrous things, both as a child, and an adult, those things I did, the people I hurt, it was nightmarish, but nothing like what Scratch had in store for me. No-” he shook his head to himself. “No, things with Scratch, it all began when I moved to New York, when I settled into my current apartment.” Oscar took a moment to drink from his own mug, frowning to himself now that his coffee had gone mostly cold. “The nightmares didn’t begin until after my first few weeks there. I had gotten the apartment for cheap, its last tenant had left quickly, which I truthfully should've been more concerned about, but I needed a place to live, somewhere close to the downtown area. The apartment doubled as an office, I was able to lease two rooms, one downstairs for clients to visit, and then a room upstairs, where I actually stayed. It was nearing about a month into my lease when everything started to turn to shit. Initially, I had just thought the nightmares to be cause I was overworking myself. Chalked it all up to too many late nights spent up milling over cases, that and just the nerves of settling into a new place, I just figured it wasn’t anything that wouldn’t blow over after I got settled.” Oscar frowned, looking at his hands still wrapped around his mug in contemplation. “I wish that was the case. I think, I think I knew this was something different when it, when Scratch showed itself to me.” He took a breath, before he continued, steadying himself before he shared what he was about to with Arthur and John. “There was a boy, at the orphanage. His name was Alexander. I, I never had any siblings growing up but if I ever had a brother, I would’ve wanted it to be him. He was, he was different from the other kids. I don’t know what about him made it so easy for them to take out their frustrations upon him, but they did. It was, it was terrible, to witness him, undergoing this torment day after day, while the Clergymen just sat by and let it happen.” Oscar could feel the fire drip back again into his voice. He noticed Arthur seem to wince at his scorn of the clergy. Oscar hadn’t meant any offense to Arthur, he was simply trying to recount his experiences as best he could. “One day, Alexander he, he disappeared. Nobody had seen him and nobody, nobody really seemed to care where he’d gone. I- one evening, I had just, there was this bell tower, at the orphanage. You’re not, supposed to go up there, course that didn’t stop anyone who chose to venture up there. I don’t know, what compelled me that night to explore the bell tower again. But I-” Oscar took a shaky breath before he continued. “Arthur he was there when I got to the top. I- I saw Alexander. I don’t- I don’t know how long he was kept there, but he was, god Arthur he looked so small. It’s like he wasn’t even a boy anymore, just, just the shell of one.” He sniffed, fighting back tears at the memory. “I- I’ve had that nightmare, all my life Arthur, of seeing Alexander, starved and terrified at the top of that tower. I figured the nightmares I was having at the apartment weren’t anything different. It wasn’t until one night were I was having that nightmare, I was staring at Alexander, I couldn’t move, I could only watch as he opened his mouth to speak to me. I figured he was gonna ask me why, why I hadn’t looked for him sooner, why nobody had tried to help. But whatever spoke to me, that wasn’t Alexander.” Oscar shuddered at the memory of hearing Scratch’s voice for the first time. The horror of hearing such a monstrous voice dripping from the mouth of this young boy. “That was the first time it ever spoke to me. It introduced itself as Scratch, or Mr. Scratch. That was the night that changed everything. I knew then that what I was dealing with, it wasn’t some typical night terror fits. No- it’s, it’s all so sinister what it does. I’ve had nights where I wake up and learn that I’ve been sleepwalking. That I’ve somehow made it outside of my apartment, nearly about to leave the complex.” He takes another shaky breath. “Scratch’s nightmares, they aren’t- they hurt, Arthur. The pain is sharp and insistent. It needs me afraid, it needs me too exhausted to fight it.” Oscar takes a moment then, to gather himself. “Forgive me, I- I didn’t mean to ramble on like that it’s just- I think it was then, that night that Scratch spoke to me, that I realized what I was dealing with wasn’t like any night terror I’d had before. It was only then I felt like I was doomed.” He admitted, now letting his words sink into the space between Arthur and himself.

When Oscar looked up he could see the sullen expression on Arthur’s face. He looked troubled, his brow creased in concentration as he figured out what to say to Oscar. “Oscar I- I’m so sorry, that you, that this is what you’re dealing with. I, reliving loss, or something akin to it, in nightmares, is, well it’s something I can relate to.” Arthur took a deep inhale, seemingly stealing himself before proceeding to talk to Oscar. “I, I had a daughter, Faroe. She, she meant everything to me. After her mother, Bella passed away, it was just me and her for a while. She um,” he sniffled then, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “She drowned, one night, in the tub, when I was busy composing. I- I wasn’t paying attention and I just, she was gone. Oscar, I-” another sharp inhale, “Her death still haunts me, in my dreams. That loss, revisiting it, revisiting these horrific moments in our nightmares, it’s. Oscar, I know what that’s like. I couldn’t imagine, what it would’ve been like, to have something that wasn’t my daughter, speak to me in those moments.” He shook his head then, as if trying to banish the thought, a fear too great to bear. “Oscar you, you mentioned that these nightmares, they started when you moved into your apartment, have they, have they occurred in other places? If you slept somewhere else for the night, are, does Scratch follow you there?” Arthur asked.

Oscar nodded solemnly to himself. “Aye, they do,” he confirmed. “I had another nightmare, one of Scratch’s once I got back to the inn last night.” Oscar was not keen on telling Arthur that it was his voice that had spoken to him in this instance. Not sure how it would make Arthur feel to know that he had found himself within Oscar’s nightmares. “I’ve had other instances, before,” he continues. “Where I’ve slept somewhere other than my apartment.” He flushes briefly at the memory of some of those nights. The warm thrill of falling into a bed that wasn’t his own with another man, only for that joy to be spoiled shortly afterward by whatever Scratch had waiting for him in his dreams. “Those nights Scratch followed me there too. It- it doesn’t matter where I go, it’s always there, waiting for me when I close my eyes. There’s no respite from it all.” Oscar confirms. It’s infuriating, to have this entity follow him around like a plague. A sickness that's attached itself to Oscar’s very own mind. Something akin to madness.

“I see,” Arthur answers. Perhaps not picking up on the irony of the statement. “You haven’t, in your work as a detective, have you, encountered anyone else dealing with something similar? Any cases that you’ve taken that might’ve given you more clues to what Scratch is or how it, bound itself to you in the first place?” He asked, curious to see what Oscar had to say.

“Unfortunately, no-” Oscar shook his head. “I’ve encountered people who, deal with nightmares, but all of that has just been the aftermath of what they’ve been dealing with. Like you said, dealing with the otherwordly, it’s certainly not easy. I don’t think one could go through stuff like this and walk away unscathed.” Oscar’s gaze flickers back up to meet Arthur’s own. He glances down again towards Arthur’s neck, seeing the scar there, and noting the other’s that litter his face, and what he can see of Arthur’s forearms. “The nightmares clients have told me about, all of them have just been likely followers of what they’ve experienced. Reliving the horrors they’ve experienced and all. So no,” another soft shake of his head. “I haven’t encountered anything like Scratch during my investigative work. The nightmares I’ve heard about, they follow these people, but it’s no different to the nightmares that war vets would have.”

Arthur nods his head slowly. Taking his time to process everything Oscar had shared with him. The two sat in silence for a moment, but it wasn’t a tense silence. Only one that allowed the two men to sit with everything that had been said. Oscar watched as Arthur reflected, his eyes cast downwards to the grain of the table, sorting out what to say next.

“Say, Oscar-” Arthur began-

“Aye,”

“I know this, is probably going to sound very odd but I, I was thinking over everything you shared with me and I had an idea, one that might give me more insight as to how to help you.” Arthur continued.

“Course,” Oscar confirmed, listening intently. He was curious as to what Arthur would propose.

“How would you feel about, well- I mean I don’t even know if it would be possible for you to do that but,” Arthur cocked his head to the side, as if dismissing himself and his train of thought. “I was thinking, it might be helpful to go back with you, to New York, to just-” he cut himself off then. “Oh hush you, it’s not that-” Arthur was quiet for a moment, a frown forming on his face as Oscar could only assume he listened to John. “The church will be fine will you just-” Arthur sighed in frustration. “Sorry, I-” Arthur spoke more softly now “Oscar I don’t know if that would even be possible for you, or something you would be comfortable with me doing. But I just, I thought that maybe, you had said, that the nightmares started when you moved into your current apartment. Maybe if, if I could join you, even if it was just for a night, perhaps, given our own experiences with the otherwordly, maybe John and I might be able to witness something, or catch something that you might’ve missed. Maybe gain some clues as to what exactly you’re dealing with.” Arthur then seems to edit himself. “Of course, I don’t- Oscar I don’t doubt your investigative skills, I just thought to offer since, well, in my case,” Arthur smiled to himself then, “sometimes two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

Oscar sits then with the proposal between them. Shocked slightly, at the idea that Arthur proposed. He isn’t opposed, necessarily to Arthur joining him back in New York. It’s just not what he was expecting when Arthur offered to help. “No, Arthur I- I didn’t take offense to your proposition. I appreciate your offer, I do. I think-” he started. “I think, if you’d be able to join me, in New York, that would be nice. I agree with your logic, that having two pairs of eyes to look at the situation might be helpful, and perhaps even lead to something I hadn’t yet uncovered. Plus with your and John’s experience dealing with stuff like this, you’d have a better advantage of noticing things or thinking of things in a way someone who hasn’t dealt with this stuff would be able to. I appreciate the offer of another perspective, and I think,” Oscar nodded to himself. “Yes, I think it would be helpful. If you and John are willing, to join me for a night or two, in New York,” he confirmed.

“Oh, Oscar, that’s- that’s brilliant. I’m-” Arthur seemed to let out a sigh of relief. As if he was nervous at the potential of Oscar’s rejection. “I’m so glad you’re alright with the idea. Truthfully I had no clue how you’d feel about me coming back with you. I know it was, incredibly forward to practically invite myself to return with you I just figured that it could potentially help, John and I being able to take a look at the place where it all started, and see if we notice anything that might lead us to better answers for how to help you.” Arthur finished.

“No, Arthur I- thank you, for this, for everything. I, I’m grateful for your and John’s support with all of this. It’s been, too long, trying to figure this out on my own and I-” Oscar sighed softly, “I’m thankful, that you want to help. Truly, both of you,” He then leaned forward moving one of his hands off of his grip on the mug to then rest over both of Arthur’s closed, still resting on the table. “Thank you, I mean it. This, this means more to me than you could know” Oscar gazes into Arthur’s eyes then. Met with a sight of brown of gold that he could happily drown in. “Of course, Oscar.” Arthur nearly whispers. They’re close to each other now, Oscar can feel the heat radiating off of Arthur from where their hands meet. “I-” Arthur swallows and begins to look down again towards the table. Oscar watches Arthur’s throat bob with the motion. “I’m happy to help,” he whispers into the space between them.

Oscar smiles softly then. “Thank you, Arthur, and John. I really appreciate this.” and then almost as an afterthought, “And thank you, Arthur, for lunch. It’s been a while since I’ve shared a meal with someone as handsome as yourself.” Oscar takes delight in the blush that begins to spread across Arthur’s face, that bashful smile returning.

“It’s- It’s no trouble truly, Oscar I- thank you, for today. This was, it was very lovely.” Arthur responded. He smiled at Oscar again. A sight that warmed Oscar completely.

The two signaled for the check, and once they had paid set out to leave the diner. Content to walk back to the church together.

As Oscar walked in stride with Arthur, he felt that same warmth from earlier echo in his chest. He was here, in Arkham, with Arthur, who, with John, wanted to help him. Oscar smiled to himself as the two made their way through the city streets and back to St. John’s. Things were looking up for him.

Chapter Text

Sleep was evading Arthur.

Whether it be from the afternoon cup of coffee he had enjoyed at the diner earlier with Oscar, or simply the byproduct of restless mind, he couldn’t tell. Still, pondering about it was not going to change the fact that Arthur lay, wide awake on his bed, discontent with the soft ticking of the clock, his mind growing ever more strained contemplating how many minutes, most likely hours, he had been going like this. It was agonizing at times, Arthur thought to himself, this anticipatory state between wakefulness and dreaming. One he was not all too unfamiliar with. Maddening, potentially, to just lie here, while waiting for a sleep, dreamless or not at this point Arthur really didn’t care, to come.

It was unusually quiet, Arthur thought to himself. Perhaps that was it. He was used to John’s practically insistent voice, echoing throughout his skull at nearly all times. Right now, if it were to happen, Arthur was sure he could hear a pin drop. Although he didn’t want to, Arthur had to admit to himself that it frightened him, to be left in the dark like this. Arthur was long since used to his blindness, of course, that didn’t mean that there weren’t days he missed his sight. Missed being able to see the leaves turn their colors when the autumn months approached, missed being able to watch a sunset or a sunrise, watching the sky transform itself, magically day after day, as night faded into a new day, or vice versa. Lately, Arthur found himself wishing he knew what Oscar looked like. It didn’t help that John had been pointedly vague about describing the man. Simply narrating his change of expression, wardrobe, and actions to Arthur.

This silence though, made the dark Arthur had long since grown accustomed to all the more intimidating. When John was quiet like this, not speaking to Arthur, he felt like everything expanded tenfold. The darkness now an ocean he could drown in so easily. Arthur distantly remembers John’s promise to him, back at Larson’s estate, that he would not let him drown. He believed his friend then, and he believed the sentiment now. Belief didn’t make the fear any less real.

Before the panic could build even more Arthur decided to break the deafening silence between the two of them. “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight.” he voiced. Perhaps not the kindest way to begin but he was tired of letting this silence prolong itself.

Why does it matter? John answered. Already defensive, Arthur could tell.

“It doesn’t I just, “ he began, “You haven’t said much, to me, since we left the diner. I-” Arthur sighed briefly, trying to sort out what he wanted to say. “I, I know you have your, objections about my proposal to Oscar but I don’t understand why that would lead to you being so, cagey this evening.”

Is that what you’re asking? He countered.

“Is what what I’m asking?” Arthur asked. Quickly growing frustrated at this whole conversation with John.

John huffed before before answering, “Me being quiet. Are you asking if Oscar is the reason I have been, cagey with you?” Arthur could practically taste the sarcasm dripping from John’s tone. Like a bitter wine coating his tongue.

“I suppose so, yes. I know that, that there is an unfamiliarity with Oscar. And I,” Arthur huffed in frustration, wanting to be gentle about how he phrased it to John. “I know, that I should’ve, spoken to you, about my proposition, before voicing it to Oscar. I didn’t, I didn’t think to. After sharing what he did with us it, I don’t know I just thought it might be best to ask if we could join him.” he finished.

But why? John pressed.

“Why what? John,” he started. “I don’t understand what you’re asking me.”

I just don’t understand how you could propose something like that so quickly. John responded. I don’t understand what made you want to pursue something like that in the first place.

“Well I-” Arthur began, and then immediately trailed off. If Arthur was being honest with himself, he didn’t entirely know why he was so quick to propose that idea to Oscar. It did make sense, he thought. That if he and John were going to help Oscar then perhaps going to the source of where these things Oscar was describing with Scratch originated might give them some better answers as to how to proceed. It couldn't hurt, to join Oscar back to New York. Perhaps it would be nice to simply-

Is it because you enjoyed your lunch with him? John cut his trail of thought short. The sarcasm in his tone layered on thick.

Arthur scoffed at that. “No, it’s not that you-” he began.

Oscar seemed to have enjoyed it. John’s voice seemed almost mocking now, he dropped his tone lower, It seems he quite liked getting to share a meal with someone as handsome as yourself. He teased.

“I, no it’s just-” Arthur stuttered. Flustered at the repetition of Oscar’s words from earlier now coming from John. Arthur shook his head. “I didn’t just, propose to leave town with him just cause it was a nice meal, John. And it takes a lot more flattery than a man calling me ‘handsome’ to get me to want to hop on a train with him.” he deflected.

Then why, John began, frustration evident in his tone, all teasing notes absent from his voice. Why, Arthur, would you think it was a fucking good idea to ask to join him back in New York. I know you gave your reasons back at the diner. But I don’t think that’s all. I- John paused then, sincerity leaking into his voice as he opened up with Arthur. I don’t know, why you proposed what you did to Oscar, but I suppose that's what I’m trying to figure out.

Arthur nodded to himself then. Letting John’s words sink in. Arthur had lost count of the amount of times he and John and had conversations like this. Arthur making an executive decision for the two of them, without hesitating to think of how it might affect John. It wasn’t from a lack of awareness or even a lack of care about John, perhaps Arthur thought to himself, it was simply a way he could still continue on how things were before. Before he had to consult John for his opinion on decisions like this.

Arthur didn’t resent John. They had made peace before returning back to Arkham. They both had found a comfort, a familiarity in their connection, one neither was keen on breaking. Arthur couldn’t picture a future without John in it, after everything they had been through, after everything they had endured, persisting without John wasn’t something Arthur could imagine. It was a sentiment John shared as well. The two were inextricably bound, a fate neither wished to tempt. Arthur needed John, as much and John needed him. To rewrite the ways in which they were intertwined was practically blasphemous.

Despite this soul-deep reliance on each other, there were still moments like these, where whether it was Arthur’s intention to or not, he managed to singlehandedly widen the gap between himself and John.

“John I-” Arthur began, trying to unravel the knot of thoughts in his mind. “I don’t, I wish I had an easy answer for you. It’s, difficult for even me to understand, why I was so quick to propose an idea like that to Oscar.”

Is it, not then, not, an easy answer? John asked. Arthur couldn’t tell for certain but John’s voice sounded nearly, nervous. As if whatever answer that lay behind Arthur’s lips had the potential to shatter him.

“I suppose it isn’t,” Arthur confirmed. For some reason, it felt like defeat. To admit to John that there wasn’t a simple reason as to why he had betrayed his friend's trust. “I think- John I, I think I proposed what I did to Oscar, because, I think a part of me wants to leave Arkham.”

Hmm. John answered. Not pressing, not arguing, simply giving Arthur the space to continue.

Arthur took a moment to collect his thoughts, to coerce the mess of urges and motivations and wishes into something comprehensible, something tangible that he and John could both understand. “I think, after everything we’ve been through, it’s been, difficult, I suppose, to rest.” Arthur started.

To,, rest? John asked, not fully content with Arthur’s half-answer.

“Yes. I um, the two of us, together we spent so long, on the run from things. So long either chasing after answers or running from something that was chasing us.” A beat, “I think, after settling back in Arkham, I- sometimes I miss it, I think. That movement.”

Arthur could hear the confusion in John’s voice as he responded. Missed it? Arthur how could, how could miss it? What we went through that wasn’t- I don’t understand how you could miss that life Arthur. You- we went through hell. I don’t-” John huffed in frustration.

“Maybe,” Arthur began, “missed isn’t the right word. I don’t miss that life John I think I just-” another beat, while Arthur struggled to put to words what he felt so deeply. “I think that after, getting used to that type of living, for so long, this, quiet, this peace, that we’ve made for ourselves here in Addison it feels almost,, out of place?” Arthur let out a frustrated sigh. “John, I- I do enjoy the life we’ve made for ourselves. I love this, being here, with you. For a long time it wasn’t something I thought we’d ever get. A peaceful life like this. I don’t regret this John. I don’t regret choosing this life with you.”

It is only silence from John’s end, but Arthur can almost feel John thinking. There's an indescribable sensation he feels in his mind, one he’s encountered before when John has cried.

Arthur continues, “This life that we’ve carved out for ourselves, John I wouldn’t trade it for the world.” An unspoken I wouldn’t trade you for the world rests in the silence after. “There are times, when I feel restless though. It’s not even that I want to run away from all of this it’s just,” Arthur frowns, his own reality closing in on him like a trap as he puts words to things he has chosen to ignore for so long. “It’s a habit I have yet to shake I guess, this, urge to keep running. There are days John, days where everything is so beautiful. Days where it's just the two of us, you’ll read to me, or mornings where you’ll tell me about the birds outside as I make tea and everything else just fades away. I really like those days with you John.” Arthur reassures. He can feel tears begin to build in his eyes, he’s grown past the point this evening of trying to hide the emotion that seeps into his voice. “Sometimes it just feels like those days, that peace is, is undeserved. Like we shouldn’t have made it out, like we still have more to run from.” He brings his hand up to wipe at his eyes, John’s hand lays flat on his chest, resting just above his heart. A reassuring, grounding pressure that Arthur focuses on as he continues. “It’s- It’s times like this when, when despite how good everything is. Despite how peaceful the days have been, and how far away that danger is from us, the calm it feels- it feels almost,,, suffocating.” Arthur lets the sentiment rest in the empty air like a confession. Despite the tightness in his chest he holds his breath, waiting for John’s response.

Oh, Oh Arthur John comforted. I’m sorry, he started

“No, John, you don’t—there’s nothing to apologize for,” Arthur tearfully interrupted, not knowing if he could handle John saying he was sorry for him right now.

I- I suppose I still don’t fully understand why you asked Oscar what you did, but what you said, it makes sense. John took a pause then, Arthur simply waited while his friend gathered his thoughts. Like you said, the two of us have been on the run, or chasing things for a long time. I can see, how after being accustomed to that, state of survival, it would be, difficult, to let your guard down. To not feel the need to run again. But Arthur, John continued, we’re safe here, in Arkham. We don’t have to run anymore.

Arthur let out a short laugh at such an obvious statement. “Yes, yes John I- I know that we’re safe here but it- knowing that we’re safe doesn’t, doesn’t make it all better. That type of fear John it, it lingers.”

John simply hummed in response. Letting the truth of Arthur’s words sink in.

With another shaky inhale, Arthur continued, “I proposed what I did to Oscar because there’s, an appeal of sorts, to being able to help someone who’s going through something similar to what you and I have experienced. Oscar he, I’ll admit I still don’t fully understand what we’re walking into, and it frightens me, but I want to help. There were so many times John, before things settled down, where I wished that someone would’ve helped us.”

If you weren’t so stubborn not to ask, John interrupted.

Arthur let out a laugh at the deadpan delivery. “True, true.” He agreed, not about to dispute John’s claim. “I just think that- there were moments when I wished that we didn’t feel so alone, John, moments that I had wished there was someone else in our corner.”

And, you want to be that someone, for Oscar? John questioned, doing his best to follow Arthur’s logic.

“Yes, I, I do John,” Arthur admitted. “I- I want to give Oscar the help that, that we never had.” he finished.

Hmm, John responded thoughtfully. And you’re still sure you want to go with him? You mentioned being frightened earlier, he elaborated.

Arthur nodded in affirmation, even if it didn’t make that much of a difference just lying here in the dark. “I’m sure,” he affirmed. “It’ll be nice, to help someone. Or, at least try” almost as an afterthought. “And who knows, going to New York it might, it might help me get over this, this restlessness—getting out for a bit. It will be good for us I think, to travel. A good change of scenery.” Arthur added, his mouth quirking up at the irony of that final statement.

I agree, Arthur. John answered. What you were saying about traveling, I think it will be nice. I hope it can, help, with the feelings you were describing. He spoke almost cautiously, as if he was nervous about how his phrasing of these sorts of things might upset Arthur.

Before Arthur could respond John continued himself. And Arthur, for what it’s worth, I do hope, that we can help Oscar.

Arthur smiled softly at that. Feeling the knot in his chest unwind now with the knowledge that his friend felt, better about the decision he had made. “Thank you, John-” Arthur replied. “I hope so too.” He finished quietly, as if he spoke the wish too loudly it might not come true.

Now get some fucking sleep, Arthur. John stated. If we're going to travel back with Oscar tomorrow you’re going to need to rest.

Arthur barked out a laugh at John’s blatancy. “You’re right, you’re right,” he admitted. He let out a deep sigh, a breath he didn’t realize he was holding until now, as he settled further into the mattress. He rolled himself onto his side, his hand cradling the pillow underneath him as John’s rested softly against his collarbone, mindlessly rubbing soothing patterns into the skin there. “Goodnight, John,” Arthur whispered, letting his body sink into the mattress, allowing John’s touch to lull him gently to sleep.

Goodnight, Arthur, John whispered back. Letting a comforting silence wash over the two of them, as the night spanned patiently by.

Chapter Text

The train ride to New York had been a gentle interlude in the mess of days for which Oscar was immeasurably grateful.

Nerves had made sleep nearly impossible the night prior, and with his typical nightmares, it wasn’t a fitful rest anyway. Tired as he had been, Oscar had elected to evade falling back to sleep in favor of double-checking, and then triple-checking, that all his belongings were packed, before spending the remainder of the morning hurriedly cleaning himself up and getting dressed, before making his way to the train station where he and Arthur had elected to meet.

Oscar was no stranger to fear, but the anxiety that gripped him as he waited on the train platform for Arthur to arrive was another beast entirely. He didn’t doubt Arthur. Hell, if anything Oscar had more faith in the man than he might’ve had in any god he prayed to back in his youth, back at the orphanage, before the sentiment of a savior fell into a guise that slipped further and further away from Oscar’s grasp. Nearly unquestioningly he trusted Arthur, but that trust did nothing to halt the onslaught of spiraling thoughts as Oscar waited there on that platform. Each renewed look at the clock with no sign of Arthur left him feeling ever more the fool. He didn’t know what he would do if Arthur didn’t arrive, if he had to board that train back to New York alone, without the chance to say a final, proper goodbye to Arthur. Oscar tried to tell himself that he’d be fine if Arthur didn’t join him. That he could go back home and deal with Scratch on his own. That shame wouldn’t flood him if Arthur never showed. That he wouldn’t miss Arthur when he was gone. That he wouldn’t think of him after his time in Arkham was finished.

With another glance up Oscar’s gaze traveled once more around the train platform when he spotted him. Arthur approached him with the same graceful stride he always seemed to possess, his eyes trained in Oscar’s direction but never directly at him. All it had taken was a simple greeting, a joyful “Hello, Oscar,” accompanied by a smile just as gentle, and every lie Oscar had told himself about being able to make it without Arthur was washed away in a flood of falsity.

The train ride itself had been a tame journey, one without any delays or derailments which Oscar was not wholly unfamiliar with. Arthur and he spent the journey lost in conversation with each other. Oscar would ask his questions, mostly trivial things, like if Arthur had ever had any pets, which he said he didn’t but mentioned in a melancholic tone that Parker always had a habit of collecting strays, or if there was a season or time of year Arthur liked best. Arthur had told him he liked springtime the best, it reminded him of renewal, of change, and more favorably an end to the winter season. With every question they exchanged and every answer shared, Oscar felt something in his chest unravel. It didn’t matter that these things were trivial and possibly even small talk, Oscar wanted to lock away every new thing he learned about Arthur in an internal archive. He wanted to know what Arthur’s favorite song to hear on the radio was, he wanted to know how Arthur takes his eggs with breakfast. Every answer was infinitely precious.

Oscar remembers asking Arthur about his priesthood, about his faith, curious about how the adjustment had been to the occupation after returning to Arkham.

“Well, like I’d mentioned before, it’s not something that I had ever considered until John had suggested the idea,” Arthur had said. “The church was,” he furrowed his brow in pause “a formidable part, of my childhood. But the faith never really stuck.”

“No?” Oscar questions.

Arthur had let out a soft laugh at that. “Oh, certainly not.” He paused again, seemingly troubled about what to say. “The faith it, it was never very um, kind to me.” Oscar couldn’t help but think that Arthur looked so upset as he spoke, he wanted to soothe Arthur but was lost as to how. “I’ve never had a great relationship with the church, their principles always seemed to disapprove of my ‘ways of living.’” Arthur had elaborated, bitterness dripping from his tongue.

Ever the inquisitive, albeit hesitantly, Oscar continued to ask his questions, “And which ways would that be?” He meant the question to be gentle, to be kind. From one outcast to perhaps another. An unspoken maybe you’re like me he wished to breathe into the silence that hung between them.

“Ways fitting for rejection I suppose.” Arthur had said with a dismissive shrug. A bitter smile turned the corners of his lips upwards.

“I’m sorry.” Oscar consoled. Lost for anything else to say. He knew the vein of Arthur’s pain. Was familiar with his ‘lifestyle’ being rejected.

“It’s alright.” Arthur dismissed, trying to deflect from any potential pity he might see Oscar throwing his way.

“No- it’s not,” Oscar argued, the conviction and volume of his voice shocking both of them.

With a sullen nod, Arthur agreed. “No, no I suppose it isn’t.” He turned then towards the window, a weighted silence spanning oceans between them.

Oscar watched Arthur then, taking in the delicate features of his face as the sunlight from the early morning washed over him. He was beautiful. And something within Oscar ached to see such a beautiful man anchor-weighted down by the deep waters of his past.

“I know-” Oscar began, “That, especially given your past, you probably don’t align yourself with many of their principles.”

Arthur simply nodded wordlessly in agreement.

“But I’m curious, Father-” Oscar continued, letting his voice soften as he brushed his knee against Arthur’s “If you’re sworn to celibacy?”

The bitter smile Arthur had worn before didn’t hold a candle to the grin that spread across Arthur’s face now.

“Any reason in particular you ask, Oscar?” Arthur countered, now facing back towards Oscar, leaning significantly closer than he was before.

Oscar had to suppress a shiver at the way his name sounded when Arthur had spoken it then. “Can’t a man simply be curious?” He deflected, trying to keep a composure to his tone.

Arthur smiled wider at that.“I suppose he can.”

The rest of the train ride had passed with a near tranquility. There were no crying babies in their cart, and no interruptions to their gentle flow of conversation side from the occasional chime-in from the conductor, announcing the arrival at a new station. For now, Oscar thought to himself, for now, this is enough.

-

Returning back to New York was somewhat of a jolt for the two of them. Despite only being gone for a few days span, the city seemed so vastly different to Oscar, every familiar sound of the grating traffic and the bustle of people moving about faded to something abstractly distant whenever Oscar turned to face Arthur. They hitched a cab near the train station and rode in a comfortable silence till they reached the block where Oscar’s apartment was.

Arthur was quiet for the majority of the cab ride, electing to sit wordlessly and gaze out the window towards the city streets and buildings. Oscar knew that John was likely describing the scenery to Arthur, narrating the world as it passed. If put to it, Oscar would barely be able to recall his first time seeing the city. He wondered what it looked like new, he wondered how Arthur saw it through John’s eyes. Maybe one day, if he was brave enough, he would ask Arthur. It had been a long time for Oscar since the city had looked new to him.

Arriving at Oscar’s apartment was another matter altogether.

Oscar remembers standing out front of his apartment building for a moment as Arthur followed quickly behind. Something about the building looked far more menacing than it ever had before. Even now, saturated in broad daylight, Oscar felt frightened at the prospect of going any further. Sentiments of abandoning all hope, all ye who enter crashed to the forefront of his mind as he and Arthur neared the front door.

Neither of the two had packed heavy, Oscar had only brought enough to fit into a suitcase for his trip to Arkham so it wasn’t as if he had much to haul back with him, Arthur, under the impression that he would only be spending a few days with Oscar, had acted in a similar vein. The two carried their luggage through the first-floor offices, briefly passing by Oscar’s own, towards the back of the building, where they proceeded to walk up another two flights of stairs, before making it to the third floor, finally arriving at Oscar’s front door.

His hands trembled slightly as he searched for his keys and began to unlock his apartment once found. A terror that Oscar had suppressed the entire journey was now rearing its head as he began to enter his apartment. He wasn’t ready to step past the threshold of the door into what he loosely referred to as ‘home’. He wasn’t ready to confront Scratch again. Oscar knew Arthur was with him now, and wanted to help, he knew this. But knowing did nothing to stop the onslaught of fear that cycled through his mind. He was scared. Scared of not finding any answers, scared of Arthur getting hurt because of him, scared of the possibility that he might be stuck with Scratch forever, that no matter what he and Arthur did, he would still be trapped within this endless cycle of trudging through his days and gritting his teeth through his dreams.

Oscar was terrified, terrified of losing Arthur, terrified of being left alone once again after all of this was over, terrified that this might all be some nightmare, terrified that- The sound of the lock sliding open brought Oscar back to himself. Against his own better judgments he stepped through the doorway, holding the door open as Arthur pulled himself and his suitcase through, before softly clicking the door shut behind them.

After setting down his suitcase in front of him, Oscar turned his attention towards Arthur, watching as his gaze scanned across the room. Despite the sunlight filtering in from further windows, the apartment was still overwhelmingly dim, but Arthur’s eyes nearly gleamed in the darkness. Oscar followed Arthur’s gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. He wasn’t prepared for company, he never was. No effort to clean had been made before Oscar had set off on his trip to Arkham. He knew there were still bottles left on his nightstand, knew there was likely still a pile of dirty dishes piled in the sink, and a matching heap of unwashed clothes likely lying at the foot of his bed. Arthur didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve some fearful, desperate lunatic dragging him away from his home to a pathetic excuse for an apartment, just cause he had some bad dreams. Arthur deserved beautiful things, and Oscar’s home was certainly not beautiful. He could only imagine how John was describing the scene to Arthur now. Hell, Oscar hadn’t even turned on a light, the dimness of the apartment making every shadow-infested corner appear like something out of a horror novel. To wash it in light would be somehow even less flattering. Shame rose in Oscar’s throat, he shouldn’t have brought Arthur here.

“Arthur I- I’m sorry about the mess, it’s not, I-” Oscar had started, nervously attempting to apologize for any mental image Arthur might’ve formed at the extent of John’s narration.

Arthur shook his head dismissively. “It’s alright, Oscar, really I don’t mind.” The man was too polite for his own good Oscar thought distantly.

He only frowned at Arthur’s reassurance. “No, I- really I’m sorry Arthur, I’m not used to having, you’re well-” he trailed off as Arthur turned towards him.

“What?” Arthur asked softly, “Not in the habit of bringing handsome fellas back here?”

Oscar could only flush at the comment.“I um- no, not like that, I don’t typically have guests, here. You-” he paused briefly, “you’re the only one, actually.” he confessed, his voice nearly a whisper.

“Oscar,” Arthur said softly, as he quietly placed his suitcase down near the door. “Really,” he continued, stepping forwards and resting a hand against Oscar’s shoulder. The point of contact seemingly searing through Oscar’s layers. “It’s all alright, Oscar. I’m glad you brought me with you, I promise.”

Something about the statement shattered something within Oscar, as if Arthur had been bestowed some prophetic gift, and with it the knowledge of exactly what would cause Oscar to tremble apart at the seams.

“Arthur, I-” Oscar began, trying to piece together some tangible way to tell Arthur how grateful he was that he was here. How terrified he was of returning back home. Selfish as it may be, how much safer he felt now that Arthur was here with him. The warmth of the knowledge that he wasn’t alone. “Arthur-” he began again, his voice almost pleading.

He only waited patiently as Oscar tried to assemble some semblance of a thank you. Arthur’s gaze lingered over him, as Oscar lifted his head to meet it. While their eyes didn’t meet completely, Oscar’s breath froze in his chest seeing the gentle expression reflected in Arthur’s eyes. That smile that had captivated Oscar from the moment he saw it lay unwavering on his face.

Something within Oscar’s resolve snapped as he rushed forwards and closed the distance between the two of them, wrapping his arms around Arthur in a crushing embrace.

Fear seized Oscar’s heart for two, three, stuttering beats, before Arthur returned the embrace, tucking Oscar closer to his chest, and resting his head against his. Arthur’s right hand rubbing gentle circles into Oscar’s back.

Oscar could drown in the sensation. “Thank you, Arthur-” he whispered. Nervous that if he spoke any louder Arthur would let go. “I-” he spoke past the lump in his throat, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Arthur hummed in agreement and Oscar could feel the vibrations from where his head lay nestled against Arthur’s chest. “That makes two of us,” he whispered into Oscar’s hair. Oscar could nearly hear the smile in Arthur’s voice.

They stayed like that for a little while longer, neither moving to escape the embrace. It was only when the sound of Arthur’s stomach growling echoed between the two of them that they moved to separate.

“Sorry, I-” Arthur began, sounding nearly bashful if Oscar had to describe him.

“No, no it’s alright.” Oscar couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh.

Arthur looked down embarrassed. “I suppose I am pretty famished.”

Oscar nodded quickly. “Right yes um- food, we can, yes we should get food.” he was still trying to escape the marvelous mental haze that his hug with Arthur had left him in. “There’s a restaurant just down the street from here, they have really lovely soup there,” he suggested.

The smile Arthur met him with was nothing short of dazzling. “I’d love that, Oscar,” Arthur admitted. Stepping forwards to link his arm with Oscar’s own, Arthur then looked towards the door. “Well then, lead the way.”

–

In a pleasant surprise, when Oscar and Arthur arrived at the restaurant they found it to be, from Oscar’s experience, uncharacteristically quiet. Oscar was by no means about to complain. He still felt in limbo of some undefined fragile state. Being in New York was nothing new but Arthur being here with him, and all the emotions his companionship brought, paired with what they were setting out to do, left Oscar feeling scattered. He was grateful for the quiet of the restaurant as in his current state, Oscar didn’t know if he could handle the commotion of a downtown restaurant at the tail end of lunch hours.

The two settled into their respective seats at a table near the back of the restaurant. After some time glancing over the menu, they both elected to have the soup of the day, which turned out to be a creamy tomato, and to split a grilled cheese sandwich.

Oscar had shared a meal with Arthur before, but something about the gesture of sharing food with Arthur warmed something within him. He knew it was dangerous, these feelings growing within him. It certainly wasn’t wise of Oscar to become so hastily enamored with Arthur, he knew it was likely that after Arthur returned back to Arkham, this would be the last he’d ever see of him. But something about these moments, something about the gentle intimacy of sitting close and sharing a meal with Arthur, made Oscar ache for this to continue. Even if only for the chance to share more moments like this together.

As they ate, Arthur began to ask Oscar about how they should proceed with any sort of investigative work.

“So, obviously it would be best to look at the building itself,” he began. “It makes sense that if what you are dealing with when it comes to Scratch began shortly after you moved in, then there might be something about the apartment that, influenced that, somehow.” Arthur finished.

“Aye, I agree,” Oscar affirmed. “I was thinking about it on our walk here, and I do think that somewhere I still have the paperwork for my lease.” he continued, “Starting there could be wise, I might be able to spot a name or company and that could give us somewhere to start looking.”

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds like as good of a place to start as any.” he agreed. “You don’t happen to know anything about the history of the building do you?”

He shook his head at Arthur’s question. “No, unfortunately not. Given everything that’s happened since I moved, I should’ve, but I never started to look further into the place I was living,” he admitted. “It’s easier, I suppose,” Oscar continued, “To do investigative work for other people. To dedicate myself to helping them escape their messes, then to try to dig myself out of my own.”

Only an agreeing hum came from Arthur at first. “I know the feeling,” he admitted. “It is, I think, easier to care for others, to see the good there and want to help, than to feel that way about ourselves.” Oscar nodded softly in agreement. “Oscar you, you deserve the chance to be helped.” Arthur began again, “No one, especially not you, should have to feel trapped in the ways that you described to me. You deserve an escape from this. You deserve a peaceful life,” Arthur nearly whispered the last part. “I hope you know that.”

Oscar smiled softly at the words. “Thank you, Arthur. You deserve the same, you know. A peaceful life, I mean,” he continued. “I’m glad you and John made one for yourselves in Arkham.” Arthur grinned at the sentiment. Bouncing back to the original topic Oscar began, “Also, if looking at the lease doesn’t give us any good place to start searching, I know some of the other tenants who have lived in the building for quite some time, we could always talk to some of them to see if they know anything that might give us some better clues.”

“I think that sounds like a brilliant plan.” Arthur agreed.

Something settled in Oscar’s chest. It felt, good, to know that he finally had somewhere to start looking, somewhere for him and Arthur to begin. To know that his next steps forwards, would not be steps he walked alone. He had a purpose, and with Arthur here with him, he was ready to pursue it.

–

Back at Oscar’s apartment, Arthur stood somewhat awkwardly in one of the corners of Oscar’s office. Making small talk as Oscar, a bit more than haphazardly, rustled through his filing cabinets and desk drawers, in a desperate attempt to locate, arguably the only paperwork that mattered to him right now.

Every time he had to push in a drawer after a frenzied search revealing nothing, a new wave of frustration and shame would wash over him. Arthur was kind throughout all of this, never making Oscar feel like there was any need to panic or rush. It made Oscar ache that Arthur was being so polite about this whole thing. His patience, however, was frustrating Oscar, he felt guilty that he was taking up his and Arthur’s time. Deep down Oscar knew that Arthur didn’t pity him. But the silent, continual forgiveness of Arthur’s patience, of his kindness, was a contrast to Oscar’s own self-loathing that he couldn’t bear at the moment.

Finally, at the back of one of the bottom drawers of his desk, and at the tail end of Oscar’s faith that he’d find the damn thing, Oscar’s fingers wrapped around the small stack of papers that made up the lease to his apartment and office.

He nearly knocked himself out with the speed at which he stood up, just barely clearing the edge of his desk, which would’ve made for a certainly painful collision to the back of his head.

“Arthur!” he shouted, unable to contain his relief and excitement at finally finding the lease. Arthur’s head had snapped up at Oscar’s exclamation, not hiding the shock from his face as he turned to face Oscar. “I found it.” Oscar smiled.

“Wonderful, Oscar,” Arthur affirmed.

“Sorry about the wait,” Oscar continued, looking down at the paper held in his hands bashfully.

Arthur shook his head softly, tucking his hands into his pockets as he walked across the office, moving closer to Oscar. “It’s no worry, really.” He then closed the distance between Oscar and himself, standing next to him now, close enough that their shoulders touched as Arthur leaned ever closer and pointed his head down towards the pile of papers that rested in Oscar’s hands. “So, what does it say? Seeing anything of note?”

Oscar revealed in the closeness of Arthur, it took a sizable amount of effort to not lean his weight further into Arthur’s side. “Let’s see-” he began, starting to shift through the papers. “Oh- I- Arthur I’m sorry that phrasing was not-” Oscar panicked at his wording, too late realizing the ignorance of his speech. “Arthur, I’m so so sorry I-”

He felt Arthur shift away slightly as a barking laugh escaped his lips, it was one of the most brilliant sounds that Oscar had ever heard. “You’re- Oscar you’re-” Arthur began, devolving back into another fit of laughter, “It’s alright Oscar, really. I knew what you meant.” he soothed. Oscar breathed out a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing as Arthur moved back to his original position against Oscar’s side. “But really,” Arthur started again, bumping against Oscar playfully. “Do you see anything that might help us?”

The casual use of the word ‘us’ made something tender twist in Oscar’s chest. With a smile, he returned his gaze to the lease. As his eyes scanned the pages he saw a name at the end bottom of one of the pages. “Says here,” He began, “that the apartment itself, and the offices too, are leased from the estate of a man named Edward William Allan.” Arthur only hummed in affirmation, letting Oscar continue. “I know, that my rent I send out to someone else. However, I can’t remember the name at the moment. It’s probably somewhere on another piece of paper back upstairs.” He shrugged.

“Well, at least we have one name to start with.” Arthur started. “We can head back up to yours to see if we can find the name for who you send out rent to.” He finished, as he shifted away from Oscar’s side, moving towards the door to Oscar’s office.

Oscar missed the feeling of Arthur close, but he swallowed any protests in favor of following Arthur out of the door. “Aye, lets.” he agreed, as the two made their way back up towards Oscar’s room.

Back in his room, Oscar was quickly able to locate an old rent notice, which, at the bottom of the page, had instructed the rent to be sent to one, David Rose, a lawyer. Oscar explained his findings to Arthur who nodded quietly as he processed the new information.

“Did any of the papers say anything about where to contact them? Or perhaps any, locations of offices, any addresses of the sort?” Arthur asked in response.

Oscar nodded quickly in confirmation. “Yes. Whether it’s an office or a home address, I don’t know, but I do have the address for Dr. Rose, and I’m certain we could find him in the phonebook if we looked. But nothing on the lease for Edward Allan aside from the name and establishing it was out to his estate.” he added. “You know, Arthur.” Oscar began, “You make quite the investigator, with all your questions. Perhaps in another life you made for a good detective.”

Arthur seemed to nearly blush at the comment. “You really think so?”

“Aye, I do,” Oscar confirmed.

The other man picked back up where Oscar had left off. “Would we want to see if we can find a number for Dr. Rose, then? I don’t think showing up to his office, or home, would be the wisest first move. Plus-” Arthur added, “he might have a clue as to how to reach Mr. Allan.”

All good points Arthur was making. “I think that's a wise route to take.” Oscar agreed. “And I agree with your latter point, it seems likely he might know how to reach or possibly where to find Mr. Allan, seeing as he’s sort of the middleman here.” Something then troubles Oscar. “But what would we even say if we called him? It’s not really a good plan to just ring up a lawyer and then explain how the apartment you pay rent money to him for may have something to do with some eldritch beast that’s been stalking your nightmares. ‘Oh, and by the way do you know if there’s any way I could reach Edward Allan, I was hoping to speak to him about this matter too,’” Oscar added that final bit in an exaggerated tone.

It earned him another laugh from Arthur. “No, I suppose you’re right.” he agreed. Going quiet then to puzzle over how to lead a call with Dr. Rose. Suddenly his head snapped up, his gaze pointed in Oscar’s direction. “John just suggested that perhaps saying there were things we found of Mr. Allans, stuff still left in the building, and inquiring about how to reach him about his belongings, or perhaps where to send them?” Arthur added.

“That’s brilliant.” Oscar agreed. “Thank you, John,” he added softly.

Arthur smiled at that, and then was quiet for a moment, suddenly shaking his head as if he’d just heard something ridiculous. “He says ‘you’re welcome’”

Oscar nodded. “Of course. I’m going to look through the phone book to see if I can find a number, and then call this David Rose.” he resolved.

“Sounds like a plan,” Arthur agreed.

It took Oscar little time at all to find Dr. Rose’s name and number within his phone book, to which he proceeded to call. Mindful to keep a pen and paper near the phone in case he needed to jot down any numbers or addresses and any additional notes that might be of importance during his call.

The call itself went about as successfully as one could. Oscar traveled to his living room afterwards, where Arthur had settled in while Oscar was on his call. He approached Arthur, sitting on an ottoman that lay close to the armchair Arthur had settled into. Oscar’s apartment was sparse as far as furniture went, thusly resulting in enough seating for really only one person.

“So,” Arthur began, “How did it go?”

“Alright, actually,” Oscar answered. “Turns out Edward Allan has been gone for quite some time, but when I was speaking with Dr. Rose he said that if there were things of Mr. Allan’s that were found, to just send them to the address; 61 Boulder Road. Out in White Plains.”

Arthur nodded at that. “Any place you’re familiar with?” he asked.

Oscar shook his head. “No, never heard of White Plains until just now. According to Dr. Rose, it was the last place that Edward had owned, or I guess co-owned before he went missing.”

“So this Mr. Allan is missing, then?” Arthur followed.

“Aye,” Oscar confirmed. “When Dr. Rose said that Edward had been gone for some time I assumed he meant the man had passed. The disappearance is certainly, concerning.”

A frown ethced itself onto Arhur’s face. “It certainly is.” he agreed. “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt to give it a visit, if you’d like too, that is.” Arthur added. “From what John’s described to me so far, I haven’t noticed anything about the inside of the building that would give us any clues as to why, if this is where Scratch, came from, that’s the case. But, he did add that the entire building had this, almost shadow around it, when we approached. He mentioned that it wasn’t like any of the other buildings he had seen on our way here. Saying the building felt, almost, angry, to him.” Arthur continued. “Perhaps we might notice something similar at the property Dr. Rose told you about. There might be something at the property that would make it more obvious as to why things with Scratch started for you here, why this building appears the way it does to John.”

Oscar could only nod slowly processing what Arthur had told him. “I think, I still would like to visit the property, although that might be something we do tomorrow, as it’s getting quite late,” he observed, the apartment quickly growing darker as the sun began its descent. “It would be helpful, to see if anything about the place in White Plains holds any similarity to this building. John,” Oscar began, “he said this building felt, angry?” Failing to mask the concern in his voice.

“Yes,” Arthur affirmed. “But I wouldn’t fret too much before we learn more about what that could even mean,” he continued. Doing what he could to soothe Oscar. “If what John felt looking at the building was anger, and if the shadow he described had anything to do with Scratch and its presence here, I think that might have more to do with Scratch’s anger, than any potential malevolence of the building itself,” Arthur added.

“Aye, that makes sense.” Oscar agreed. “Say, Arthur,”

“Hmm?” the man answered. Golden gaze cast towards Oscar.

“Would you like some dinner? I know it’s getting late.” he elaborated.

“I’d love that.” Arthur nodded.

Oscar looked down shamefully as he continued. “Good, I just, I don’t have a lot here at the apartment as far as good goes.” He wracked his brain trying to think of what he could offer as a meal to his guest. “Arthur, how do you like your eggs?” he asked.

Arthur grinned at the question. “Scrambled, why?” he asked.

“Well I know I have eggs and bread here. I could make us some eggs and toast for dinner.” Oscar added. Pleased at the fact that he now knew how Arthur took his eggs.

“Breakfast for dinner?” Arthur confirmed.

Oscar nodded solemnly, his eyes cast towards the ground. “Aye.” Embarrassed at the suggestion of the meal, wishing he had more to offer to Arthur.

Arthur let out a soft laugh then. “Why not,” he exclaimed. “I think that sounds lovely, Oscar.”

Eased by the joy in Athur’s tone Oscar nodded to himself. “Alright then,” he said, as he made his way to the kitchen to prepare dinner for the two of them.

–

Dinner, much like their shared at the restaurant earlier, flowed past in a gentle haze. Something in Oscar ached to see Arthur sitting across from him at the dining table, sharing a meal he had made for the two of them. Oscar wasn’t much for domesticity, but having Arthur here, in his home, eating off his plates, sitting at his table, even earlier, seeing how easily Arthur had settled in to the armchair in his living room, how right it all felt, he couldn’t help but feel warmed at Arthur’s comfortability near him. He wanted more moments like these. More dinners shared with Arthur, more moments where he walked into his living room to find Arthur already sitting there waiting for him.

Arthur had spoken about his love for poetry over dinner. Talking about his favorite poets and even taking the time to cite a few of his favored poems with Oscar. While Oscar had never truly gotten poetry, never being one for literature in the first place, he loved how Arthur treated it. Arthur treated poetry gently, like it was something precious, something beautiful. Oscar wanted to be like poetry for Arthur. Wanted to be something beautiful, something precious in his, and John’s eyes.

After the meal was done, and he had cleared the plates and silverware from the table and spent some moments cleaning those and the remaining dishes left in the sink, Oscar had to face the inevitable. Night had arrived, the minutes ticking by quickly as the evening engulfed the city that never slept.

Arthur was still sitting at the table as Oscar turned around from his place at the sink, content to wait patiently as Oscar had finished the dishes. “Arthur,” Oscar began. “I, wanted to tell you something, before we headed to bed, as I know it’s getting quite late.” He added. His last glance at the clock revealed it to be nearly nine, and that was before he had begun his work cleaning up from dinner.

The other man simply nodded as he waited for Oscar to continue, never pushing, always allowing Oscar the space and time to collect and voice his thoughts.

“Arthur, I don’t- I only have my bed, to sleep on. I mean,” he stated. “I wish I had a couch I could offer for you to sleep on, or hell even another room with another bed so you could have your own space. It’s probably not ideal, I know, but it would fit both of us, the bed I mean. I just-” Oscar huffed in frustration. “I feel bad that I don’t have anywhere nicer for you to rest. If it makes you uncomfortable I’m more than okay taking the floor. The last thing I want is to make you upset.” He added. Shame pooling in his gut.

“Oscar, it’s all right, really.” Arthur reassured. “I don’t mind in the slightest.”

Oscar glanced up at Arthur, seeing the gentle smile that he cast his way. “Really?”

Arthur nodded in confirmation. “Really. Plus,” he continued, as he stood up from the table and pushed his chair in. “I certainly don’t mind if I’m sharing a bed with someone as beautiful as yourself, Oscar.” Arthur added.

He couldn’t help but blush at his words from their first meal together being echoed back at him now. “Alright,” Oscar said, not sure if he could manage anything else right now.

“Well, Oscar,” Arthur began, “care to show me to this bedroom of yours?” he asked, a grin spreading across his face.

In a fit of bravery Oscar didn’t know he possessed until now, he crossed the kitchen and took Arthur’s hand in his own, guiding him along as he walked towards his bedroom. “Right this way.”

Once they made it to Oscar’s bedroom, he assured Arthur that he could make himself comfortable as he grabbed a handful of sleep clothes from his closet, leaving Arthur in the room while he went to his bathroom to wash up and change before joining Arthur once again. Arthur also elected to use the restroom, grabbing a shirt from his bag and what Oscar assumed to be a small bag for toiletries from his suitcase, leaving Oscar to settle into bed.

As Oscar lay there, under the covers, he tried desperately to rein in the franticness of his beating heart. Here he was, back home, in New York, warm and comfortably full from a dinner he had made to share, now waiting for a beautiful man to join him in bed. Arthur didn’t leave Oscar waiting long as he soon joined Oscar back in the bedroom.

“Hello.” Arthur greeted, almost shyly.

“Hello,” Oscar echoed softly, whispering the greeting across the darkness of his bedroom towards Arthur.

Arthur walked towards the bed. As he did so Oscar lifted the covers as best he could, trying to make room for Arthur as he settled onto the mattress, joining Oscar under the covers. After some brief but no less awkward shifting, the two settled themselves under the sheets. Oscar shifted onto his side and had to suppress a gasp as Arthur moved forwards, tucking himself snugly against Oscar’s back, effectively spooning him. It took a few moments for Oscar to gather himself, before he settled completely into Arthur’s embrace.

“Goodnight, Oscar,” Arthur whispered into the soft hairs at the base of Oscar’s neck.

“Goodnight, Arthur” Oscar softly returned. Letting the warmth of Arthur’s embrace and the steady blend of their slowing breaths lull him into dreams, feeling safer than he had in years. The two drifting off together, in the city that never sleeps.

Chapter Text

“Arthur,”

The voice is distant to Arthur, something pulled from an old dream, some archived and then forgotten relic, something so diluted by time and its passing that it’s lost its shape, becoming slender. Images of birch trees with markings like eyes haunt his mind.

It speaks his name again, but before doing so, a rattling intake of breath that reminds Arthur of dread, reminds him of cold water and cages filled with ghosts pulled up from unimaginable depths.

“Arthur,” Kellin speaks again, Arthur’s heart pounds in his chest.

“Kellin-” Arthur begins.

Only the raspy inhale and exhale of breath muffled through the skin of a gas mask answers him.

Arthur shakes his head, something feels wrong, very wrong. “How, Kellin- Kellin, how are you here? Where are we?” He can feel himself begin to spiral. The first steps taken down a staircase to a dungeon, the likes of who or what it held, he didn’t wish to know. Not a word has been spoken from John and the silence is deafening.

“Shhhh, Arthur.” Kellin soothes. A chill runs further up Arthur’s spine, something about all of this feels distinctly, unsafe. “Listen, can’t you feel it?”

Hesitantly, Arthur does quell his questioning for a moment, favoring to try and take in the world around him, which is challenging, to say the least, without John’s narration. He notices that he is sitting, and although the seat that he is on is not in motion, the body of whatever holds it sways gently back and forth. He can hear it then, the distant rush of wind overlaying the melody of wheels gliding over a metal track. An industrial metronome forever propelling forwards.

“Kellin,” Arthur starts hesitantly, “Are we on a train?”

“Of sorts,” he supplies.

Arthur’s frustration is only spiking in intensity. “What do you mean, of sorts?”

He can hear the shifting of rubber against fabric as he can only assume Kellin shakes his head at him. “It’ll all make sense, if you give it time.”

“I don’t understand. Kellin, where are we going?” Arthur questions.

It doesn’t matter how long he’s been blind now, he still hates being left in the dark.

“To see your friend,” Kellin starts, “Oscar.”

Arthur shakes his head. Nothing is making sense. “No, no that’s not right I don’t- I was just with him I,” he feels hysterical. Did he forget about leaving Oscar? Was he visiting him again? Where was Oscar, was he in New York, like he always was? Was he in Arkham, waiting for Arthur to come home? “Kellin, I don’t understand I was just with him this doesn’t- Kellin, why are you taking me to see him?” a sinking feeling made a home for itself in the pit of Arthur’s stomach. “Did- Kellin, did something happen to Oscar?” the thought made Arthur feel nauseous. What had happened that he hadn’t been around for? Was Oscar hurt?

Once again, only the sound of Kellin’s breathing filled the space, creating far too tense of a silence for Arthur to handle. “Arthur,” he began again. “I think you need to come with me.” Without another moment’s notice Kellin stood, Arthur sat shocked for a moment, before getting up to follow.

“Where are we going?” Arthur asked. The question felt childish, impatient. As soon as it left his mouth the silence that echoed back was bitter and mocking.

There was no response from Kellin, so Arthur was left to simply follow the sounds of Kellin’s booted footsteps down the aisle, doing his best to keep his balance as the train swayed in its unpredictable waves. He stumbled after Kellin, hearing the door between carts open, as Kellin stepped through. Arthur rushed forwards to reach the door, hearing it slide shut, to then search for the handle. When he found it he yanked the door open, wind rushing past his ears in a screaming frenzy as he made his way into the next cart.

The air here was distinctly colder than it had been in the last cart. A ruthless chill that Arthur’s bones ached with remembrance of, even if he couldn’t place where he was. The body remembers. Arthur stumbled for his footing once again, as he stepped down to the floor he was no longer greeted by a swaying surface, but rather the solid, and dense creak of wooden floorboards bowing subtly beneath his step.

“Careful where you step-” Kelling warned. “You made quite a mess,”

Arthur immediately slowed his steps, coming to a standstill. “What do you mean?”

Kellin’s voice grated through the air, “Can’t you smell it through the snow? The wolves, they can. Your viscera made a home in these floorboards. Not ever, never, gonna clean it out.”

The wind of a blizzard screams around the walls of the wooden cabin. Distantly, Arthur can hear the subtle, but unmistakable sound of a coin spinning upon the floorboards. “Why is that here?” Arthur demanded.

“Why is what here, Arthur?” Kellin countered.

“His-” he has to cut himself off as suddenly the metallic stinging scent of blood hits his senses like a tidal wave and it’s so sharp and so much all at once that he thinks he might be sick. With time, the nausea passes. The spinning sound of the coin however, does not.

He begins again, “Why is his coin here?” Arthur didn’t want to say his name. Saying it would make it real.

“Why do you think it’s here?”

“Stop that-” Arthur shouted. “Stop asking me what I think and just fucking answer me.”

Kellin laughed then, a haunting, pitiful sound. “I think you know more than you’re letting on, Arthur.”

Arthur shook his head, his hands trembling as he spoke. “I don’t have a fucking clue what’s going on here. I don’t understand why I’m here again.” The coin spun endlessly, its grit against the wood echoing through Arthur’s mind as if the space between his ears was a concert hall. “For fucks sake can you make that thing stop-!” he pleaded.

“What do you want me to make stop?” Kellin posed.

“The fucking, coin, Kellin! Just make it stop, I don’t-” Arthur was losing himself. “I just can’t listen to it keep fucking spinning anymore.” he was pleading, he didn’t care.

Kellin stepped across the cabin, closer to Arthur now. “Why couldn’t you make it stop, Arthur? Why do you need me to stop it for you?”

Arthur huffed in frustration. “You- you brought me here I don’t understand why it won’t stop can’t you just-” his breath hitched in his hysteria. “Just please make it fucking stop.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” Kellin responded. Arthur heard Kellin spin away then. Arthur didn’t know that you could whistle through a gas mask, but a wordless tune about not caring if it rains or freezes filled the hollow walls of the cabin all the same, as Kellin made his way over to the far side of the cabin.

The footsteps stopped. “Are you sure this is what you want, Arthur?” Kellin asked. Somehow the whistling never ceased.

“Please-” Arthur said, his voice felt small and far away, as if he was still speaking through a bleeding throat.

Kellin was wordless in his reply. Only a crescendo of his whistled tune, the storm outside, and the spinning of the coin built until Kell’s boot fell upon the floor. With it the music stopped, and so did the coin. Only the raging winds and Arthur’s own panicked breathing filled the space.

Hesitantly, into the silence, Arthur tried to search for his friend. “John-” he breathed in expectantly. “John, are you there?”

A circus of laughter erupted from the far corner of the cabin, a sound that made the hairs on the back of Arthur’s neck stand on end.

“Oh, Artie,” the voice started. “Look what you’ve done now!”

Arthur shook his head, backing away on instinct. His footsteps were uneasy as they glided over the viscera of a memory. “No, no you can’t-”

Kayne’s footsteps only chased his own, his voice ringing clear in Arthur’s ears as he moved closer. A hunter in pursuit. Arthur hadn’t yet reached a wall but felt cornered all the same. “Come now, there’s no need to look at me like that. You know, Arthur, I’d say that if I didn’t know any better, which we both know that I do, that you don’t look well, frankly, Art you don’t look all that happy to see me!” A sudden rush of breath hissed through teeth. “Oh, sorry. Poor choice of words.”

This was madness. Something that couldn’t be. Arthur’s head felt clouded, heavy with the weight of trying to make sense of all that was going on. Nothing indicated a change but he could sense the cabin’s walls shrinking, he was boxed in, alone, a cornered animal and a predator, the box that held them only growing smaller. “Why did you bring me here?”

“You stepped through the door kid, don’t you remember?” Kayne reminded him. The double deja vu of the moment made Arthur shiver. Once again using John’s first words to him in a cruel mockery.

“Take me back,” Arthur demanded. He could feel himself suffocating with every second that ticked on by. Every footstep of Kaynes, as he paced endlessly in circles around Arthur sent a jolt of fear through him. This couldn’t be happening again. He wouldn’t let it. Not as the captain of his soul. Arthur needed to get out.

“And oh where, oh where, might that be?” Kayne sang, voice bouncing off the walls.

Arthur breathed in shakily, trying to steel himself, trying to fight against the rising tides of panic that crashed around in angry tides within his ribcage. “I- I was in New York. With Oscar,” he clarified. “Take me back, I, shouldn’t be here, I had promised- promised him that I would help.” He can remember parts of it now, whispering his vows to help Oscar over cooling bowls of soup. The gentlest of voices thanking him.

“Ah, yes.” Kayne began. “That pretty little private eye you’ve found yourself enamored with.” he began to hum, an aimless tune one would craft while trying to think up a response. “I will, certainly, but I’m not done with you yet, Artie. And say, why so quick to leave? Don’t even wanna stick around for old-time’s sake? We did share such a pleasant moment last time around.”

“Take me back,” Arthur repeated. He was sick of Kayne’s games a long time ago and was certainly fed up now.

Arthur had to stifle a gasp as a hand wrapped itself around his wrist. The skin was cold and wet, that metallic scent from earlier erupting once again up his nose, making his eyes water. “Oh, Artie. I think you misheard me just now. I still have such wonders to show you.”

With a tug Arthur pitched forwards, falling towards the ground. But instead of crashing into the floorboards, it’s as if the floor had evaporated. Arthur felt himself fall forwards, then for a brief moment he was suspended upside down, before the world around him shifted once again and he was standing upright. Kayne’s hand around his wrist holding fast the entire time.

If the meager walls of the cabin had provided any protection from the storms that raged outside of them, that shielding was long gone for now an icy wind bit angrily at Arthur’s face. Snow whipped around the two of them. Blizzard wind snarling and sinking it’s teeth into Arthur’s bare arms and the exposed skin of his ankles his pants failed to cover.

He nearly jumped when Kayne spoke again, this time breathing into his ear, just soft enough to be heard over the howling wind. “Say, kid. Are you gonna listen this time when you’re told to watch your step?”

Arthur froze, if he had any plans of moving away from Kayne they were instantly scrapped as he felt Kayne release his grip on Arthur’s arm. Slowing taking a few steps forwards and then stopping, Kayne tapped his foot softly against the floor. “You hear that, Artie?”

Oh, he did. The hollow and wet echo of Kayne’s tapping made the blood in Arthur’s veins run cold. He knew where he was standing now. Somehow Kayne had brought them to a pond, or perhaps a lake, its surface frozen, solid. But if Arthur had a guess based on the echoes, not very thick.

He could practically hear the smile in Kayne’s voice as he spoke again, pleased with Arthur’s realization. “That’s right. Easy does it, kid. Now don’t move a fucking muscle.”

Arthur doesn’t think he could will himself to step forwards if he tried. “What is the point of all this?” exhaustion seeping like a sickness into his tone. It was always like this with Kayne. Dizzying and distorting. Arthur could never feel like he could make sense of anything.

“Does there always have to be one?” Kayne countered.

“I suppose not,” Arthur huffed. “But forgive me if I can’t see you playing without an angle.”

Kayne laughed at that, a menacing, haunting thing. “Oh, see this is why I like you, Artie. You’re just so, fun to play with.”

“So is that what this is then, is that what I am to you?” he started. “It doesn’t surprise me to know you enjoy playing with your food.” A stern and mocking tone had seeped into Arthur’s voice. It rang similar to how one would scold a child.

“So is that what you think this is?” Kayne stepped closer, “Do you think I’m playing with my food?”

He shook his head, this back and forth rapidly growing excruciating. “I don’t know-” he sighed. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Hmm.” Kayne hummed, thinking. “Well, if it helps, think of this all as some learning exercise.”

“Learning exercise?” Arthur began, confused as to what Kayne meant, then again that was most things with Kayne.

Again, Kayne’s voice spoke into his ear, Arthur hadn’t even heard Kayne move, let alone felt him near his side. “Oh, Arthur-” he began. There was a pity in his tone that Arthur did not care for. “Believe me when I say that you’re really, really not gonna like this next part.”

Before Arthur could even have the wherewithal to respond, abruptly the frozen lake gave way beneath his feet, sending Arthur plunging into murky, icy depths.

Cold flooded through every open space of Arhur’s anatomy. Gripping onto him with hungry hands, grasping at every and any warmth he held within. It was a sensation of such brutal chill it stung each and every one of his nerves. A lifetime of lashes inflicted into a single moment. The shock of it had Arthur gasping in pain. Water rushed past his open lips and into his lungs. Arthur choked against his own screams and the water flooding into him. He sank deeper and deeper into a quiet, and undefined depth, not a soul around to listen as the last of the air left his lungs.

The cruel irony hit him there, as the coldness sank him into a limbo he wasn’t sure he’d claw his way out of. This must’ve been what it was like, for her. Arthur had spent a long time, after Faroe’s death, wondering what it must have been like. Certainly, Arthur was familiar with the sensation of drowning, but that was always in a more abstracted sense of the word. He had drowned under work, under societal pressures, under the shocking weight of realizations. Drowned his thoughts and his feelings and impulses with the burn of gin. Never before had he been able to sympathize so literally with his daughter than he had now, his lungs heavy with water, the space behind his eyes burning but everywhere else was too numb to care. It’s just, he thinks to himself, for it to end like this. A fitting end, for a failing father. It doesn’t make a difference, but he lets his eyes slide shut at the thought.

Just then he feels a hand at the back of his neck, a cruel shift of muscle and he is ripped from the water. As soon as his head surfaces he immediately begins to hack. Water retching itself from his lungs as he shakes with the conflicting impulses to gasp in for air against the water he’s still left with to cough out of his lungs. Arthur’s head spins with the effort. When the last of the water is cleared, chest heaving with the effort of which he fights to take in air, Arthur lets his body collapse, falling backwards, the hand at his neck no longer there, as his back collides with the curve of cool porcelain. He can feel it now, Arthur is sitting, well, more slumped than anything, legs stretching out in front of him. His clothes stick to his body, and just beneath his sternum water submerges him.

A cold, dizzying voice that he cannot place whispers to him from just behind his head, “Here, let me help you with that.”

Before he can swivel to meet the voice, he feels an arm reach past him and feels the water ripple as it plunges beneath the surface. Arthur tenses with anticipation. In no time at all he hears the subdued sound of a drain being unplugged. The realization hits him like a train, as the water around him floods into the drain, the air growing colder around him. A cruel irony indeed, as Arthur sits, half-drowned, and shivering in a bathtub.

It takes him a few moments before he can begin to speak, and when he does he cannot hide the tremble in his voice. “Who are you,” a question he has asked many times over the past few years, not always pleased with the answer.

The voice begins again, its tone snaking like tendrils through Arthur’s mind, it was a jarring sensation to hear it talk. “I am Mr. Scratch.”

Arthur can feel, for the third time his blood run cold. “You’re- you’re Scratch.” he means it as a question but it comes out sounding more like a statement.

“Certainly, I am.” It confirms.

He feels himself back away on instinct. Pressing his back further into the curve of the tub, not sure if his legs would even handle him if he made any attempts to get up. “Why-” he started, “why am I here?”

“Because,” Scratch begins, “You, are my favorite.” It says, as if the answer had been obvious this entire time and Arthur was being foolish to just now learn it.

“Your favorite, what do you mean, I’m you’re favorite?” He had spent so long, confused and searching for answers. It exhausted him to still be searching for them here, in his dreams.

“I could see the cabin that sunk in on you. I saw the you that sank into a lake. Your dreams are coated with the stains of past sufferings. I tasted the blood of yours that coated the cabin that ate you, it was perfect. You are perfect”

Arthur shuddered. Trying desperately to make sense of what Scratch meant.

Scratch began again before he could formulate a response. “The place, this place that I am trapped in. It eats at me too. I am nothing like I was when I was moved there. The man whose dreams I walk, he is not perfect.”

“Oscar?” Arthur began tenativley.

“Yes.” Scratch responded.

“What do you want with him,” he started.

“Not him,” it answered. Voice still carving into Arthur’s skull, the noise felt like a nosebleed. “You.”

Arthur’s mind came to a screeching halt. “Me, what do you want with me?” he already regretted asking the question as soon as it left his mouth. In his past asking anything inhuman what it wanted with him never led to anything of his benefit.

Scratch’s voice resumed, “I want you to help me leave. Leave this place that eats me.”

“And how do you suppose I do that?” Arthur inquired. Not sure how he could begin to try and free some entity from a place it claimed was eating it. Outside of John, Arthur didn’t have much experience helping otherworldly beings.

“I’m so glad you asked.” Scratch said, its voice sounding close to a purr.

Arthur listens then to sounds of rustling fabric and then a faint whooshing noise, not completely unlike the wind from the storm he had been in just moments before.

“Here, take this.” Arthur holds out his hand on instinct and feels a small cold object drop into the center of his palm.

“What is this?” he begins. Curling his hand into a cup while the other explores the texture of the stone.

Scratches voice murmurs low in its answer. “It is me. In a sense.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I don’t understand. How can giving me this help you?”

“The body I am attached to right now, the longer I remain, the more it’ll decay.” Arthur’s mind reeled with the thought of Oscar withering away. Sick and unable to seek a treatment. His own dreams eating away at him until there was nothing left but a being that couldn’t even find rest in his dreams. “If you place this stone, upon someone else, before they fall asleep, I can move to them. I need to leave. I can’t stand to stay.” Scratch paused for a moment, “Promise me, my favorite, that you’ll help me leave.”

He couldn’t believe what was being asked of him. To give this stone to someone, would be to doom another with the same fate that Oscar was fighting against. It was a cruelty, a violence that Arthur was being asked to enact. Still, he thought of Oscar, being eaten away by Scratch. What it had said about decay terrified Arthur. Hadn’t Oscar asked him to help, isn’t this what Arthur came to New York to do? He loathed the idea of hurting another innocent person, of dooming them to a fate they were clueless to prevent, but he couldn’t bear the idea of betraying Oscar. Certainly, John would have his objections, but Arthur would not let Oscar drown. John had promised him what felt like ages ago, back in Addison, that he would not let Arthur fade away. Arthur was not about to let the same happen to Oscar.

“I- I promise-” he whispered. His voice sounded far away to himself, not still quite believing what he was agreeing to.

“Excellent.” Scratch breathed into his ear. Arthur shuddered at the sensation. Once again the sound of wind filled the room and with a swell and a crash, Arthur was once again left in silence.

Distantly, softly, Arthur could hear the soft notes of a piano. The gentle beginnings, of a song he knows all too well.

“Arthur,” a voice calls to him, from beyond the bathroom door. A siren song, a lighthouse, a beckoning call.

“Arthur,” it called out again.

Arthur scrambled up hastily, legs shaking still. He gripped the lip of the tub and hoisted himself up and out. With all the gratefulness of a newborn fawn, he stumbled towards the door. “Hello- Hello?” he answered.

“Arthur,” the voice answered.

He wrenched open the door and stumbled into the hall.

“Arthur,” it sounded once again. The voice echoed from all around him.

“I-” Arthur began. He walked aimlessly through the halls, running into walls and furniture. Quickly growing desperate.

“Arthur,” the voice beckoned once again. The voice climbed in volume as the piano swelled in its sound. Distorted chords twisting and echoing in a ceaseless crescendo amongst the halls of the labyrinth Arthur walked through.

“ARTHUR,” it roared. The walls shook where he had placed his hand for balance.

“Help-” Arthur whispered. He felt small, a child, trapped in a maze. His breath hitched in fear.

“ARTHUR!” a booming tone roared. A voice, Arthur knew anywhere.

He let out a breath of relief. The floor was steady under his feet, and the walls no longer shook. His hand that held the stone trembled like nothing else. “John,” he answered, his voice bleeding hysteria and alleviation. “John, oh it’s so good to hear your voice again I was so- John, I was so scared I didn’t-” he paused then. Not realizing where he had been before hearing John again, where he had gone in the first place that had led to him not being able to hear his friend’s voice. “John,” he began again, “what happened?”

With a tone Arthur could not place, John spoke, his words bringing Arthur back to a memory that felt like it came from lifetimes ago, “Don’t you remember?”

Chapter Text

Consciousness came to Oscar in a gentle tide—a slow drift towards, then away, then back to the cliff faces of wakefulness. In these drifts, memories of a warm body curled around his own lingered, echoes of the softest “hellos.” An entire archive of safety was cataloged into a single evening.

These sentiments drifted with Oscar as he returned to wakefulness. The tenderness of it all breathing warmth into his limbs as he turned to his side, opening his eyes to greet Arthur.

Waking up alone was not an unfamiliarity to Oscar. Most evenings he elected to spend on his own. His work, his nightmares, and isolative tendencies tended to lead to most evenings ending in him collapsing lonely into bed, body flooded with exhaustion and drink, too weak to fend off the daggers his dreams wielded. Even in the few instances where Oscar did favor a bedmate, any thrashing or screaming byproduct of Scratch’s nightmares was enough to deter any of them away. He couldn’t blame them either.

None of these reassurances did anything to stop the sinking feeling that grew in his stomach as Oscar realized that Arthur hadn’t stayed. Oscar hadn’t meant for it to turn out this way, hadn’t wished for it to be so. Hadn’t he been gentle with Arthur? Hadn’t Arthur been gentle with him? Suppose it a tenderness not meant to last, Oscar and his hands like claws, scaring the only truly beautiful thing he’d known away. He swiped at his eyes as tears began to flood them. This was fucking childish, he thought, to have hoped that something gold might’ve stayed.

He needed a fucking drink.

Wiping away the final tears from his eyes, Oscar threw the covers off. Less than elegantly leaving his bed, he made his way drowsily to the kitchen.

When he turned the corner and entered the kitchen the sight he was greeted with froze him in his place.

Arthur was seated at the farther end of the table, body hunched over and head tilted downwards. His arms rested on the table in front of him, his hands held loosely together, one of his thumbs drawing circles into the opposing palm as if to ground himself. Oscar had never seen Arthur like this, so caged and vulnerable in his manner.

He approached Arthur slowly, not wanting to scare him away, especially not after thinking he already had. With his voice still finding its footing this early in the morning, he greeted Arthur gently.

“Arthur,”

With that Arthur’s head shot up, snapping in Oscar’s direction. Oscar had seen Arthur’s eyes many times now, enough to memorize the pools of brown and waves of gold that crashed within. He knew that while Arthur could not see him, there was always a pointedness to his gaze, a shine to his eyes, evident of a life behind them. The gaze that greeted Oscar now was of no familiarity to him. Arthur’s eyes were glossed over, a faraway glance pasted over them as if he was staring straight through Oscar. Everything about Arthur looked ready to fight but just as likely to shatter. Arthur made no move to speak, only maintaining his gaze towards Oscar.

Oscar took a few steps forwards, once again attempting to greet Arthur. “Arthur,” he began again. “Is everything alright?” he asked tentatively.

“Oscar,” Arthur started, his breath hitching. “Oscar, I-” was all the man got out before he ducked his head back down, shoulders pulled up tight around his neck.

“It’s alright,” Oscar soothed. “You’re okay Arthur, really, I- Would you,” he continued hesitantly. “Would you like to talk about it?” he offered.

After a moment's silence, Arthur nodded softly.

Oscar nodded to himself. “Alright,” he moved further into the kitchen. Drink forgotten, he turned towards Arthur as he got closer, “I was going to make some coffee, would you like a cup?” he offered.

Another silent nod was all Arthur answered him with, but it was enough. Oscar turned towards the counter and began to fix up some coffee for Arthur and himself. After pouring the brew into two mugs, and adding cream to his own, Oscar settled himself at the seat next to Arthur, placing Arthur’s mug in front of him. Arthur reached out slowly to grab the mug, pulling it across the table to rest closer to himself. He made no moves to drink any, but clasped his hands around the cup, absorbing the warmth it provided.

Taking a sip from his own, Oscar smiled softly to Arthur before beginning. “Arthur, can you tell me what happened?”

-

Be it from forces of nature or nurture, Oscar had always been a good listener. Always one to sit on the outskirts of the orphanage and listen to the noises of the other children, listen to the sounds of the geese as they migrated south for the winter. As he grew older he learned to keep an ear out for other sounds. The rush of an incoming car whose driver did not care if there was a pedestrian passing the street in front of it, the barely concealed words of strangers, tinged with hatred and disapproval at his passing. His occupation itself demanded for him to be a good listener. To be tuned in and rooted to the words of his clients and potential suspects, an expert in navigating the mazes within stories and accounts shared with him. Nothing changed when it came to his conversations with Arthur.

Oscar listened. Listened to Arthur’s recollections of what had happened while Oscar had been asleep. He stayed quiet, allowing the space for Arthur to take his time sharing what had taken place, the minutes washed on by as mugs of coffee turned cold. Arthur told Oscar about his dream.

Told him about the train, about a man named Kellin. Told him about the cabin he was brought to, one covered in his own viscera, the scar across his throat now paired with a story. Arthur told him about Kayne, and while Oscar had never heard the name before, he considered himself lucky he hadn’t. The subsequent anger and dread that laced Arthur’s tone when he spoke of Kayne made Oscar sure that he was no force to be reckoned with. And while Arthur had not elaborated on Kayne past what he shared in his dream, Oscar dared not to push for more. He knew fear, and knew it well. All nightmares will reveal themselves when ready.

Oscar listened as Arthur told him about drowning, about the tub. And oh, how Oscar listened when Arthur told him about Scratch. Told him of Scratch’s wishes to escape, its wishes to haunt another, its decay within this space. Listened as Arthur told him about the stone.

When Arthur had finished his account, a silence stretched between them, Oscar allowing time for Arthur’s words to sink in. Resting between them was the stone, which Arthur had pulled from his pocket and placed down on the table after he had finished telling Oscar about Scratch. Oscar could only sit and stare at the thing, its presence like a meteor that had crashed into his home, its potential held such a weight Oscar felt convinced that he wouldn’t be able to lift it from the table if he made any attempt to try. It was a small thing, no larger than the pad of his own thumb. The stone was a milky white color, and a near greyish hue covering it, reflecting light like an early morning mist, it was almost beautiful, and that terrified Oscar.

Eyes still glued to the stone, Oscar began to speak, “So, the stone, Scratch said that you need to, That you would have to maybe,” He took a shaky breath in, his mind felt heavy trying to make sense of what Arthur had shared with him, every word he tried to speak felt like treading water with tired limbs. “You would need to place the stone upon someone else or, I suppose, in their belongings, so that Scratch could leave?”

Arthur nodded shortly, head still downcast, his gaze aimed at his hands which had now returned to their grip on the coffee mug, dancing in a slight tremble if Oscar looked closely. “Yes, ah, before I sleep again.”

“So would that mean that Scratch would haunt someone else, that it,” his eyebrows furrowed at the implications. “That it, wouldn’t be me, anymore?” He spoke the last part softly, as if saying it too loud would doom himself somehow.

“From what I understand, yes.” Arthur answered, his conflicted expression matching Oscar’s own.

Oscar shook his head, not fully believing what he was hearing. “I just- wouldn’t that be dooming someone else? Someone who has no clue about what’s happening to them?” He huffed in frustration. “Arthur, I lived with this terror for so long now, it- I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. No one deserves to feel afraid like that.”

“Believe me, Oscar I know, it’s just that-” his voice hitched for a moment. “Oscar, this is killing you.” Arthur’s voice was soft, almost pleading. Begging Oscar to understand where he was coming from.

“So you’d let it kill someone else?” Oscar countered. Not meaning to sound defensive. The sincerity and care of Arthur’s words was shaking something loose within Oscar, something he didn’t have the words for. But to consider the alternative of letting someone else be haunted by Scratch, someone else to be chased endlessly by these torments, perhaps even someone innocent, and most definitely someone unknowing. It hurt Oscar, to imagine another writhing with the same pain he held.

Arthur’s response arrived without hesitation, “If it meant saving you, Oscar, then yes.”

It felt like all the breath had been punched out of Oscar. Arthur’s words and the conviction he had spoken them with, the sincerity of it all mimicking an asteroid. Colliding into Oscar with a force that demolished everything in its path.

“Arthur-” Oscar could only breathe out. Wasn’t this all he had wanted? He sought out Arthur in hopes of ridding himself of Scratch, in hopes of finding someone who might have the answers to a way out. Oscar felt like he was splitting in two, the tendons, the bones, the atoms of his very being shredding apart as he sat perfectly still at his own kitchen table. Everything within him screamed to rid itself of the weight of Scratch’s torment, but at the cost of dooming another? It felt cruel, it felt unclean.

“Oscar,” Arthur began, “You came to me to ask for my help, to seek my guidance on how to escape your current predicament with Scratch.” he took a deep breath before continuing, his gaze turning up towards Oscar as he spoke. “I vowed to help you, Oscar. It’s not a promise I intend on backing down from. I know, that- none of this is ideal. What Scratch proposed it’s- unfair and unjust but, I want to help you escape this, however I can. And if that means giving Scratch’s stone to someone else, if that’s what it takes to save you from this Oscar- then that’s what I’ll do.”

Oscar could only shake with the resonance of Arthur’s words. He couldn’t find the words to meet Arthur’s own.

“Plus,” the other man continued, “we still have that address, right? The one Dr. Rose gave you?” Arthur was proceeding cautiously, as always, being so gentle with Oscar. “We can still go and scope it out, see if that brings us any answers. Maybe we can find something different. Maybe Scratch’s proposal isn’t the only way?” he finished softly.

He nodded gently. “Aye,” Oscar agreed. “I still have the address. I think it would be wise, to still give the property a look. Exhaust our options, before having to consider what Scratch proposed.”

“Thank you.” Arthur breathed, relieved at Oscar’s trust. How could Oscar not? Trust this man? Arthur had always made him feel safe, feel cared for. Where Arthur was, therein also lay hope. “And Oscar,” he began, his hand leaving his mug to settle over Oscar’s, stilling a tremor Oscar hadn’t even noticed. Oscar turned his hands around, holding Arthur’s tight between his own, the touch an anchor rooting him to this moment. Arthur’s voice was soft as he continued, “I won’t let you drown.”

“Thank you,” Oscar could only breathe, his words coming out no louder than a whisper. “And Arthur,” he continued, “Thank you, for telling me about Scratch. I’m- I’m terribly sorry, That it visited you too, you didn’t deserve what it put you through, but I’m grateful you told me.” Oscar gave Arthur’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you, Arthur, for trusting me.”

A gentle smile greeted him in response. “Of course,” Arthur whispered. Then, almost as an afterthought he began again, “Say Oscar, do you even have a way to get to the address Dr. Rose gave you?”

The question surprised Oscar, not that it was out of line to ask, but its directness acted nearly as a damper, the tides of reality crashing back into him. “Oh, well, I guess so-” he started.

Arthur let out a snort at that. “You ‘guess so’, what’s that supposed to mean-” his tone was light, humored at Oscar’s vague response.

“Well, I don’t necessarily own a vehicle of my own, but Marie, a friend of mine who's a tenant on the floor below. When her husband passed, she had offered his car to me.” Oscar continued to explain. “She doesn’t prefer to drive and explained that, well on account of her husband’s passing, he wouldn’t be needing it anymore, so she might as well leave it to someone who would use it. The car is still, technically, in Albert’s name, and I don’t drive it often, but it does come in handy in some cases where I have to travel further for leads. Not everything I look into is conveniently local.” he explained.

Arthur nodded to himself. “Well, that makes sense. I’m relieved that we have a way to get to the property. I have no frame of reference for the area, but I couldn’t imagine it being in simple walking distance.”

Oscar laughed at that. “No certainly not, I’ve never been to White Plains myself, but I know it to be largely rural, farmland and the like.” he elaborated.

The other man hummed in response. “Well,” he began, softly pulling his hand from Oscar’s grip, moving to get up from his seat. “I suppose we best start getting ready to head out then.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “Oh, and Arthur-” Oscar started, as he moved to get up. “Would you like any breakfast before we head out?”

Arthur smiled, “Another plate of eggs perhaps?” he teased.

Oscar shook his head softly. “Am I becoming that predictable?”

“I don’t think you could ever stop surprising me,” Arthur answered, a sincerity in his voice that nearly left Oscar speechless. But before he could even stumble for a response, Arthur continued, “But yes, Oscar, I would love some breakfast. Thank you.” he finished.

“Of course,” Oscar nodded.

Arthur walked past Oscar, heading back towards the bedroom. “Would it be alright if I cleaned up while you got breakfast going?” he asked. Turning back to voice the question to Oscar.

“More than.” He answered. Turning then to the task of preparing breakfast for the two of them, as Arthur got ready for the day that lay ahead of them both.

-

The rest of the morning slid past in a bit of a haze. Anxiety clouded over Oscar’s mind as the clock ticked onwards. Breakfast was a quiet interlude amongst it all. Although the two ate in mostly silence, the presence of the other grounded both men. Oscar was grateful for this, these gentle moments he spent with Arthur, these times nearly bordering on domesticity. It was a delicate thing, this feeling growing within Oscar, the warmth that bloomed within him as Arthur shared breakfast with him. To watch the morning sun seep through the windows of his kitchen and paint Arthur in a soft haze of gold and yellow made something within Oscar ache. It was a beautiful moment. One Oscar felt dread at considering he might not experience something like it again after today.

He knew it was rational, human, to fear the unknown, but as Oscar made his way through his routine of getting ready he couldn’t quell the unruly waves of fear that rose within him. Oscar didn’t know what to expect walking into Allan’s property. Whatever waited for the two of them at 61 Boulder Road was undefinable. He couldn’t tell what he feared most about the ordeal, the prospect of something evil waiting for them at the farm terrified Oscar, but the premise of not finding anything, and being left with no solution outside of Scratch’s request to doom another terrified him. Both outcomes instilled a panic in Oscar that left him distant as he moved through the morning.

After they had finished their breakfast, and Oscar had finished cleaning up, the two gathered what they needed for the day. Both men dawned their coats, Oscar selecting to tuck the paper in which the address of the property had been jotted down into one of his pockets, they both took a final inventory making sure they had everything they needed before they left for the day. Before they left Arthur fled back to Oscar’s room, returning with a book older than any Oscar had ever seen in his life. When he had asked about it Arthur had explained that it might hold some information that could help them with Scratch, if nothing turned up at the Allan property. Oscar only nodded in his response. He took one final look around the apartment before they headed out, Oscar grabbing the keys for the car from their resting place in a bowl on his kitchen counter, before heading out the door, Arthur following close behind. After locking the door to his apartment, Oscar led Arthur out of the building and towards the lot where the car was parked, a soft drizzle causing the two to walk a bit faster as they made their way to the shelter of the vehicle.

Once they had settled inside Oscar took a deep breath, then another, before starting the car. Something about the act felt dooming, a final step that he could not turn back from, the signature at the bottom of a contract where the unread fine print held a sinister promise. Oscar’s hands shook slightly as he took the wheel. He glanced over at Arthur to see how the other man was fairing. Arthur only smiled softly at him, a wordless encouragement that he was here with Oscar, the gesture filling Oscar with a profound sense of hope, of safety. Smiling in return, Oscar turned his attention back to the wheel. Letting his eyes slip shut, he let out another deep breath, before opening them again. Not without fear, but not without Arthur, and certainly not without hope Oscar shifted the car into gear, their journey towards 61 Boulder Hill, White Plains, now underway.

-

Storms raged outside as Oscar and Arthur made the drive up to the Allan farm. The rain and wind only doubled down in a near-relentless intensity, a thundering roar that drowned out everything beyond the car. Oscar had set the radio to play as they drove, the music providing a soft recluse for both him and Arthur to indulge in. He remembered Arthur expressing his love for music in the past. Remembers in one of their first conversations together Arthur mentioning that he was a composer before he had begun his work at the church. It softened something in Oscar, to glance over from time to time during the drive, and see Arthur softly drumming his fingers to the music, his head swaying softly from side to side along with the melody. Oscar couldn’t help but to hum along at times, Arthur’s enjoyment was infectious. Unfortunately, the music didn’t remain with them for the whole journey. As they entered deeper rural lands, the signal was lost, leaving only the roar of wind and rain to engulf them until they made their way to the property.

Pulling up to 61 Boulder Road reminded Oscar distantly of Dante, traveling up a path leading to a desolate inferno. Oscar had nearly missed the place entirely, the path up to the farm practically hidden, he had to pull around once and track backward before turning onto the small path that led up to the property.

Oscar parked the car in front of the house. He couldn’t see much through the rain that beat against the windshields, but the house itself was looming in its presence. Whatever color the property had been painted before had faded long ago, the worn paint a sign of probable years of neglect leaving the house looking grim, its figure under the stormy sky a hulking dark shadow, towering above the car. Oscar couldn’t do more than sit and stare. He had turned off the ignition in the car. The engine had now gone silent, only rain and the occasional rolls of thunder echoing overhead could be heard. Looking at the farm Oscar felt dread pool, ice cold and heavy in his stomach. Despite driving them all the way here, the reality of now leaving the vehicle felt near impossible for Oscar, an unfathomable task, to leave the shelter of this vehicle, to step away from Arthur and into whatever labyrinth of horrors lay beyond those doors.

“I’m scared, Arthur,” he admitted. The confession tumbling out of him, he did nothing to stop it.

Arthur frowned at Oscar’s words, his head tilted downwards, mirroring his actions from this morning as he gripped his hands together, one thumb rubbing soothing circles into the opposite palm. “I’m sorry, Oscar. I’ll admit I’m a little frightened too,”

Oscar mirrored Arthur’s frown. He didn’t wish for Arthur to be afraid, and the knowledge that what it took to help Oscar was causing Arthur fear stung. He was about to ask why Arthur was sorry, it seemed odd to him that the man had apologized. Before Oscar could begin Arthur interrupted him.

“Oscar I- I was thinking about it, on the drive here.” He began. “You had expressed that you were happy, that I had agreed to help you, that I had joined you back to New York to see if I could aid in finding any answers about how to help with Scratch.” Arthur shifted in his seat as he continued. “John had asked me, that evening, before we left on the train, why I had agreed to help you. Why I had been so eager to propose leaving the life I had built for us in Arkham, to chase after something that would only contain the very dangers we worked so hard to escape.”

Oscar could only sit silently as Arthur continued, letting his words resonate around the tight space of the car.

“I told John that part of me felt almost trapped in Arkham. That after spending so long running from the fears that had chased us, that lying still felt jarring, unreal almost. I’m grateful, for the life the John and I have built for ourselves in Arkham, I’m- I’m happier than I’ve been in years. But a big part of me still feels restless, like there’s more I could do.” Arthur took a deep breath before continuing. “Oscar, I’ve spent a long time now, wondering what I could do, what purpose I could serve, now that I wasn’t on the run from things that wanted me dead. I am, happy, with the work I’ve done for the church, it feels good, to give people hope in that way, but it-- it’s never fully made me feel content, you know?” Arthur turned his head gently towards Oscar, and he could only nod in response. “When you came to me, that first day at St. John’s, and explained to me the work you did, how you took these cases and helped people escape from these fates, even when you couldn’t find a way out of your own. Oscar, it inspired me. You work relentlessly to help these people, you chase down leads and you fight to give these people a better future. I admire that about you.” Oscar couldn’t help the subtle blush that began to rise on his cheeks at Arthur’s praise.

Before pressing on, Arthur took another shaky breath, “Oscar, I’ve felt aimless, for so long. Wondering what life had planned for me. After Addison, after returning to Arkham. I’ve struggled to wonder what my purpose here is. What the universe had planned for me, after everything it’s already thrown my way. You came into my life Oscar, you were put in my path, that day you visited Arkham, that day you found me at St. John’s. The world put me in your path, to show me.”

Arthur shifted in his seat, now facing Oscar. Golden eyes met Oscar’s own as Arthur spoke, “Oscar, I believe that you are my purpose.”

Oscar’s ears rang with Arthur’s confession. Something undefinable was shaking loose in his chest.

“I want to help you, Oscar. As far as I am mentally and physically able to.” Arthur finished. His gaze softened towards Oscar. He smiled gently after he spoke, an echo of that very same tenderness that had captured Oscar from the moment they met.

“Arthur,” Oscar could only whisper. A feeling too big to name was growing within him, something tender and scared and aching and pure. Oscar didn’t fight the tides this time, only succumbing to them, and leaning forwards ever so slowly, giving Arthur the time to escape if he wanted, he closed the distance between himself and Arthur.

The kiss only lasted a moment, Oscar pulled away quickly, noting Arthur’s stillness. Perhaps he had misjudged things, and in the process only hurt Arthur with his foolish impulses. “Arthur, I-” he breathed in, about to apologize when Arthur’s hand found Oscar’s jacket lapel and dragged them back together.

Arthur kissed him gently, his lips moving softly against Oscar’s own. Kissing him with a tenderness Oscar had never known, the sensation nearly making him weep. Oscar could feel Arthur’s hand tremble where it held on to his coat, the only betrayal of his hunger. He moved his hands to softly cradle Arthur’s face, tilting him gently to the side so they could meet each other more easily. Oscar could drown in this sensation. The world outside had faded away, the farm and the storm temporarily forgotten in favor of memorizing the way Arthur’s lips moved against his. He ached with something beautiful and it was a feeling he wouldn’t trade for the world.

Of course, nothing gold can stay. Softly, and slowly, Oscar pulled away from Arthur. Arthur moved his hand from its perch on Oscar’s jacket to the nape of his neck, softly pulling Oscar forwards till their foreheads rested together. They stayed like that for a moment, the rain echoing off the roof of the car, as the two caught their breaths. Oscar kept his eyes shut, still dizzy with the sensation of kissing Arthur. He could feel Arthur’s pulse hammer beneath where his palms lay a stubborn, insistent, and beautiful beat. Everything within him ached.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Arthur whispered into the soft space between them. His words were punctuated with gentle circles he rubbed into the delicate hairs at the base of Oscar’s head.

Oscar nodded against Arthur as he softly pulled away, slowly opening his eyes as he gently placed a soft kiss against Arthur’s forehead before he returned to his seat.

“Well,” Arthur breathed, a hopeful smile on his face, “No time like the present, I suppose.”

“Aye,” Oscar agreed, his voice leaving him much softer than he would’ve thought.

Oscar pocketed his keys and then exited the car along with Arthur. The two of them walked together, towards the steps leading up to the Allan farm.

-

They stood in front of the door to the house, thankful for the recluse that the roofed patio provided from the rain. Even though it was only a short walk from where Oscar had parked the car to the house, both men’s hair was now matted from the heavy downpour; likely to track rain inside, though it didn’t appear that anybody would care given the state of abandonment the building had been left in.

Oscar turned to Arthur, “I think-” he began, “I think it might be wise if we made a quick circle of the building from the outside. I know we can likely enter through the front but it could serve useful to see if there's any doors or windows that might serve as a quick entrance or exit. We don’t know what we're walking into here, could be helpful to have a better lay of the land before moving forwards.” Oscar elaborated, trying to think ahead. He truly didn’t want to encounter anything within the property that would give them reason to run, but with his prior experience investigating places like the farm, one truly didn’t know if they were to expect any malevolent forces that may lurk beyond the borders of these places.

Turning away from his focus on the front door, Arthur nodded in agreement with Oscar. “That sounds best. I know John and I have found ourselves in ruts where a look around before walking in might’ve saved a bit of skin.” Arthur delivered the statement lightly, but there was a bitterness to his tone, a shadow of pain that still lingered. A pain Oscar ached to soothe.

“Right, well, I can take the right side of the property if you’re alright taking the left, we can meet in the middle and then circle back together here.” He suggested.

“Sounds like a plan,” Arthur confirmed. “I’ll let you know if John and I spot anything helpful on our round.” he finished. Oscar smiled to himself at the phrasing as the two men made their way down the steps and once back into the storm. It was endearing how Arthur spoke about John and himself, simultaneously acknowledging their solidarity as one cohesive unit, while also respecting John as a being of his own. He imagined briefly a visual of three figures circling the building, His own, Arthur’s, and John’s. Oscar couldn’t conjure an image of what John would look like, his mind only supplying him with the animated visual of something akin to a shadow, a vague mimicry of the human form, but mirroring a near apparition. “Meet you on the other side,” Arthur offered, before turning towards the left side of the building, beginning his search.

“Aye, meet you there.” Oscar agreed, before turning to begin his own search.

As Oscar walked around the property the first thing he noticed was how dilapidated everything appeared. Oscar knew that Mr. Allan had co-owned the property, and had been gone for some time now, but the fact still did not explain the level of decay that ate away at the building. This type of rot, this degree of corruption, was something Oscar had only seen in buildings that had been ignored for decades. Left bare and at the mercy of the elements of climate and time. He could only assume the building had been in decay when Allan had purchased it, and that the man had done little with the property in the time he owned it to fix it, which made Oscar curious as to what exact use the man would even have for such a building. To lay partial claim to it only to let it continue to rot read as nearly foolish to Oscar. Although he supposes that the state of a building like this, must not matter much to a man of wealth. It can’t be as if the man was living here, so likely there was no personal need to keep the building in a healthy condition.

He noted as he walked that there were a great deal of first-floor windows, many of which were without screens or had significant portions of glass missing. Vines and overgrown botany stretched up the outer walls of the property. Ivy reached like claws around the edges of windows and the corners of the house. Outside of the windows, Oscar wasn’t noticing any notable exists of possible entrances to the building excluding the front door. He made it to the back of the property relatively shortly, only having to wait a moment before Arthur rounded the further corner, making his way towards him.

It was still hard to hear each other over the roar of the rain, but once Arthur came into earshot, Oscar began to relay his findings. “I didn’t see much on the way here, a decent amount of first-floor windows, none of which had screens. I’m sure we could break them if we needed to get out of one of them quickly and the front door wasn’t an option.” He took a moment before continuing, Arthur was now standing close enough that he could speak at a normal volume. “I am a bit concerned about the state of decay about the place. It’s a little odd that Mr. Allan would choose to invest in a property and just leave it to rot. Granted, I’ve seen the rich do much worse, but this building must’ve been in decay for, well decades before Allan must’ve owned it. It makes me wonder why he invested in it in the first place.”

Arthur nodded in understanding as he listened to Oscar’s findings. “It is odd, the decay was something John pointed out to me as we cleared our side. Speaking of which,” he continued. “Same as you had mentioned, a good amount of first-floor windows if we needed to use those and not the front door. On the wall, right before this one, there’s a ground door to what’s most likely a basement, or underground shelter of some sort attached to the house. John noted that there was a lock around the handles, but I don’t know if that’s a sign of keeping something or someone out, or in. It also doesn’t look like there’s any back door to the place either, the only proper door, outside of the one to the basement being the one in front.”

Oscar made a mental note of the door to the basement, perhaps once inside they could keep an eye out for any tools to break the chain that held the handles. In the case, they would need those doors to be opened. “Aye, well, speaking of the front door, you ready to head back?” he offered.

Arthur smiled as he barely concealed a shiver, “That sound’s delightful actually.” He wrapped his coat around himself tighter and the two men made their way back from the direction that Arthur had come. Oscar noting the door to the basement as they passed it.

Arriving back on the porch, the two shook themselves off, before electing to head inside. Arthur made the first move to open the door. Both men were slightly shocked at the give to the door, neither fully expecting the property to be left unlocked. Arthur stepped in tentatively, Oscar following shortly behind. The building was dark, the front door opening to a long-spanning hallway, and just to the right was a set of stairs leading up to the second level. Oscar stepped further into the house, closing the door softly behind him.

Again they had found themselves in the same scenario they had been in before on the porch. The scene before them jesting with a question of ‘what’s next?’

“Do you want to split up again and look through the rooms?” Oscar suggested.

“I think that might be best, yes.” Arthur agreed. “We can start here, on the first floor, and then make our way up together,” he suggested.

Oscar nodded in agreement. “Alright. Same as before, I take the right, you take the left, and we can meet at the back end of the house?” he suggested.

Arthur nodded in confirmation. “Good luck,” he offered to Oscar with a quick smile, before both men turned to explore their respective sides of the house.

“To you too,” Oscar wished softly, as he walked further into the right side of the building.

He trekked slowly through the rooms, taking his time to note any key details that might lend answers about the oddities happening at his own home. As he made his way through the first two rooms, the first of which appeared to be some living room, the second maybe once utilized as a study, the primary thing Oscar took of note was how barren everything was. Very little furniture lay within the rooms, the living room only holding a couch and a few chairs, an old grandfather clock rested in one of the corners, although its mechanisms must’ve broken long ago as the hands were frozen at three thirty seven. It was a sparse layout but it wasn’t like Oscar could compete with much. It just struck him as odd for a property of this size to be filled with so little furnishings, although with the accompanying state of decay, the premise didn’t entirely surprise him.

The study was much the same, only a desk in the far corner, Oscar checked the drawers, none of which held anything, and a bookshelf lay in the room. There was a rug in the center of the room which Oscar had pulled up, to see if any occult markings had been left below, to which there were none. He made sure to browse the books on the shelves as well, none of which struck him as unusual. Simply volumes of local history, some old fiction works but nothing that screamed ‘malicious’, and a few non-fiction volumes on architecture and its history.

Nothing dotted the walls in either of the rooms, the spaces completely devoid of any pictures or portraits, any mirrors, or any hanging decor. The only thing on the walls being any wall-mounted lights.

The next room Oscar came to was at the edge of the main hallway, near the far end of the staircase. A small faded white door was all that marked the existence of the room. As he opened the door Oscar was slightly shocked to discover that it wasn’t a room at all, instead the door opened to a set of stairs that led downwards, likey to the basement where those cellar doors from outside led to as well. Oscar wasn’t afraid of the dark, and he’d outgrown the fear of basements and dark spaces years ago, but despite it, he couldn’t suppress the chill that ran up his spine as he looked down the dark stairway into the lurking depths below. It wasn’t a space he wished to brave alone, and certainly not without Arthur.

He shut the door and started to make his way to the back of the house. Arthur joined him in the hallway, offering a gentle smile before settling himself close to Oscar’s side, the two making their way down the rest of the hallway together.

“So,” Arthur began, punctuating his greeting with a playful lean into Oscar’s side, “Come across anything interesting, detective?” he pressed.

Oscar shook his head softly, brief as the touch was he already missed Arthur’s pressure at his side. “No, unfortunately. Just a living room and what I think used to be a study. I didn’t spot a lot of furniture, and there weren’t any portraits or anything of the like on the walls.” he continued, “I did take a look at the books on the shelf in the study, but I didn’t see anything that struck me as suspicious or seemed like it would hold anything about Scratch. Although-” Oscar added, “I did find the door to the basement, likely the same one those cellar doors you and John spotted outside lead down to.”

“Well I’m glad you found another entrance to the basement outside of those doors outside,” Arthur began, “I think it would be best if we explored that space together.” Oscar nodded in agreement. Thankful that Arthur suggested going into the basement together before he would have to bring up the idea. “I’m sorry you didn’t see anything that might be helpful with dealing with Scratch though,” Arthur continued with a subtle frown. “John and I were in the same boat. Just a bathroom, a storage closet for tools, and a fairly sparse dining room were all we saw.”

“Aye,” Oscar affirmed, as they moved towards the room at the end of the hallway, which from here appeared to be a kitchen.

As they walked through the threshold from the hallway and into the kitchen a distant sound caught Oscar’s attention. Too distant to make out but it didn’t sound like it had come from outside, whatever it was it had cut through the rain and he’d been able to hear it over his and Arthur’s footsteps over the old wooden floorboards. “Did you hear that?” He asked Arthur.

“Hear what?” Arthur asked in return, seemingly oblivious to whatever Oscar was speaking about.

Oscar shook his head dismissively, “I don’t know, it- it sounded like, something soft, moving I think. It didn’t sound like it came from outside, maybe from somewhere in the house.”

Arthur frowned at that, “You think there’s something else in the house?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, now minorly doubting himself. “It is an old building” he continued, “Old buildings make noise, and especially in this state of decay, and with the storms, it could be anything I suppose,,” Oscar trailed off.

“,, Right-” Arthur answered hesitantly.

Now fully in the kitchen, the two looked around the room. Nothing struck Oscar as out of the ordinary at first glance. As he scanned the room he noted a few countertops and cabinets, a stove, a small table, and an old oven that lay in the corner.

There again that noise came to Oscar, a soft, nearly scuttling sound. It reminded Oscar of the rats he could hear in the orphanage’s walls. The image of small legs scuttling past just beyond the faded wallpaper gave Oscar the chills.

“There it is again,” he started, turning towards Arthur.

“Hmm?” Arthur responded distantly, moving towards the further end of the kitchen seemingly to investigate something on the wall above one of the counters.

“That noise, from before-” Oscar elaborated, “It sounds like rustling, reminds me of rats in the walls.” It sounded again, closer to Oscar now. “Arthur?” he began.

Arthur only moved further away, “Just a moment Oscar, I want to get a look at this picture-” he responded. His voice sounded distant to Oscar, drowned out by the scuttling sound that felt like it was crawling up his spine and flooding the space between his ears.

He could now pinpoint that the sound was coming from the oven that lay against the far wall. Whatever was eliminating the sound of scurrying was surely either behind or within the oven. “Arthur,” Oscar began softly, “I think it’s coming from the oven, I think-” he cut himself off as he moved closer to the source of the sound. “I think I’m going to check the oven.” he finished, moving to reach towards the door of the oven.

Rats, oh how Oscar would’ve traded anything for it to be rats in that fucking oven.

Oscar opened the door to the oven tentatively, peering it cautiously at the black cavern within. For the briefest of moments, there was only silence. In only an instant, the world spun on its head.

He could not contain the shriek of horror and pain as something too large to be an insect but too small to be a rodent leaped out at him from the depths of the oven. “Fuck!” he shouted, as he watched in horror as the thing, obsidian black and wormlike in its movements, began to burrow into his arm. “Arthur!” he called out, as he fell backward onto the floor, his arm seething in pain as the creature burrowed itself deeper into him.

“Oscar!” Arthur shouted as he rushed over. Soon as the man was standing over Oscar he breathed out shakily, “Oh, fuck- Oscar,”

Oscar could only watch as whatever had bit into him moved under his flesh. His skin blackened as it spread, the creature only moving further up his arm. The pain of it shifting underneath, eating away at him was nothing short of agony.

“Oscar,” Arthur began to soothe, “Hold on, it’s- it’s gonna be okay, I’ll-” he cut himself off. “I’ll find something to dig it out, I- just hold on Oscar.”

“No!” Oscar nearly shouted, the pain making him lose any sense of composure.

Arthur could only shake his head. “What?”

Oscar shook his head, “No-” he gasped in through the pain. “Cut. It. Off.” he gritted out. Whatever this thing was Oscar could assume that digging it out would be near impossible. The smartest, and fastest solution would be to stop it from burrowing any further, by any means necessary. It just so happened that the means in this scenario entailed severing a limb.

“Oscar I-” Arthur hesitated for a moment, before shaking his head and kneeling down, “Okay, okay.” He began to remove the belt from his coat, placing it softly with shaking hands into Oscar’s lap. “You’re gonna have to use this as a tourniquet, okay? I’m gonna be right back, I just need to find something that would make a clean cut.” he continued. “Just hang in there Oscar, okay?”

He could only nod in response. With a shaky hand, he took the belt that lay in his lap and began to loop it around his arm. The pain cut through everything, blurring his vision, bile rising in his gut. He was able to loop the belt around his upper arm and form a loose knot, tightening the knot by pulling roughly at one end of the belt with his hand and the other with his teeth.

In a time that felt like both hours and mere seconds later Arthur stumbled back into the room, an axe hanging at his side. Oscar’s stomach sank at the sight, but it couldn’t be worse than the alternative.

Arthur stepped forwards towards Oscar. “I’ll try to make it quick, okay?” Arthur said. Oscar didn’t have the strength to answer. “This is gonna hurt, I’m sorry.” he offered before standing over Oscar. Moving the axe above his head. “Where?” Arthur asked. A question aimed more towards John than to Oscar if he had to guess. Even if he could, Oscar didn’t think he could manage words right now to answer Arthur. Every nerve in his body was alight with agony, he could only lay still as his body would let him, placing a blind faith in Arthur and John’s actions.

Arthur hesitated for a moment more, before letting out a soft grunt. Oscar watched as the blade of the axe completed its arc, slamming into his arm, just above the elbow. His vision went white with the pain. Bile rose up his throat and Oscar could feel himself getting sick as the sound of his own bones cracking echoed within his skull.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-” Arthur babbled, “ As he wrenched the axe from Oscar’s arm, raising it above his head once again. Tears streamed freely from Oscar’s eyes, his ears ringing from the pain, He couldn’t tell if he was crying at Arthur’s apology, and the pain, or at the realization that the first cut hadn’t made it all the way through. Likely a mix of all three. Arthur whimpered softly as he brought the axe down again. Oscar could only howl out in pain as the blade split through bone and flesh alike, this time Arthur’s cut had made it clean through.

Arthur dropped the axe and collapsed next to Oscar. “I’m so sorry, Oscar I’m so so sorry.” he sobbed as he gathered Oscar into his arms. The sound of something dragging itself away cut through Arthur’s apologies. Oscar could feel himself fading fast, shadows closing in around the corners of his vision, his entire being heavy and shrieking in pain. “You’re alright, You’re gonna be alright, Oscar” Arthur whispered into Oscar’s hair, tucking him close to his chest. Whether it was meant to be a comfort for himself, or Oscar, he didn’t know.

Oscar let his eyes fall shut, the soft sobs and apologies spilling out of Arthur, and the gentle feeling of being held in another’s arms, were the only sensations that followed Oscar into the dark, as the world around him went quiet.

Chapter Text

If the world around Oscar had left him quietly, a distant and hushed release into nothing as he lay in Arthur’s arms, then it must’ve been some cruel jest to contradict such a sensation with waking. There was not an ounce of enough restraint left in Oscar to hold back the screams of which woke him, a cacophony of pure agony and fear spilling off his tongue and into the space around him.

Every bit of his awareness harnessed itself to the deafening pain that burned at his left side. At his initial waking, Oscar had opened his eyes, only now to shut them firmly against the onslaught of agony that throbbed with every second that ticked on by, white still flashed in a blinding, painful intensity behind his eyelids.

Oscar was no stranger to pain, his body held the memories of past sufferings, under his shirt he buried scars of his own. He had seen bits and pieces of Arthur’s own sufferings in their time together. His mind wandered briefly to the scar that arched across the man’s neck, the others that hatched their way across his arms and legs, Oscar only briefly having the time to catalog them as Arthur had made the short walk towards his bed before sheets concealed his view once again. This, this pain that echoed through him now, was like no agony his body had held before.

His head swarmed trying to make sense of the amalgamation of sensations that danced within his body. Ears ringing, the only sound he could make out was the ragged hitches of his own breath. Every nerve in his arm was alight with pain, a burning, hideous sensation, yet Oscar couldn’t help but shiver, everything else around him felt cold, too cold. A seething heat and chill harmonizing under his skin. Oscar could only curl further into himself, head tucking ever closer to his knees, surrendering to the agony, helpless to do anything but breathe, and breathe, and breathe through it.

It could have been seconds, it could have been hours, maybe only a few meager minutes had ticked by, but with time Oscar slowly opened his eyes once more. His arm still throbbed something viscous, but the ringing in his ears had faded away, his breath had returned to the closest thing to normal it was going to get, a strained, ragged, but still steady rhythm. Whether he had always been crying, or if he had stopped upon passing out was a mystery to him, but Oscar’s face was itchy under the collection of dried tear tracks. Mindlessly he went to bring his arm up to wipe at his face, but the subtle shift of his left arm only set off another onslaught of pain. Oscar could only hiss in response, curling further into himself and grinding his teeth against the heat that flared through him, quick to abandon his prior efforts. One evil was far greater than the other.

After the wave passed, Oscar began to straighten himself out bit by bit. Raising his head from where it was tucked against his knees, he slowly lifted his torso upwards leaning his full weight back against the wall he was tucked against. He didn’t know when he had left Arthur’s arms. The simple thought washed a tide of sadness through him. Now resting against the wall, Oscar could take in the space around him. It was a small, dim space. The room was quite barren, nothing more than a collection of shadows and dust. There was an armchair resting in the far corner, next to it sat a plain side table. On the wall across from Oscar, there was a door firmly shut.

Shadows spanned the old floorboards, only growing in intimidating strides as the light from outside faded rapidly, hungry and hollow beasts of their own design. Oscar turned his head up and shifted himself gently to glance behind him, a few feet above where he was resting was a window, its surface caked in dust and cobwebs. The sky had grown darker since Oscar and Arthur had entered the house, rain hammered against the panes, the storm still ever persistent.

Excluding the rush of rain and subsequent cracks of distant thunder, the animalistic howl of wind and echoing groan of the house, and the soft strain of Oscar’s breathing, there was only a heavy, and deafening silence that blanketed the space. Loneliness wrapped around him, these walls an isolative cage, blocking out anything that lay beyond them.

Exhaustion anchored itself into every bone of his body, Oscar could only slump back against the wall. He was tired, he was alone, he was in pain, and above all else, he was so very, very afraid.

His eyes continued to scan back and forth across the space, not having the energy to do anything outside of simply taking in the world around him. He didn’t know if his body could handle much else.

Some small fragment of his mind kept thinking that in those spanning shadows, a set of eyes might appear, golden, and kind, and beckoning Oscar closer. And oh how he would follow.

It was unclear to Oscar, how long ago Arthur had left. Assuming he was now in a different room than the kitchen, and propped up against the wall, it was safe to say that after he had passed out, Arthur had somehow moved him to this space, leaving him and closing the door on his way out.

Oscar wondered how long Arthur had lingered, after moving him here. Had the man lingered over Oscar for a moment or two, hands against his neck, or to the inside of his wrist, finding a pulse point and exhaling relief at the discovery of an echoing rhythm. Had he waited for the bleeding to stop? The tourniquet was still wrapped vice-like around the top of Oscar’s arm, digging into his flesh even through the remaining cloth.

He shuddered then at the memory of that thing crawling up his arm. The sickening slithering of whatever horrible creature had leapt out of that oven, dancing below his skin, and his arm shook and blackened with its journey, higher and higher.

Arthur was right to sever his arm. Hell, Oscar had asked him to. There was no way whatever that thing was could’ve been dug out. The blade of the axe a divine savior, old metal severing through skin and cloth and bone, the space it opened now a floodgate between Oscar and what he was certain would be a dooming end.

Was Arthur right to leave? Oscar distantly wondered. It certainly was a smart course of action. Get the fuck out of there before things got worse. If the oven in the house held things that could make a man lose an arm, Oscar hesitated to even fathom what the basement of the Allan home held.

Hopefully, Arthur was safe, wherever he was. Perhaps not unscathed, but safe. For no discernable reason at all, Oscar had the urge to pray. Be it the helplessness of his situation, the fear and pain coursing through him, the concern pooling in his heart, or likely a mixture of all three, he wishes he could pray for Arthur, for his safety. If he had both hands he would join them now, kneeling at an altar of dust praying to the shadows and the rain with every ounce of intention held in the space between his teeth and gums, that Arthur would be alright. That whatever god was listening would look out for him. He supposes, that John does that plenty. Would John answer Oscar’s prayers? Would he even care to listen?

He worried, about Arthur. A part of him always did. May it be the shadows that danced on the floors or the howl of the storm outside, for whatever reason Oscar felt so small, shrunken down to a creature of paranoia and fear. Anchorless without Arthur here.

A rotten, poisoning pit of a thought began to fester in his mind then. Its fear resembling a peach pit rotting the softness of the fruit from the inside out. A fucking worm. Perhaps Arthur left entirely. Maybe it wasn’t simply the room Oscar had been left in, but the house itself. Oscar wouldn’t blame him. He knew Arthur had suffered plenty from the otherworldly before he had agreed to help Oscar. Hell, he had built a new life just to keep himself safe, and find fulfillment in life that wasn’t just found in the relief of making it through another night without dying at the claws of some malevolent creature, only for Oscar’s own to drag him back into this abyss. It was likely better this way. Arthur would live. He would live and that would be enough, it had to be.

It haunted Oscar, though, to imagine that Arthur could so easily leave him. Close Oscar in this space of shadows and dust until Oscar becomes a part of the landscape. Perhaps his kiss had been one of goodbyes. Perhaps Arthur had always intended to leave Oscar. His kiss a declaration of all the farewells that his lips were too preoccupied to voice. Something deep in Oscar aches at the remembrance of the kiss. The ghosts of Arthur’s touch, tender and hungry all at once pulling him closer and closer, the phantoms of soft sighs between them now joining the shadows that danced around Oscar.

He missed Arthur. Unbearably so.

Tears blurred the corners of his vision and Oscar had nothing left in him to fight them. Letting himself weep into the shadows that enveloped him deeper with each passing minute.

As time ticked on, not notable by any clock only measured in the enrichment of darkness that grew as the daylight faded quickly outside, Oscar’s tears turned from ones of pain and self-pity to ones of fear. If Arthur truly was gone, if this is how things ended, Oscar didn’t want to stay. He didn’t want to rot away in the confines of this monster house, shadows and sadness eating him alive. His blood may have fed the floorboards but he wasn’t about to let this place feast on him till Oscar was no more. He wasn’t ready to die. Not here.

It wasn’t going to be pretty, Oscar knew as much. Taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, Oscar shifted his weight forwards. He clenched his jaw in anticipation, planted his feet firmly on the ground, and pressed against the floor with his hand, propelling his body upwards. His body screamed in protest as he lifted himself until he was fully standing. The movement made his head spin, and a sudden and overwhelming feeling of faintness rushed through him, too late to distantly realize that he was falling backwards. On instinct Oscar moved to catch himself against the wall, his right arm catching him, but unbalanced he fell against the wall angled, what remained of his left arm slamming into the wall and catching the rest of Oscar’s weight. Oscar bit his lip hard enough to draw blood holding back the scream that built in his throat. The pain in his arm once again rearing its head. Oscar could only lean against the wall, shifting his weight off his arm, doing what he could to just breathe through the onslaught until it passed.

After the pulses of pain faded to a bearable, and constant hum, Oscar leaned away from the wall. He left his hand braced against the wall, ready to catch himself in case his body gave out again. Oscar was used to collapsing, being from fatigue or drink, his body propelling towards the ground was not unknown to him. He’s just used to having either a mattress or both his hands to soften the blow.

He gave himself a few seconds to gauge his body, and once he was sure he wasn’t going to collapse again, Oscar let his hand fall away from the wall, and began to walk towards the door on the opposite side of the room.

There is nothing but the rage of the storm outside, nothing but the quiet give of floorboards underneath his feet, nothing but the echo of his breaths as Oscar passes across the sea of shadows, his steps taking him slowly but surely towards the door.

When Oscar reaches the door he can only rest his weight against it once again. The room was not long, nor was his journey across it, and yet, it took everything out of him to make that journey. He rested against the door for a few moments, before shifting away and facing the doorway head-on. With a hand he hadn’t noticed was trembling before, Oscar reached for the door handle. It gave, indicating there was no lock, at least he hadn’t been locked away here, he thought bitterly. He turned the knob completely and stepped back, pulling the door open with him.

Beyond the door was not another room, not a hallway either, but a looming wall of what Oscar could only assume to be a case or a shelf of sorts, barricading his way out, or perhaps, another’s way in. The sight puzzled him, a wave of defeat nearly threatened to crash into Oscar, wanting to send him falling to the floor once again.

Fighting against the urge to break down with every once of stubborn will he possessed, Oscar stood back and took in the sight of the barricade. Light from the room or hall beyond peaked out from the edge of the blockade. It was enough room that Oscar gagued he could fit his hand through, and do what he could to pull it aside.

Breathing deeply Oscar stepped close to the door, angling his body so that his right side was against the barricade, Oscar fit his hand through the small gap, wrapped his fingers around the edge of the shelf, and pulled.

The shelf was not a heavy one, but with his body already weary from blood loss and exhaustion, Oscar and every nerve within his body groaned in protest. He was only able to shift the shelf a few inches back before stopping, retracting his hand, and leaning against the doorframe, helpless to do anything but breathe through the pain.

Steeling himself once again, Oscar reached out and repeated his motions from earlier. This cycle repeated itself. Bit by bit, he shifted the shelf back. Inch by agonizing inch the gap between the shelf and the doorway grew wider. Oscar knew he likely could have stopped earlier, when the gap was large enough for him to slide through, but the chance of scraping his arm against the doorframe of the shelf was not worth the agony. After a few more repetitions of this, Oscar was finally able to create a gap between the shelf and the doorframe that he was confident he would be able to fit through without risking further pain to his arm.

Oscar pivoted his body, slotting the left side of his body through the gap, before slowly, inching the rest of his body through. He didn’t dare breathe as his left side fit through the doorway, holding his breath in anticipation of the agony that was certain to come if he scrapped or bumped his arm against any surface making his way through. Perhaps, for the first time since waking up, luck had found him, as no agony arrived as Oscar cleanly fit through the gap.

Once through, Oscar could only lean back against the wall beside the doorframe. Closing his eyes he just let himself breathe. A rush of hysteria struck Oscar, he was out, surfaced from the sea of shadows that was that room. He was going to live.

Through the darkness and the haze of his hitching breaths, a voice cut through the silence.

“Oscar?”

Oscar’s eyes snapped open, peering through the dark in front of him he spotted Arthur, cautiously making his way over from the other end of the hall. A flood of emotions ricochetted into him at once, his breath stuttering at his first attempts at speech, only managing a soft, and pleading “Arthur” in answer.

“Oh, oh Oscar,” Arthur breathed, as he closed the gap between Oscar and himself. His hands trembling as he reached out towards Oscar, seemingly torn between wanting to support, to gather the other man into his arms once again, and fearing to touch him, not sure where he could touch that wouldn’t hurt. To Oscar’s relief, the other man chose the former, one of Arthur’s hands coming up to cradle the back of Oscar’s head, as the other rested softly against the curve between his neck and shoulder. From this close up Oscar could see that Arthur looked, well he looked terrified. Those soft golden eyes now wide and wild, alight with fear and something akin to mania. “Oscar, I-” Arthur began. “Fuck, I’m so glad you’re alive.” he breathed into the space between them.

“I-” he started, reaching up to hold Arthur, his hand finding a shaky perch around the top of Arthur’s arm. “I’m alright, Arthur, it’s okay.” He soothed, instantly wishing that his words could clear the worry from Arthur’s eyes, still the trembling of his hands.

Arthur could only shake his head, a frown etching itself deep into his features. “No, no Oscar it’s not, it’s not alright you-” He paused for a moment, as if distantly listening to something that Oscar couldn’t pick out. “No, I won’t- Oscar we need to get you to a hospital.” Arthur finished, moving then to Oscar’s side, pulling his arm over his neck and shifting his weight so Oscar could lean against him as he began to walk them slowly down the hall.

Already missing the feeling of Arthur’s hands cradling him softly, Oscar could only look over and watch as Arthur walked them both forwards, his mind reeling with a thousand questions. “What about- what about Scratch? Arthur what-” he felt dizzy, he could only stare at Arthur, baffled that his feet were holding him upright in the slightest, continuing to propel him alongside the other man. “What happened?” an unspoken Where did you go? lingered behind his teeth.

“I-” Arthur let out a sound that sounded halfway between a sob and a barking laugh, “he’s gone, Oscar.”

Oscar felt like he had been hit with a bat, his ears ringing at the confession. “How? Arthur I-” A million questions were winding around his mind, and he couldn’t find the air to ask a single one. The idea that Scratch was gone, truly gone, felt like a punch to the stomach, the mystery and bafflement of it all shocking all the air from Oscar’s lungs. “I don’t understand.”

His questions were met with silence. Arthur remained quiet, seemingly solely focused on getting the two of them out of the house, and Oscar to a hospital.

They made it to the front door an indefinable amount of steps later, Arthur shifting to open the door before leading the two of them through the doorway, and supporting Oscar down the front steps. Walking silently to the car, once they made it to the vehicle Arthur moved to rest Oscar against the side of it, as he opened the passenger door. Rain was still hammering down around them and thunder rolled in the distance, but neither man seemed pressed to care that their clothes were soaking through. After getting the door open Arthur guided Oscar into the seat, taking care to make sure he was seated comfortably, before closing the door and making his way over to the driver’s side.

“I’m so sorry, Oscar” Arthur began as he opened the door. Oscar strained to listen over the roar of the rain. The man sat, hunched and the closest to defeated Oscar had ever seen him. Everything within Oscar ached to take the pain away. Arthur spoke softly now, head bowed as if in prayer, speaking to his hands that lay clasped in his lap, “This never should have happened.”

Oscar wanted to ask Arthur what he meant, but his tongue refused to move, air would not shake loose a sound from his throat.

“Oscar I- when this is all over,” Arthur shook his head, his voice sounding saturated with hurt. Drowning in a sea of emotions that Oscar couldn’t read from here. “When all of this is over,” he started again, “When we get you to the hospital just-” his voice hitched then, for just a moment. “Just let this be another bad dream.”

Arthur’s words were suffocating. Oscar couldn’t read the intention behind them, couldn’t understand why he would say such a thing. “But- I,” he started. “Your purpose.” Oscar protested weakly. Every fiber of his being felt like it was full of lead, he was sinking into the seat, and any urge to fight to remain conscious was fading, and fading fast.

“Oscar, please” Arthur pleaded. The tears in his voice cutting dagger hot and deep into Oscar’s heart.

The shadows from that terrible room had returned, dancing now at the corners of his vision, and this time Oscar didn’t fight to escape them. Oscar did not speak, nor did he try to, powerless to do anything but surrender to the tug of exhaustion that kept pulling him further and further away from Arthur. Only a wish to say sorry rested upon Oscar’s tongue, the tides of sleep finally arrived in full, enveloping him. Drowning Oscar before he had the chance to voice it.

Chapter Text

For Oscar, if asked to take a scalpel to his life, to dissect his years, his experiences into pieces, the body of what he lived would be split into two parts. His life before Arthur, and his life after.

Life after Arthur Lester was a labyrinthine thing. Any hurting creature knows that time does not move how it should when you are mourning. Days are not their own, hours slip away into seething sorrowful spirals. The tender skin of your body weak and bruised underneath the brutality of weeks onslaught, lost time a cruelty you are too weak to fight so now you only ache.

Now some may ask, How does one navigate a labyrinth? How does one wrestle free from the vines of mourning, break away from the roots that tether you to agony and only agony?

Oscar certainly wondered.

During those days that didn’t feel like days, not in the sense that time should flow, Oscar would whisper his questions to the ceiling above his hospital cot. Between his bounds of consciousness, in the moments when he was awake, in the minutes, the hours, that spanned by in barely muted agony and anger, he would whisper his questions to the vast and empty span of sterile air. Wonderings like a prayer, an aching, desperate pleading for direction, for curiosity sated, for, if nothing else, closure.

He wondered if it ever stops hurting. If the ache ever truly leaves. Wondered if his body would ever feel like his own again. Wondered if Scratch really was gone. Wondered what life looks like, with only one arm, the other gone, and along with it the only person who could hold any answers.

Wondering, if, as Arthur had said, it really was all just another bad dream.

If Arthur, and everything he brought with him truly was just that, then life with Arthur was the most beautiful nightmare that Oscar had ever dreamed. A nightmare, perhaps, but one where the shadows were replaced with the softest of smiles, where howls of creatures faded into a gentle voice, weaving together and quoting poetry just as tender.

Oscar visits Arthur in his dreams, there he can meet the softness and wonder of those golden eyes. There he can look. Watch as Arthur moves towards him, tracking the delicate lines of his body as he steps ever closer to his purpose. There he can listen, drown under the tides of a lullaby, its melody a gentle reverence drifting off every syllable within a whispered “I’ll take care of you.” a soothing sentiment for Oscar’s ears and his ears alone. There, Oscar can feel, drown under a touch he ached for from the moment he set his eyes upon Arthur. There Arthur’s hands can cradle and soothe and hold until Oscar isn’t cold, until he’ll never feel cold again, until there is no rain and no shadows and no bad dreams. Only Arthur.

Tenderness does not last long within a labyrinth.

Brutality is the minotaur that roams these walls. Snarling sorrow snarling guilt snarling loneliness and snarling anger spilling from the beast's tongue.

How does one escape a labyrinth? One does not, but there are, Oscar knows, ways to make the endless wandering easier.

A common ailment for tired feet, a body that has miles to go before it sleeps, can be found at the bottom of a bottle.

When Oscar leaves the hospital, beyond frightened, beyond exhausted, and unfathomably lonely, he returns to his apartment. There is an emptiness here, a notable vastness. One that had always been here, but its ache stings more with the memory of how Arthur had filled it. Oscar’s hand had shook when he opened the door to his apartment, terrified of what lay beyond it, hesitant to reveal the truth. His steps down the main hall towards the kitchen as tentative as a doe, ready to freeze under the headlights of a golden, piercing gaze. Some foolish, hopeful part of Oscar expected Arthur to be there, waiting for him, mirroring the scene from their last morning together. Sitting at the table, head snapping up at the sound of Oscar’s footsteps, searching blindly to meet his gaze. If he let himself imagine it, he could hear the pleading of Arthur’s voice, reaching out to him, welcoming him home. Oscar would greatly fall into that welcome, into that beckoning, fuse himself to Arthur and never lose a tenderness like his again.

No such kindness awaited Oscar. His kitchen an expanse of filth and forlornness plastered across the space. The only friend he had waiting for him, was a homecoming of scotch nestled behind cabinet doors, and my did Oscar reacquaint himself with his old friend.

Time does not flow easily within a labyrinth, but it does flow faster when carried by the amber waves at the bottom of a glass. Days are not days, days are trials, days are wanderings. He rises as the sun crests its peak and between one blink and the next his world becomes lightless once again. Days are trials where Oscar fights against exhaustion, where he fights against the anger that builds and builds like no anger has built before, although, that isn’t entirely true. His anger has grown, from one that had a little boy wrap his hand around the handle of a hammer, to one that has a man wrap shaking fingers around the neck of a bottle. Glass and bone, at the end of the night it all ends up the same, in shattered fragments, and nestled in their reflections a beast. One turned monstrous by guilt, by fear, by anger, and loneliness.

Beasts make good when set out on a hunt.

One does not escape a labyrinth. But one can ease the sufferings of its wanderings. It can aid the mind, to dedicate oneself to a purpose, to a hunt, pursuit. Oscar is a detective, after all.

When Oscar returns to work he fully expects his mind to shatter. It does not. The mind does not break, it stays stubbornly intact. Within its walls echo a cacophony of longing, a symphony of wanting and hurt disjointed and seething.

It is better this way, Oscar lets himself think. To hold within him these cruel memories. To tether his anger within himself, and apply himself to casework.

He hunts leads under the dead of night, he does not sleep and when he does he only dreams of Arthur and it’s too painful to see him in that scape of unreality. It’s a cruelty that Oscar cannot bear, to behold such a tenderness only for it to be drowned in his waking. Oscar will leave his hunting of ghosts for the waking hours. He cannot chase Arthur, he could not hold such a reckoning force down. Arthur was never his. Was always meant to slip through the gaps between his fingers, lost to time lost to the world.

Oscar chases leads drowning under waves of intoxication, choking on an anger so loud it deafens him to the roar of the city. Hunts under the shadow of a mourning that leaves him oblivious to the world. A man drowning on dry land, his grief a blanket cloaking him in an ignorance that will surely get him killed. Oscar silently prays that it does.

Between his wanderings he wonders about Arthur, wonders how he’s been. Wonders if Arthur is safe, if John is looking out for the two of them. He wonders if Arthur still went back to the church, went back to preaching, or if Oscar’s monstrosity had obliterated any faith in goodness Arthur still had.

The work helps, barely. But it helps. He can dedicate himself to this. He could not save himself, he could not save Arthur, but he could save these people. It’s the closest thing to goodness he can find right now, the satisfaction of tracing back to the origin of another’s suffering. To pluck the monster out of the maze with the precision of a drunken surgeon. The work is messy, and Oscar cannot bring himself to tie up his cases with neater ends. But at the end of the day the job is done. Oscar can file away his notes written in an illegible scrawl and drown in the shadows of his office as he lets the burning hands of liquor unravel his mind.

During these moments, in his wanderings and his bounds of unraveling, he wonders if he should reach out to Arthur. Perhaps he could write to Arthur. Pour his words onto a page. Do his very best to steady the chronic shake of his hand as he composed a letter, forcing his scrawl into something that vaguely resembled legible. A letter saying what? Saying that he missed Arthur, that he hoped he was safe. That he was sorry, that he would understand if Arthur hated him. Begging for an apology, for an update, for a sign that Arthur was okay. Perhaps an invitation for Arthur to visit, just to talk to him again, just to see him again. Was Arthur happy? Was he Safe? Oscar knows, he knows that Arthur told him it was all a bad dream, but was he still Arthur’s purpose?

Would Arthur even read his letter? Would it collect dust in some long-forgotten pile? Would it be destroyed? Would Arthur read his words and wish to drown this final piece of him? Would Arthur read his words and be filled with an anger mirroring his own and set Oscar’s letter ablaze? Desolation or drowning wiping away the memory of a monster. Would Arthur treasure the letter? Open it with shaking hands and hold it with the same tenderness he held Oscar with?

He wrote no such letter.

If not a letter, then perhaps a call. Did churches even have phones?

He made no such call.

Oscar wonders if Arthur regrets kissing him back. If he now felt poisoned by the monstrosity pooling off Oscar’s tongue and onto Arthur’s. Perhaps Arthur had felt Oscar’s hands pulling him closer, cradling him, and recognized them as claws, and the instruments of malice and instability they always had been.

Arthur had always been gentle with Oscar, he did not deserve such a fate, such a love as cruel as Oscar.

Did Arthur love him? Another question among his wanderings in the labyrinth Oscar certainly did. That feeling too large to name that festered and grew within his chest at every soft smile and every gentle touch, that feeling had a name and that name was love. It was gentle and sickly sweet and he hated himself for it. It was cruel and it ached more than anything.

Oscar misses his arm. The phantom pains terrify him and alienate him to the body he has for so long been a stranger to all over again. But the ache of his missing arm is nothing compared to the ache of missing Arthur. A missing arm is inconvenient, it is isolating. But missing Arthur is cruel. It is a longing and an anger that floods every synapsis Oscar allows it to. Anger rich and ruthless as the night and Oscar’s heart a haunted house filled with shadows of longings and monsters under the bed and all the monsters want is to not feel so cold to not feel so lonely.

He carries these dualities with him as he walks the labyrinth. With one foot he steps with the numbing cold of his loneliness, with the other, he steps with the seething heat of his anger. His pace unsteady and conflicting.

Oscar misses Arthur, misses him something fierce. With a longing greater than Oscar ever thought the body capable of holding. He misses Arthur and it aches. Under that ache his mind does not shatter, under that ache his body does not shatter. A stubborn will of survival prevalent but not entirely his own that would not let Oscar drown.

So the beast continues to hunt, continues to mourn, and continues to long for the golden eyes and gentle whisperings of a ghost. For miles and miles and miles.

One does not escape a labyrinth, one can only persist through the maze.

Chapter Text

He remembers.

Arthur remembers reading about the soldiers who came back from their tours of the great war. While he was never drafted, he remembers the terror that lurked within the stories and accounts of those who were.

He remembers reading about infection. About the failures of medicine that couldn’t save these soldiers, the failures of medicine that couldn’t save his wife.

Infection and rot in its maliciousness. Its nature to cling and eat away at pure and untainted flesh. Its transformative nature, to leach off of a wound, to fester and rot and spread until the man is nothing more than a wound.

The only savior an act of severance. Amputation of the source of such an evil. Men without fingers men without hands men without arms without legs without feet. Men without wives. Men without children.

Arthur is infection. He is rot. Blind in the face of his hunger, in his pursuit of goodness he destroys. Hands, one of a god, one of a man, enacting malevolence upon all that is good and pure and clean. His want an ugly thing. A dooming shadow of carelessness under which he can only chase and chase with miles to go until he can sink teeth into soft skin and drain it till all warmth till all holy and beautiful life is gone and now a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. He can only kill the ones he loves.

Arthur thinks about rot in the days, in the weeks, after the Allan farm. Thinks about his curiosity and how Oscar was nearly killed because of it.

When Arthur prays he counts his blessings.

He is grateful for the axe. Grateful for its ability to save Oscar from one monster. It will not be able to save the man from others. He is grateful that Oscar lived. That he did not bleed out during the drive to the nearest hospital. Grateful for the tourniquet for performing such a miracle. He is grateful Oscar did not fight him. Grateful that Oscar let him go. Arthur is very certain that if Oscar had begged him to stay, something in him would have snapped. He would not have been able to relinquish his hold on him, to let him go to the care of those nurses who waited at the hospital. Trusting that their medicine would not fail Oscar.

He remembers waiting before taking Oscar out of the front seat. A moment of hesitation before letting go. The finality of those seconds a storm cloud rolling over the plains of his soul. Perhaps it was muscle memory, that led him to cradling Oscar close, resting his ear to his chest, listening for any semblance of a pulse, a signifier of life.

The scene a mirror to one many years ago, knees against cold wet tile, a frail frame cradled to his chest. His ears searched and searched for a heartbeat that did not sound its answer.

Oscar’s heart must be a stubborn thing. It beat, albeit with the frailty of a bird with broken wings, but it beat. Arthur did not trust himself not to silence it. Did not trust his hands to do goodness, to not ruin the life that lay in his arms.

Savior in the form of a severance as he carried Oscar through the doors of the hospital. Savior in the form of a severance as he drove the car back to Oscar’s. As he took the next taxi to the train station, as he took the next train back to Arkham. Savior as severance in his return to his preachings, all the life of his sermons ripped from his tongue. From his lips spilled shadows and grief. The aftertaste rancid, soiling his appetite.

He goes to bed hungry. Staving off the raving emptiness with a cup of tea. A small semblance of warmth, the only one he’ll allow himself right now.

He ignores that seemingly chronic shake in his hands as he lifts the screaming kettle from its place on the stove. Thinks of rot, its ugliness and his own as he begins to pour the stream of steaming water into the mug that John’s hand holds steady. Thinks of Oscar. He remembers Oscar once mentioning how he liked tea. Remembers how he tasted of tea leaves when he had kissed Arthur. Remembers how Oscar's hands had trembled as they cradled his face, tilting him closer, an echo of Oscar’s hunger, a-

Arthur, stop!

John’s voice shook through the spiraling. Arthur felt like a ghost, returning to haunt his body. Only finding it in him to answer with a simple hum.

Arthur, the water-

Well if that didn’t send everything screeching to a halt. Reflexes kicking back in, Arthur righted the kettle and pulled it away from its current spill onto John’s hand. Stumbling out apologies as he placed the kettle back onto the stove. “Shit, shit, John I’m sorry I-”

Arthur,

“I should’ve been paying attention and I wasn’t I could’ve-”

Arthur-

“I could’ve stopped the water, I could’ve saved you. I-” Arthur was cut off by a sob he couldn’t find within himself to suppress. His hand shook, not knowing what to do. His voice stayed locked away behind his teeth. He feared what he would say.

Arthur,

Arthur sniffed, trying to rid the blockade of feeling, the wall of tears climbing up his throat. Still, he spoke through them. “You’re hurt.”

Yes. John answered plainly. His tone level, not carrying any feelings of malice or ache, simply confirming Arthur’s guess.

“John, I-” Arthur began, “let me help.” he offered meekly. John only answered with silence but didn’t fight Arthur as he began his trek to the bathroom.

As soon as they got to the bathroom, Arthur flicked on the light. It didn’t make much of a difference to him, but if he was to tend to John’s hand it would be helpful for John to see what they were working with.

Wordlessly, Arthur knelt down and opened the cabinet, feeling around before locating the burn ointment and the bandages. Before closing the door to the cabinet, he set them on the counter and righted himself again.

“John,” he whispered, his voice soft, in the small space of the bathroom. “How, how bad is it?”

It’s not- John began, taking a moment before he continued. It’s not the worst we’ve seen by any means. The skin is an angry red, but nothing more, no blisters have formed, it just- John cut himself off again. If John did need to breathe, Arthur was sure that now he would have been listening to the pained inhales and exhales of his friend.

“Hurts?” Arthur finished for him.

Yes. Not angry, not scolding. Simply, defeated.

“I’m sorry, John.” He soothed. Guilt pooled in his stomach, climbing up his throat.

I know. John answered.

Arthur turned then, towards the faucet. “We have to wash it,” he explained as if John hadn’t been there for countless tendings of wounds both of Arthur’s flesh and of John’s. “I’ll try to be quick with it.” Trying in what little ways he could to consolidate his friend. He couldn’t take care of Oscar, he couldn’t take care of himself, at least let him take care of John. John who he had ignored, John who he had burned, who he had hurt.

John offered no words other than an understanding hum before the tune of his voice turned to a hiss as Arthur turned on the faucet and plunged John’s hand beneath its steady stream. Arthur was quick to wash John’s hand, taking care to keep the water cool, and when he applied the soap he did so gently. John deserved gentleness from him. So did Oscar, but any chances of enacting such a gentleness were severed with the angry and unforgiving teeth of an axe. The cold closings of dismissal into nightmares.

When Arthur was finished cleaning John’s hand, he patted the wounds dry softly, wincing along with John’s hisses of pain. Neither spoke as Arthur began to twist off the cap of the ointment, placing it on the counter and then dipping his fingers into the jar, scooping out some out of the tin, before beginning to spread it softly over the fingers of John’s hand. The deafening silence stretched on as Arthur finished with the ointment, wiping off his fingers before turning to the bandages to begin to dress the burns. His hand still shook as he wrapped the bandages around John’s palm, though he did what he could to remain still gentle, pouring what focus he had into the delicate weave of fabric between John’s fingers.

Once he was done dressing the burns, only the steady drip of the faucet was left to echo in his ears. He had not heard a word from John since he had begun to clean off his wound. The silence was suffocating, Arthur wanted to say something, wanted John to say something. Already feeling so adrift, he needed to hear his friend say something, say anything. John’s voice had always been an anchor for Arthur, and he ached for it, while he was left drifting in this obsidian black abyss.

“John?” Arthur asked, his voice smaller than it had been in years. He felt cornered, guilt a monster lurking in the shadows making him feel like a terrified child all over again. Fingers clutching into a fish with the same reflex of a child gripping a blanket close. Each second of silence without his friend's answer ticked by with a terror rising like a dark wave. Ready to drown Arthur.

Arthur? John echoed, soft, not pushing, only curious.

Arthur let out a shaky breath, one he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I know, he answered. You told me before, remember? His friend's question not accusatory, simply reminding Arthur he had been repeating himself.

Arthur could only nod, he didn’t trust himself to speak. Something was building in him, something scared and guilty and hurting and its ferocity was something threatening to send Arthur’s body trembling, the shake of his hand not calming in the slightest.

Arthur, John began, what happened?

At John’s question, Arthur bit the inside of his cheek. It was too much, too much hurt and grief and longing and guilt building and building and he was shaking apart with the effort of holding it all in. He was a dam and John’s question a single stone ready to crumple it all. There was nothing he could say, nothing that would satisfy John’s curiosity, nothing that would make it make sense. Arthur hurt and he hurt so, so much. The tremendous weight of grief wrapping a tight fist around his throat suffocating him, drowning him, his pulse a thundering roar between his ears.

Was it- His friend started, tentative and afraid. Was it about Oscar?

Well, wasn’t that just it? John held Arthur’s eyes, he claimed his sight upon the outside world. But sometimes Arthur could swear that John could turn that gaze inwards, look into Arthur’s mind, and see to the very core of him.

“I-” Arthur began, his voice shaking as much as his hand. “I miss him, John.” The confession sobbed into the empty air of the room.

Oh, Arthur. John soothed.

It must have been something about John’s voice, his tone when he spoke, but at hearing his name the dam shattered. Arthur was tired, too tired to fight back the rising wall of tears that built behind his eyes. He wrapped his arm around himself, tucking his chin into his chest as he stood in the middle of their bathroom, silent tears spilling onto the tile.

“I miss him, I miss him so, so much.” Arthur managed between sobs. There was no elegant way to phrase out the longing he held for Oscar within his ribcage, and if there was Arthur was too tired to search for the words right now. He simply let his head hang as he continued to cry.

At some point John had lifted his bandaged hand to cradle around Arthur’s front, his hand finding anchorage at the base of Arthur’s skull, as he began to stroke soft lines up and down the tendons there. The sheer tenderness of the action only caused Arthur’s tears to flow faster. It felt so nice, to be held like this. Arthur would drown gladly in the gentleness of this embrace, bizarre as it may have looked to an outside viewer. Some man hugging himself, crying in the middle of his bathroom.

Arthur did not know how long they continued like that, the silent soothing of John’s touch, the gentle rub up and down never ceasing as Arthur’s tears ran dry. It was only when Arthur sniffled, righting his head and moving his hand to wipe at his eyes that John moved, now resting his hand against Arthur’s chest, continuing to etch grounding lines in passes of his thumb across Arthur’s collarbone.

Arthur, John began softly. Would you like to sit down?

Once again Arthur could only nod. His legs shook like those of a newborn fawn as he left the bathroom, not even bothering to turn the light off as they left, heading towards the bed where Arthur all but collapsed. Arthur sprawled himself back amongst the pillows. John’s hand resumed its previous gesture of rubbing gentle lines across his collar as Arthur turned his gaze sightlessly upwards towards the ceiling.

“I never-” Arthur started, searching for the right words to begin, “I never meant to hurt him, it- it wasn’t supposed to go like that,”

Like what? John pressed, trying to gain clarification from his friend.

Arthur huffed, baffled at John’s confusion. “He lost an arm, John. We could’ve- It could’ve killed him.” his voice hitched at those last words. The idea of losing Oscar, in that way at least, made something deep, something fierce in Arthur’s heart ache.

But we didn’t. Oscar is still alive. John argued, trying in what ways he could to calm Arthur with the facts of the matter.

“But we almost did, John!” Arthur sniffed. “I almost-” he cut himself off, afraid of what he would say if he let himself spiral. “I couldn’t keep him safe.”

You did, we barricaded the door, we drove him to the hospital. You- John faltered for a moment. You made sure he still had a pulse. You kept him safe, Arthur. John soothed.

“But I- I could’ve lost him, John,” Arthur argued.

And yet you said goodbye there, back at the hospital. John reminded him. His voice was not accusatory, simply reminding Arthur that, in a way, he had lost Oscar, lost him in that transfer from his arms to the cot. Lost him on the taxi trip back to the station, lost him on the train ride back to Arkham. Lost him in the weeks of dry preaching and a cold, calculated amnesia, a selective blockade of that grief. One Arthur would not allow himself to confront. If he did, he wouldn’t be able to keep himself from crawling back to Oscar. He couldn’t risk Oscar to his proximity.

“I did,” Arthur answered dryly.

But you still miss him?

“I do,” Arthur whispered. The confession a dove crawling from his throat, past his lips now. Circling the room, flying through the space between them.

Why did you leave, then? John pressed, Why did goodbye-- why did it have to be at the hospital? If you knew you would miss him, why did you not stay? John’s question a dagger at Arthur’s jugular. It didn’t seek blood, only understanding, and yet it cut into Arthur with a curiosity so earnest Arthur would’ve bled dry anyway.

“John, I-” Arthur began, “I kill everything I love-”

You haven’t killed me. John assured him. The truth of it, the sincerity knocking the wind from Arthur’s lungs.

“No, I- I suppose I haven’t. “ Arthur sniffled. “But I– I almost killed Oscar,” he whispered. The terror of that loss was still a lurking beast, it loomed and, in its shadow, all Arthur could feel was small.

But you didn’t John soothed. Arthur? He began.

Arthur only hummed in response, allowing John space to ask his questions.

You said you killed everything you loved. Did you- John paused, before rephrasing himself. Do you love Oscar?

All of the air in Arthur’s lungs left him in a rush. He could only lay there, the weight of John’s question settling on his chest along with his friend’s hand. “I-” Arthur started, trying to narrow the enormity of his feelings into something tangible, something comprehensive. “I do.” his voice softer than it ever had been, barely audible over the thundering of his pulse.

Alright. John answered.

“Alright?” Arthur began, “I just-” he felt dizzy trying to comprehend the calmness of John’s response. “What that’s just- what do you mean ‘alright’?”

John answered in frustration. I meant ‘alright’

“So hold on-” Arthur started. “I just told you that I loved Oscar, and all you have to say about it is just ‘alright’?”

Did you want me to say something different? John continued, sounding nearly baffled at Arthur’s objections.

“No it’s not that, I just-” Arthur huffed in frustration. “I suppose I just thought you would have more… pushback, you know?”

Pushback how? He asked. I know what Oscar means to you. Or at least, what you’ve told me. I don’t see why you would want ‘pushback’ from me.

Arthur shook his head rapidly in objection. “It’s not that I want pushback. It’s just that- well, I know you weren’t initially the most… fond of Oscar and I think I just-”

You thought I hated him? John finished for him.

“How do you keep doing that?” Arthur spoke to himself.

Doing what?

“Nothing, it’s just-” Arthur laughed despite himself. “Sometimes I feel like you can almost see what I’m thinking, tell what I’m about to say.” he elaborated. John only hummed in response.

Arthur, John began I know that Oscar means a lot to you. I’ll admit when he first arrived here, asking for our help, I wasn’t the most– enthused about his presence.

Arthur snorted at his friend’s words. “You could certainly say that again,” he teased.

Shut up. John snapped, but there was no malice in his voice. I just mean to say that I- I’ve come to learn that he means a lot to you, Arthur. I didn’t see it at first, I didn’t understand why you wanted to help, why you wanted to be close to him. But I- I understand now that he was important to you.

He sighed at John’s words. It was nice, to have this piece of him understood, for John to see him this way, and to not shame him or fight him in any way. Not that he felt John would, Arthur was simply prone to having his hackles raised. “Thank you, John,” Arthur whispered.

Of course, Arthur. John soothed.

A comfortable silence spanned between the two of them, the only sounds were the soft ticking of a clock on the wall and the steady rise and fall of Arthur’s breath. John’s hand still rubbed those grounding lines across Arthur’s chest, the rhythm of it all was lulling Arthur into something akin to sleep.

Arthur? His friend began, snapping Arthur back to wakefulness.

“Hmm?” Arthur answered, all he was able to offer in his drowsy state.

John paused before continuing. What do we do now?

Arthur creased his eyebrows at John’s question. “What do you mean?”

Nothing, it’s just that- John started, you said you loved Oscar, and that you missed him,

He could only nod slowly as John continued.

I suppose I ask because I wondered if- if you wanted to do anything about it. John finished, his voice almost shy, doubtful of his own curiosity.

“What, like run back to New York?” Arthur quipped. He didn’t mean to be rude to John, but the implications of John’s question were weighted. Seeing Oscar again, it- Arthur couldn’t risk that hope, couldn’t risk the idea of hurting him. He had already lost Oscar once, nothing in him could bear to lose him again.

I suppose so. John answered as if it was the plainest thing.

“I-” Arthur began, “I miss him, John”

I know, so why don’t you want to see him?

“I just,” Arthur struggled to find the right words. “I already lost him once, John. I can’t- I can’t risk losing him again.”

I wouldn’t let you. John continued, You told Oscar that, that you wouldn’t let him drown and I- Arthur I wouldn’t let that happen, especially not now, given how you feel about him.

“John,” he whispered, emotion clogging his throat making it hard to get the words out.

Arthur, his friend soothed.

“I think-” Arthur sniffed, trying to banish away the tears that threatened to spill from the corner of his eyes. “I think I want to see him again.” Hope fluttered in his chest, as terrified as he was at the risk of hurting Oscar, everything in him ached to see Oscar again, to hear the way he said his name, to feel that gentle touch once more.

So, John began, Back to New York, then? He asked tentatively, wanting to make sure he was reading his friend correctly.

“Yes,” Arthur answered, the confidence in his response surprising both of him. “It looks like once again we have miles to go before we sleep.” He offered, the familiar sentiment a comfort to both of them.

With Oscar?

With no warning Arthur found himself choking on his own saliva, the suddenness of John’s question startling him.

I’m only teasing, Arthur. John soothed. Unless that’s something you wanted.

Arthur simply did not have the brainpower to keep up with this conversation. “I-”

It’s alright, Arthur. His friend cooed. Now get some actual sleep, you look terrible.

“Gee, thanks-” Arthur let out a dry laugh.

I just mean that you look tired is all, John defended. Now please, come to bed.

“We’re already in bed, John.” Arthur reminded his friend.

I know that, I just- John cut himself off at the sound of Arthur’s laughter. It was a beautiful sound, one he’d missed in the past few weeks.

“I’m just teasing you, friend,” Arthur explained after his laughter had died down.

I know, Arthur. John responded. But do get some rest, you’ll need it if we’re going to see Oscar again.

“Hmm, yes. “ Arthur agreed, already letting his eyes slip shut as he turned onto his side.

Arthur? His friend asked, Arthur could only offer a questioning hum in response. Do you plan to get into something more fitting to sleep? The man was still dressed head to toe in his day clothes, he had toed off his shoes and removed his cassock when they had returned home, but still had his trousers and undershirt on.

Arthur only shook his head, burrowing further into the mattress, tucking John’s hand closer to his body, rubbing soothing lines up and down John’s arm.

Alright, John relinquished, not about to fight Arthur on this one. He wasn’t about to stop Arthur from having the first proper sleep he’d been able to manage in weeks. Goodnight, Arthur. Sleep well. He whispered.

“Goodnight, John.” Arthur hummed, his voice a sleepy, soothing thing, wrapping around John like a quilt. Arthur’s slowing breaths a soft and golden lullaby that drifted on into the night.

Chapter Text

Footsteps are expected to be unsteady on the drunken walk home. Even if home is not home one must drag themselves there at the end of each day, or at the beginning, depending on how they spend their nights. Oscar had spent his avoiding sleep. Daydreams were a safe territory he could explore, safer than the nightmares he dealt with in his cases, safer than the soft voice and even softer touch of a man with golden eyes that waited for him in his dreams. The night was spent cradled in the palm of a barstool, the sharp hot hands of bourbon reaching down Oscar’s throat and unraveling his stomach unraveling his mind until he coasted by with the hours on waves of bliss, the closest thing he could get to was ignorance.

The sun had begun to rise and with it Oscar from his barstool. Steeling himself to make the walk back home, a meager few blocks, but in his state it stretched on for seeming miles to go before he could sleep. The streets of New York were cold. The wind was snarling and wolf-like, and Oscar felt like prey under its bite as he did his best in his current state to rush home.

His hand still shook before opening the door to his apartment. A buried fear he hadn’t been able to banish since Arthur had left him. It is difficult to unlock a door when one’s hands shake from fear shake from drunkenness shake from sleep deprivation and dread. Oscar hates going home. It took all of one night and a morning of seeing Arthur in his doorway. Of seeing Arthur at his table, to feel Arthur curled next to him in his bed, and know that he did not stand a chance against a life without Arthur in it. And yet fate was a cruel mistress damning him to open his door to spanning shadows and beasts who go by the names of ‘loneliness’ and ‘vices’.

Through a process that involved a great deal more whispered curses and fumblings than was likely necessary, Oscar’s key landed home. With a simple twist and a less-than-elegant grasping of the door handle, he stumbled inside his apartment. It was quiet here, it was always quiet here. Most days the only sounds that echoed between walls were the clamor of bottles clinking together, the soft rustling of pages of case notes, and the muffled sobs that would spill from Oscar’s lips when he was too tired to fight them off.

Light had flooded the deep end of his apartment, he could see the soft glow of the early morning sun spilling past the kitchen and into the main hall. It was beautiful, this softness, and Oscar wanted nothing to do with it. What he wanted was a glass of water and then to collapse into his bed, to whisper a little prayer before he closed his eyes that his sleep would be a dreamless one.

He kicked off his shoes but did not bother to remove his coat as he made his trek to the kitchen, his footsteps shaky at best. The light that spilled from the kitchen was nearly blinding, but with every ounce of his stubborn will, Oscar kept his eyes open, turning the corner to enter the room and fetch himself that glass of water.

Oscar had never drowned, had never been strangled, had never experienced a trauma where air had been inaccessible. But the sight that awaited him in the kitchen was one that sent all the breath tumbling from his lungs. There, sitting at his table, cast in the morning’s light like some god-sent-saint, golden eyes piercing as they turned in his direction, was Arthur.

Arthur bathed in light, Arthur in a cream-colored shirt. Arthur looking at him with an expression unreadable. Pieces of hope, of fear, of shock, of exhaustion, of hunger, of longing all danced among those eyes.

Oscar did not trust himself to speak. How does one talk to a dream? Do you say hello? Do you walk closer? Do you reach out your hand that shakes towards such an apparition and hope that it does not flinch away from you and your claws? Oscar didn’t know. He did not trust himself to speak, did not trust himself to move. Only pinned in place, like those butterflies under glass, beneath Arthur’s gaze. Arthur, Arthur who was here. Arthur in his kitchen, sitting at his table, staring at Oscar like he held the answers of how to make everything better and how to never have anything hurt ever again within him.

With a voice that Oscar had thought he would only ever hear again in his dreams, Arthur spoke. “Oscar,” A sound so beautiful and aching it could’ve ripped Oscar in two.

In what could only be described as a sob, Oscar answered, “Arthur.”

Within seconds Arthur was standing up from his original perch at the table, beginning to make his way towards Oscar, driven by an urge to comfort, to hold, to console and soothe.

At Arthur’s movement, Oscar found himself backing away, retreating away from the sunshine-bathed kitchen and back into the dimness of the hall. A beast retreating into its cave. Arthur, at the sound of Oscar’s retreating footsteps, halted in his tracks. Both of his hands shook, the one without the wooden pinky was slightly outstretched, reaching towards Oscar, a silent and gentle plea. “Oscar,” Arthur began, “I know I- I didn’t mean to startle you. I just-”

“How,” Oscar cut him off, when he spoke his voice sounded like a ghost’s, everything was so far away from him. “How did you get into my apartment?” It wasn’t the first question Oscar had for Arthur, not by a long shot, but it was all he could think of right now as Arthur stood frozen in front of him, golden eyes swimming in confusion.

“Would you believe me if I told you this wasn’t the first time I had to pick a lock?” Arthur offered, his words were light but his tone was saturated deep in an ache that Oscar couldn’t pinpoint the root of.

Oscar nodded softly, more to himself than to Arthur. “I would,” he nearly laughed then, the absurdity of it all was sending his head spinning more so than it already was from the last remnants of drink left in him.

Arthur took another slow, tentative step in Oscar’s direction, “Oscar I–- I wanted to say that I’m-”

“No, no you-” Oscar shook his head rapidly, the action not helping with the dizziness of his hangover. He couldn’t handle hearing Arthur’s apologies right now. It already ached so unbearably to have Arthur here in front of him. To hear whatever Arthur had to offer as consolidation, Oscar needed to be sitting down, needed to be more sober, needed to be able to look at Arthur without the blinding lights of the morning flooding out everything beautiful and delicate about him. “I need a glass of water.”

“Oh,” Arthur whispered, silent as Oscar moved past him into the kitchen, then began opening cabinets in search of a clean glass to fill.

The first cabinet that Oscar opened was not where he kept his glasses, but it was where he kept his tins of tea and mugs. His hand shook where it was wrapped still around the handle of the cabinet as he stared at the mugs. The urge to care, to warm, and comfort flooded Oscar in that moment as he turned back towards Arthur. “Arthur, would you, would you like some tea?”

Arthur looked at Oscar as if he had hung the stars in the sky, a devotion and awe in his stare that Oscar nearly had to turn away from. “That would be lovely,” Arthur whispered, and then, even softer. “Thank you, Oscar.” The softness with which Arthur spoke to him, Oscar was convinced would be the death of him one day.

“Aye, of course,” Oscar whispered in return. Turning his attention then to pulling two mugs from the cabinet and a box of breakfast blend before filling the kettle with water and placing it back on the stove, igniting its flame.

Arthur had not moved from his place in the doorway of the kitchen, he was turned towards Oscar as the two waited quietly for the water to boil. He tilted his head as he watched Oscar, humming softly to himself before breaking the silence. “Oscar, would you,” Arthur cleared his throat then as if speaking past a stone. “Would you like help with your coat?”

Certainly not the first thing Oscar expected Arthur to ask him, the question stumped Oscar for a moment before realizing how he must appear. Tussled hair and sleep-absent shadowed eyes. Coat still wrapped around his frame as he padded around his kitchen trying to make tea for a man he thought he would only ever see again in his dreams. “That’s quite forward of you, father.” Oscar teased, delighting in the blush that spread across Arthur’s face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” Arthur began.

Oscar chuckled then at Arthur’s flustered state. He missed this, he missed his conversations with Arthur. “It’s alright, Arthur.” he soothed. “I can take care of it, but I do appreciate the offer.” He was met by a silent nod from Arthur, who had now turned his head towards his shoes in a near bashful manner. Oscar moved past Arthur, back towards the front door, removing his coat and hanging it on the hook he had on the wall. As soon as he did so the beginning notes of the kettle’s screams began to echo from the kitchen, to which Oscar rushed back, hurrying to turn off the stove and remove the kettle from the heat, pouring the water into both mugs and tossing in the tea bags.

He brought a mug over to Arthur, who received the gesture kindly. Oscar silently thanked whatever gods were above that Arthur wasn’t able to see the blush that spread over his cheeks at the soft caress of Arthur’s hands against Oscar’s own as he took the mug, whispering his thanks before Oscar turned to retrieve his mug.

“Arthur,” Oscar began, “I want to talk to you, I do. I have so many questions, so many things I want to say, but I just-” he gave himself a moment to breathe. “It’s too bright in here, with all the sun. My head aches something fierce and I just wanted to-” Cutting himself short, Oscar tried to find the best way to proceed. “Could we go to the bedroom?” At the raise of Arthur’s eyebrows, Oscar immediately interjected. “Just to talk, it’s just darker there, and I could really use to sit down. I don’t know about you and your pews, but I could really use a seat that doesn’t make my back ache.”

Arthur smiled at that, a sight that Oscar had missed, god how he had missed Arthur’s smile. “That sounds nice, I’d like that, Oscar.” It sounded like a confession, like a quiet plea for forgiveness. As if Oscar’s invitation was something holy and good and Arthur ached to drown in it.

Oscar nodded softly, stepping towards Arthur. “Thank you,” he whispered as he stood in front of Arthur, turning then towards his bedroom as the two made their way down the hall together.

-

The two settled onto Oscar’s mattress as they entered the room. Oscar all but collapsed, though still mindful to not spill to mug of tea he held, onto the bed. Whereas Arthur stood awkwardly in the doorway for a few moments, before tentative joining Oscar, sitting gently at his side. It may have only been a foot or so between them, but the distance felt vast as an ocean. Arthur was quiet, his body was pivoted towards Oscar, but his gaze was cast downwards into his mug. The whole sight reminded Oscar of how a child might look before being scolded. A scene growing up in the orphanage had made him intimately familiar with.

He hated seeing Arthur like this, so caged into himself and shamed. The man looked so small sitting in front of him. His body curled into itself, his gaze purposely avoidant of Oscar’s, his fingers drumming on the side of his mug in a nervous and frantic rhythm. Oscar looked at Arthur, taking in now in the softer light of the bedroom, the beautiful sight that was Arthur Lester. He wanted to fold, to forget all the ache that festered inside of him from Arthur’s absence and just wrap himself around Arthur, hold him, and in his embrace pray that Arthur never left him alone again.

Now was not the time for dramatics, it was not the time to succumb to such whims and longings. Oscar was nothing if not an investigator. Along with his longing, Oscar held questions for Arthur, the first of which baffled both of them. “Where’s your coat?”

Arthur’s head snapped up at the question, the simplicity of it startling him. In his scramble for an answer, Oscar elaborated.

“You weren’t wearing one when I first saw you and I didn’t spot one anywhere in the apartment.”

“Oh, I-” Arthur started, “I didn’t think to bring one. John and I, we left in a rush and I just- I was only thinking about seeing you,” he confessed. “I didn’t want to wait.” his voice a whisper, a gentle ghost drifting between the two of them.

Oscar held back a bitter scoff at Arthur’s words. “Seemed like you did,” the accusation dripping poison from his teeth, Oscar did not care to shield the bitterness that escaped him now.

“Oscar, I never wanted to leave you. You have to understand that-” Arthur started.

“No.” His voice came out scolding and scorching. “Do you know how long I waited to hear from you? I know- I know you told me it was a bad dream but I just,” Oscar’s voice hitched with emotion “I woke up in that hospital. Alone and- and afraid. And you weren’t there. I didn’t know where you had gone. I mean, I figured that you went back to Arkham but, god, Arthur-”

Oscar pivoted then, facing Arthur head-on, there was a rage in his eyes. A wild, roaming beast of hurt and ache that spiraled around inside of him and danced behind his pupils as he stared at Arthur. “Do you have any idea how much it hurts to be told that you’re someone’s purpose? To be told that- that you could mean so much to someone, only for them to leave you in the end?”

He shook his head, now looking down into his own mug of tea. Willing and praying the tears that were building in his eyes not to fall into the mug. “I couldn’t understand why you left. What was so monstrous about me that you felt like you needed to flee.” Oscar sniffled, trying to keep his tears at bay. “I was so lost, and confused without you. I didn’t know how you had gotten rid of Scratch, or if you were safe-” his voice broke then. It was too much. Too much pain and anger and longing all building and building within him and he was burning Arthur with it.

Arthur wrapped his hands tighter around the mug that he held. Taking a moment to gather his thoughts before he responded. “Oscar, I- you have to believe me when I say that I didn’t- I never wanted to hurt you, by leaving.” The shakiness of Arthur’s breath shook something frail and loose inside of Oscar’s chest. “I’ve only ever- when I get close– to people Oscar it- it never ends well for them. After the farm, after making you lose your arm, I just- Oscar, you had already lost so much because of me and I couldn’t- I couldn’t bear to lose you too.”

Only silence bristled between the two. Oscar could only breathe through Arthur’s confession. Every word was a dagger, aching and hot slid between his ribs.

“You said-” Arthur began, “that you didn’t know what happened to Scratch.” Oscar nodded even though Arthur wasn’t necessarily asking a question. “I’m assuming then that you haven’t had any more nightmares?” he continued hesitantly.

“Not any of his, no.” Oscar snarled.

“Oh,” Arthur whispered. “Oscar, I’m sorry, I-”

“Don’t” Oscar nearly sobbed. “Please, please don’t say that, Arthur I can’t-” He turned his gaze upwards, just over Arthur’s head, he couldn’t cry, he wouldn’t let himself. Not now. Not after he had already shed so many tears over this man. “It hurts- it hurts too much, Arthur.”

Arthur, bless him, stayed quiet. He only breathed, staring down into his mug as Oscar gathered himself. Not willing to risk saying something that would hurt Oscar more.

“I almost wrote to you, you know?” Oscar continued. “I wanted- I wanted to send you a letter, to see how you were. To ask if you were okay.” He shook his head softly to himself. “I didn’t know if you’d ever read it. I never bothered writing it anyways.” Oscar looked back down at his mug and took a sip of tea before continuing. “There were times I thought about calling you. I wasn’t- I wasn’t sure if the church even had a telephone.”

Oscar’s head snapped up at the sound of Arthur’s muffled laugh to himself. “No, Oscar I- We don’t have a telephone.”

“Oh.” Oscar nodded to himself. It was a foolish hope anyway.

“But I would’ve read anything you sent, Oscar.” Arthur continued, “I mean it I- any words that you wanted to share, I would’ve loved to hear them.” He sounded like he was about to cry. The strained notes of Arthur’s voice made Oscar’s chest ache. “I missed you, Oscar. I know it’s unfair of me to say, but I missed you.” Arthur’s hands were shaking something fierce around his grip on his mug. Oscar wanted nothing more than to reach out and soothe, to rob some of the festering dread out of Arthur’s veins and banish it far away. To a place where fear and hurt couldn’t touch them.

Oscar moved to set his mug on the table beside his bed and turned again to face Arthur. His own hand shook as he reached out towards Arthur, with the delicacy one shows flowers, one shows kittens, one shows shards of glass, he rested his hand upon Arthur’s shoulder. The touch must’ve startled Arthur as the man froze for a moment, fear and an instinctual move to flee flooded Arthur before he relaxed into Oscar’s touch. Leaning, if only ever so slightly, closer to Oscar.

It made Oscar feel brave. He tentatively began to rub his thumb back and forth from where it rested against Arthur’s collarbone, the movement causing Arthur’s eyes to flutter shut for a moment. The sight was beautiful. Oscar wanted to hold Arthur, to kiss him. To whisper into the curve of his neck that everything would be okay, that he missed Arthur too, that he would never let hurt or fear reach them ever again. God did Oscar want. But he still had his questions.

With another shaking breath, Oscar spoke past the boulder in his throat. “Arthur, how did you and John get rid of Scratch.” Arthur’s eyes snapped open again, looking towards him, but before he could answer, Oscar continued. “I remember, back at the farm, you had told me that he was gone. You were right. I haven’t had any- any nightmares of his, but I just, I never knew how.”

“I-” Arthur began, “Do you remember that book, that I had brought before we left for the farm?”

Oscar nodded his head, remembering the old volume that Arthur had tucked into his coat before the two had driven to the farm. “Aye, I remember.”

“Right, well,” Arthur paused a moment before continuing, “That book is a bestiary of sorts. John and I have had it for a long time.” He returned his gaze to his mug as if he could feel the intensity of Oscar’s stare and it was too much to bear. “John and I, when we were in that house trying to figure out what to do about Scratch, we used the bestiary. There was a- a ritual of sorts that we found and, well, figuring that Scratch was tied to the stone…” Arthur huffed then in frustration, trying to find the words that would make the most sense to Oscar. “The ritual that John found was able to open a portal, and- well, we did. We threw the stone into that portal and closed it.”

“And that was it?” Oscar asked, slightly baffled at the thought that something as malevolent as Scratch, something that could torture him for years on end with countless nights of dread and anguish, could just be banished so quickly. It had been weeks now without the nightmares from Scratch, and yet he still could not settle with the idea that Scratch was truly gone.

Arthur nodded softly. “I suppose so, I mean, you did say that you haven’t- that there weren’t any more nightmares of his left, after the farm.” He spoke the last few words quietly, drowning under the weight that while Oscar had escaped the horrors of Scratch, it was now himself that haunted Oscar’s nightmares. Even from so far away all he could do was hurt Oscar, and that wasn’t fair.

“Aye, nothing after- after the farm,” Oscar answered just as softly. “Say, Arthur. Where- where did the portal lead, do you know? I just- I suppose I’m just curious that if Scratch is no longer here, where he is now?”

“Right um-” Arthur pauses for just a moment, his hands fidgeting with his mug as he spoke. “Did I ever mention a place called the Dreamlands?”

Oscar searched his memory. There had been so many things Arthur had told him about, in their time together, in the early days of their meeting. Things Arthur had said to him in that confessional, things Arthur had only ever told him in his dreams. It was difficult to separate reality from memory, fantasy, and nightmare. What Oscar had heard and what he had conjured. The name, though. Dreamlands did feel familiar. “Aye,” he answered. “I do- I do remember you mentioning it, although I don’t think I ever learned more about it outside of its name. I knew it wasn’t a good place to be, but I never wanted to pry.”

Arthur snorted then. “You could certainly say that again,” he continued, a bitterness seeping into his voice. “The Dreamlands, Oscar, are not a kind place. I-” Arthur breathed in shakily, his eyes were glazed over with something wild, something hurt and terrified that Oscar couldn’t name. “I hope you never have to go there, Oscar. You shouldn’t- no one, especially not you, should have to be there. To experience what John and I did.”

At Arthur’s words, Oscar gave Arthur’s shoulder a soft squeeze. His gaze flickered to the scar that ran across Arthur’s neck. He wanted to protect Arthur, to make sure he never hurt the way the Dreamlands had hurt him ever again. “So, is that where-”

“Yes, yes um- The Dreamlands, is where Scratch is now.” Arthur finished for him.

“Right.” Oscar nodded to himself. “Is there- Arthur do you think there’s any chance of Scratch escaping? Of coming back?” his voice was small as he asked his question. As if speaking such a thing too loud would bring it to fruition.

“I- I don’t know, Oscar,” Arthur answered honestly. “I pray for your sake that he doesn’t.”

“Aye.” A shadow fell over Oscar, everything felt heavy, and the world beyond this room where he and Arthur sat was terrifying. He continued to rub lines across Arthur’s collar. If pressed to answer whether the touch was more of an anchor to Arthur or himself he wouldn’t be able to.

“Arthur,” Oscar began, his stomach tied in knots. “Why- why did you come back?” He tried to hide the hope in his tone, tried to mask the longing. He didn’t know what answer lay behind Arthur’s lips but Oscar braced himself for the words to ruin him.

“Oscar,” Arthur started, his voice thick with emotion that Oscar couldn’t place. “I kept thinking that leaving you at the hospital was what would save you. That if, in the chance that I stayed, that if I stuck around it, would only hurt you more.” He paused for a moment. “You, you’ve already lost so much because of me. I couldn’t- Oscar I couldn’t have you lose your life because of me, too.”

The man’s hands were shaking around his grip on the mug, the tea well past cooled. Arthur having made no moves to drink from it. “Oscar I- I kill, everything I love. And I couldn’t-” He sniffled then, fighting against the tears that built in his eyes. Stubborn not to let any fall. “I couldn’t bear to lose you. Oscar, you have to understand that I– all I wanted was to keep you safe.”

Oscar was sure that he had forgotten how to breathe. All he could do was stare at Arthur, watching as this confession continued to spill past his lips.

“I couldn’t keep you safe from all the monsters out there, but I could at least keep you safe from me.” Arthur removed one of his hands from his mug to wipe at his eyes. “I realize now, that it was unfair to you. To leave you at that hospital. Without even saying goodbye.”

Oscar could only nod silently as Arthur continued.

“After going back to Arkham things were- they weren’t the same. It felt… aimless without you, Oscar. I know it isn’t fair of me to say, but I missed you- I missed you so much.” Arthur’s breath hitched as if catching on a sob. “I kept thinking about how I told you that you were my purpose. I meant that, Oscar. The things you do to help people, the goodness that you show the world, that you’ve shown to me, I- I want to be a part of that.” Arthur turned his head then, golden eyes swimming in unshed tears met Oscar’s own. “You’re my purpose, Oscar, and I want to be a part of your life, however you’ll have me.”

Oscar was grateful he was sitting down, he didn’t trust his legs to hold him after hearing Arthur’s words.

“Arthur,” he whispered. Oscar moved his hand from its perch on Arthur’s hand to reach down and take the mug from Arthur’s hands. He placed it on the bedside table next to his own, the scene filled with such simple domesticity it made something inside Oscar melt. He turned back towards Arthur, taking one of Arthur’s hands in his own, the hand with the odd pinky clasping overtop, effectively cradling Oscar’s hand. It felt nice, he thought to himself quietly, to be held like this, by Arthur and John.

“Arthur,” Oscar started again, “I couldn’t bear to lose you either. I-” he took a shaky inhale, “From the moment I met you, Arthur, I have always wanted you. As a part of my life, as a friend, as…” Oscar trailed off, his words failing him. “I missed you, Arthur. More than you could know. I can’t tell you how happy I am, Arthur, that you came back.” Unlike Arthur, he did not fight the tears that started to trace down his cheeks.

“Oh. Oh, Oscar,” Arthur whispered. Oscar did not have a chance to respond before Arthur’s lips met his own.

It took Oscar a moment to react, for his brain to catch up to what was happening. Arthur had begun to pull away but Oscar was quick to chase after him, capturing Arthur’s lips once again in a kiss. Letting his eyes flutter shut, Oscar lost himself in the kiss. He remembers their kiss in the car, outside of the farm. That kiss was a tender collision, the inevitable crashing of two objects that danced around each other. An unseen gravity pulling them into each other.

This kiss was a promise. Every gentle press of Arthur’s lips against his was an oath. An unspoken vow that he was here, he was here and he was alive. One of Arthur’s hands came up to cradle to back of Oscar’s neck. He shuddered at the sensation of Arthur’s fingers burying themselves into his hair, now longer than when they had parted. The other grasped at the collar of Oscar’s shirt, another force of gravity, pulling them further into each other. Oscar rested his hand along the side of Arthur’s face, and delighted in the sigh Arthur breathed against his mouth as Oscar traced the sharp lines of his jaw. The sound sent him smiling into the kiss.

It could have been seconds, it could have been minutes later, but eventually Arthur pulled away. Resting his forehead against Oscar’s, the two could only hold each other as their breaths caught up to them.

“I missed you,” Oscar gasped into the space between them. His eyes still squeezed shut, focusing on memorizing the way Arthur’s fingers rubbed circles into the base of his skull.

“I missed you too. God, Oscar I-” Arthur sighed, “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.” The term knocked all the remaining air from Oscar’s lungs. He never stood a chance against Arthur Lester.

“Aye?” Oscar asked as he pulled back slightly, catching Arthur’s golden gaze in his own.

Arthur nodded wordlessly in response. With a gentle tug to the back of Oscar’s neck, gravity sent them colliding into each other’s orbits all over again. Both of their eyes squeezed shut, blinded and faithful that one would catch the other in this fated, brilliant collision. A glistening, burning supernova.

Dancing between them something unnamable, something beautiful. Something golden and fated to stay.

Chapter Text

The final rays of the afternoon’s sunlight filtered through their kitchen curtains as Oscar wrote. He’d been taking case notes for a meeting with a client tomorrow morning, wanting to be prepared to discuss how to continue in the investigation.

Even though it had been months since Oscar had lost his arm, and in those months he had plenty of time to practice writing with his non-dominant hand, it still took him far longer than he would’ve preferred to write out these notes. The script was still shaky at best, but at least it was legible. And for Oscar, it was enough, for now.

He had just set his pen down to stretch out his hand and roll his shoulders when he heard the tell-tale sound of the front door swinging open. Oscar smiled softly to himself, listening to Arthur close the door quietly behind him. Listened as he locked the door and threw his keys into the dish they had by the door. Listened as Arthur toed off his shoes and hung up his coat in the closet before his feather-light footsteps led him into the kitchen.

Oscar looked up as Arthur turned into their kitchen, the final bits of sunlight painting him in a soft and sacred golden glow. The visual stole all the air from Oscar’s lungs until all that was left was a sighed “Hello,”.

It did not matter how many times either Arthur or Oscar would come back to their home in Arkham. It did not matter how many times they saw each other at the end of a long day or the beginning of a new one. Seeing Arthur always left him breathless.

“Hey there,” Arthur answered as he made his way over to where Oscar was sitting. Now standing behind Oscar, he gripped the chair with one hand, John’s coming to a rest on Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar shifted then, taking John’s hand and pressing a kiss to the knuckles there before turning his head up to meet Arthur for a kiss.

Arthur hummed softly as they pulled away from each other. “How was service?” Oscar inquired.

“It was good,” he started, “Mrs. Clark wasn’t able to make it today, so it was the first Sunday in a while I wasn’t having to preach over little Gabriel’s cries.” Arthur elaborated.

“Hmm, so less of a headache I’m hoping?”

“Ah, very much so.” Arthur laughed softly. “How have things been here with you? Were you able to schedule a meeting with that woman you told me about earlier this week?” As Arthur inquired he rested his hand against the back of Oscar’s neck, his thumb brushing soft lines up and down the gentle curve.

“Aye, yes they’ve been good-” Oscar began, leaning back softly into Arthur’s touch as he continued. “I was able to call Miss Abernathy and schedule a meeting with her for tomorrow. I’m just finishing up the case notes for it now.”

“Hmm, I’m glad you were able to find a time to meet.” he started, “I’m going to go clean up but I could put dinner on while you finish your notes if that sounds okay?”

Oscar could only hum in appreciation. “More than.”

“Lovely,” Arthur answered. Pressing a soft kiss to the top of Oscar’s head before retreating towards the bathroom and leaving Oscar to finish with his notes.

-

Moonlight now danced across the floorboards of their living room as Oscar and Arthur settled in for the evening.

Oscar had finished his notes while Arthur was showering, and had changed out of his dayclothes into pajamas as Arthur finished up making dinner.

Now comfortably full, the two had made their way into the living room after dinner. Electing to settle down on the couch for a bit before retreating to bed. Arthur often preferred to practice his braille in the evenings. Currently, he was making his way through a small volume of fairy tales. While it wasn’t his genre of choice, Arthur argued that John enjoyed the stories he read out to him. Oscar would’ve believed him but there were times when Arthur would put on a new voice for a character with such a glamour of theatrics that Oscar figured that Arthur enjoyed himself as much as John did with the stories.

Oscar was lying against one arm of the couch, Arthur was resting between his legs, his head lying against Oscar’s chest. A blanket was draped over the two of them as Arthur quietly read aloud to John and Oscar the story of Little Red Riding Hood. He continued to rake gentle circles through the hair at the top of Arthur’s head. Arthur melted into the sensation as he continued reading.

Arthur had been suppressing showing any signs of tiredness throughout the evening but as soon as he finished the story and closed the book he couldn’t help but yawn, stretching out and leaning even further back. Cuddling into Oscar’s embrace.

“Tired, love?” Oscar gently questioned. Smiling softly at Arthur’s answering hum. The man letting his eyes slip shut as he nestled closer to Oscar. “Let’s get you to bed,” he soothed. Arthur whined in protest but thankfully didn’t fight Oscar in sitting up. Failing to suppress a shiver as he stood up, the momentary loss of the blanket and Oscar’s warmth left him cold. Oscar picked up the blanket from where it had fallen onto the floor and began to drape it over Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur helped in wrapping the blanket around him, now taking on the image of some cozy knight draped in a cloak of cotton as the two strode towards the bedroom.

It took no time at all for the two to get settled. Often, since Arthur didn’t need them, the lights in the house were off, so once they made it to the bedroom it was simply of matter of taking turns brushing their teeth before the two nestled into bed together.

Oscar tucked himself around Arthur, his arm draped over Arthur’s chest, holding him close. Two layers of blankets rested on top of them, an effective shield against Arkham’s chronically cold evenings.

From where Oscar’s hand lay tucked against Arthur’s chest, he could make out Arthur’s heartbeat. A stubborn, vibrant, beautiful beat. With every pulse a reminder that Arthur was here, he was alive and safe. A feeling warm and shimmering glowed between Oscar’s ribs with the knowledge that he was here, with Arthur. That the two of them were kept safe and held by each other.

Pressing a kiss to the top of Arthur’s head, Oscar whispered his soothings. “Goodnight, Arthur. Goodnight, John.”

Arthur hummed softly, leaning back further into Oscar’s embrace. “Goodnight, Oscar. Sweet dreams.” His voice was soft and heavy, weighed down by his readiness to fall into sleep.

Oscar let his eyes flutter shut as he curled himself tighter around Arthur. The moon and starlight, trapped in a cosmic waltz, danced across the ceiling of their bedroom. A ballroom of brilliance above where the two slept. Oscar focused on matching the gentle, slowing rhythm of Arthur’s breaths. Delighting in the moment the two fell in tandem, lungs expanding and falling together in an inseparable harmony. He chased this softness, this gentle, intertwined melody into a sleep where sweet dreams awaited.