#Champagne Pailyu

[typewrite-dragon]

Seeing Eye to Eye - TMA Lonely Ghosts AU

[AO3 Link]

This is set in the same universe as Ghosts Get Lonely Too. This particular story is set before that one. There are ripples now with him not encountering the Hunters nor Gerry's book. There are reasons for that. : ) Jonathan "Jon" Sims, frustrated with the lack of information to combat the Lonely, finds himself on a bus on the way home. He crosses paths with a young woman named Champagne Pailyu, an Avatar of the Eye.

Statement Begins

[Click]

The soft sounds of people speaking and the thumping sounds of what is likely the shift of clothes and backpacks fill the silence before the clearing of a throat. A soft voice voice is heard.

“Hello, is the-” The words are interrupted by a sudden surprised yelp by Jon while the owner of the other voice sighs and continues, “The seat beside you, is it taken?”

Soft panted breaths in and out and a breathless nervous chuckle, “I, yes. I mean- n-no. No it is not taken. I’m sorry I didn-”

“Didn’t See me there, I know. It happens a lot.” There is a tired acceptance in her tone, perhaps some amusement, “Do you mind if I sit with you?” “No, no I do not mind at all. Please.” Jon says it quickly, still trying to even his voice out.

“Thank you. My name is Champagne.” “Champagne? Really? I mean-” A stumbling of his words as he tries to course correct, “Jon. You may call me Jon. You ah… your parents must have been… the celebratory sort.”

There is a loud snort from Champagne, “A pleasure to meet you, Jon, and perhaps you are only half right. I never did get to ask them about it.”

An awkward silence as the voices in the background continue to fill the silence before the sound of a mechanical squeak and hiss of breaks before the engine grows louder and there is the distinct sound of a vehicle moving.

Finally, there is the rustle of fabric and then paper as the pages of something are being flipped through. The sound of a zipper follows in what is likely someone getting out a writing instrument. “Oh! You draw?” Jon suddenly asks, sounding desperate to chase away the awkward silence.

“Hm?” A moment and then Champagne adds, “Oh. Yes, I do.”

“Would you… may I see some of your work?” Jon asks tentatively, seeming to find relief in something normal for once. Yet there is a soft distortion around his words, a distant static.

There is a thoughtful sound and the tap of the pencil on the page, “I do not think you want to see my work, Jon.”

“Why not?” The sounds of static become stronger.

Silence and the static seems to fall away with an eerie sort of laugh coming from Champagne, “You are awfully new at this, aren’t you?”

Jon is clearly surprised with his own sound of confusion followed by, “New? What- What do you mean by new?”

“Oh gods, you are very new at this. I suppose I am too if we really think about it.”

“I don’t understand-”

“I suppose you wouldn’t. You should really eat soon, you are looking a bit peakish.”

“I am fairly certain food and drink are prohibited on the bus.” Jon says defensively, snapping at her without thinking. Then a soft gasp and he says in a hushed whisper, “Oh. Oh. Oh no, you’re one of-”

“Relax.” A tone that is both gentle and yet it was firm in the way it was a command. There starts being a scratch of pencil over paper, “I am an Avatar, yes. However, I have no intention to harm you. I cannot promise the same of your Strange Officer.”

Jon scoffs and there is a shift of fabric as he changes how he is sitting, “Forgive me for not believing you.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t.” Champagne tells him, “But I feel that,as new you are, you shouldn’t be looking at some of my art. You are welcome to watch me draw if you would like. This one shouldn’t be too horrible.”

“What? Do you scare people with terrible art skills?” Jon asks snaps, tone practically scathing.

“Something like that, but let’s just say I am a picky eater.” Continued scratch of pencil over paper while Champagne’s voice is calm and even, “You are not in danger of being consumed, Jon. I would like to think we are on the same side.”

“Same side? What side would that be?” The static again, but it does not sound as strong. Whatever compelling he is trying to do, it does not seem to be working on Champagne.

A loud sigh and a soft whistling and muttered sound that doesn’t sound like any spoken tongue is made by Champagne and the pencil continues to move, “New and Ignorant. Of all people to collect for the Eye. I suppose it is easier to fill an empty cup… or a bucket.”

“The Eye- Did Elias send you?” Jon demands with a hissing, growing increasingly frustrated that he cannot seem to get a clear answer. Perhaps, he is wondering everyone is under the Eye is this difficult.

“Stop trying to compel me, Jon. You have enough problems.” Champagne signs again, “I don’t Know who that is, but no one sent me. Judging by the feel of you, I imagine our… threads were always meant to cross. I just so happened to be on the same bus as you.”

A long silence and Jon finally speaks again, “You mentioned the Officer. So they are…?” He trails off, hoping for her to fill in the blank without actually compelling her on accident. He seems to be stumbling over that ability too without meaning to.

“Part of the Stranger I think. I suppose they could be of the Hunt.” Disgust in her voice as Champagne adds, “A disgustingly large number of law enforcement are. Usually they hunt in pair,s however, so I think this one is Stranger. It has that feeling of being off.”

“Yes they- they do that.” Jon admits, mollified, “Well do you happen to know a Gerard Keay or maybe even Gertrude Robinson?”

His voice was so hopeful, trying hard to find any answers at all. Champagne feels sorry for him, “No, I am afraid not, sorry. I do not know either of those people... Or Know them. I am sorry, Jon.”

A groan and a thump from Jon flopping back into his seat, “I have been trying to- you know what? Nevermind. It… no. No I am going to try to ask. You wouldn’t happen to know about the Unknowing would you?”

“Maybe you aren’t as new as I thought…” Champagne says, sounding absently curious as the sound of the pencil still working, “Unfortunately, I do not know much. I think it is a Ritual?”

“Oh.” Silence follows and then Jon continues, “Yes, it is a world ending ritual by the Stranger.” “Ew. Why did I have to be right?” The pencil on paper stops long enough to be noticed and then a soft sound of the the clicks on a mechanical pencil and the drawing resumes.

“I very much wish you were wrong. You know, I am beginning to think no one knows anything at all. I just… I need to stop this ritual.” Jon mutters and he sighs. Why was he even out here?

Champagne hums as she draws, “I know a little about how the Fears work. Not a terribly large amount, but maybe I Know something that can help give you ideas. The Stranger is rooted in nonsense and feeling off from reality. So perhaps you need cold undeniable logic.”

A thoughtful sound, “Perhaps… but if a ritual is so large… what would be big enough to stop it?”

“That is… a good question. I don’t know. It may need to be something just as large and disruptive.” Champagne shifts, the sound of fabric and paper before she continues, “Maybe some good old fashioned arson.”

A tired laugh that sounds like it is bordering on hysteria, “Maybe. Are you sure you don’t work with the Desolation?”

[Click]

[Click]

The recorder turns on again, this time the sounds of people in the background are softer. There are more distant sounds of the beeps and hisses of a kitchen. There is more scratching of pencil over paper.

Jon’s voice comes through, “Oh, it feels good to stretch my legs again.”

Champagne laughing softly, “Not used to long rides like this, are you?”

Jon yelps in surprise and pants, his tone is sharp, “How do you keep doing that?”

More laughter and Champagne’s smile is in her voice, “Inherent ability. Before the Eye grabbed me. Anyway, the previous question about long trips still stands.”

A sigh, but it is followed by a good natured chuckle. He sounds at ease for once, it surprises even him, “No, no I really am not. The fact that you can travel for hours and still be in the same state is a bit mind boggling.”

“Ah right, you all can just take a wrong exit and end up in another country and stop there for lunch before heading back in time for a spot of tea.”

Jon laughs, it is a quiet sound, “I suppose we can. The… the fear that has a problem with vertigo… falling… ah-” “The Vast.” “Yes, that. They would have a field day here. I think.” Champagne hums quietly, “I think there might be an Avatar around the Grand Canyon. I haven’t had many issues with that one though so I couldn’t tell you.”

A low hum, “You really do not strike me as- you feel so… well adjusted for someone who is… well.” “A monster?” “No! No not- you don’t feel like a monster! You are actually, well, quite nice.”

“Well thank you.” Champagne responds softly, “I highly doubt anyone I have fed on would agree with you. I tend to target unpleasant people. I think this is the longest I have held a conversation with anyone that didn’t become a snack later.”

“How did you, ah-”

The pencil scratching paper stops suddenly, “Wait.”

A tense silence and she sighs, “They are trying very hard to find you, Jon.”

“I- what- they are here?!”

“Close.” Champagne makes a sound, it seems almost musical in quality, like a whistling wind, “Should be distracted for now.”

“What did you do?” Fear is filling his voice, unease and borderline hysteria filled with a very soft static.

“Jon relax, and please get your compelling under control. It is uncomfortable.” Champagne sighs, “Look, if you really want my story, we can do that. I have a feeling this food isn’t going to be enough and if you are taking down an entire ritual-”

“Then I will need all of the he- wait a minute. Hang on. What do you mean the food isn’t enough? Are you saying I am becoming like- that I am like you? But I am no-”

A low hum and Champagne speaks firmly, “Jon, relax. Breathe for me. You aren’t entirely lost yet. You are still human enough, maybe, I know the idea of lost control is unpleasant. I am sorry, but survival is… You are going to need to decide how far you are willing to go for the sake of saving others, alright? Sometimes… it means shaving off parts of yourself to make room for new parts.”

“Okay…” Shaking breaths and he swallows audibly, “Okay, I… thank you. I think.”

“Good. Now then, let’s feed you. Outside. A small walk should do us some good.”

“I-wh- are you sure? All of the other-”

“I am sure, Jon. At least one person deserves my story, and if it helps you save the world… well that is rather compelling all on its own.

People do not tend to like their secrets ripped out of them, I know. It is uncomfortable. However… I suppose I have done it enough to people that I can, should share mine. Whatever consequences follow… I suppose I deserve it.” Her tone is sad and soft.

“Oh, yes I… yes of course. Let’s… let’s walk.”

[Click]

[Click]

It is a little quieter, save for the sounds of vehicles, albeit they sound almost distant. Muffled. The sound of footsteps is softened by the ground.

“So, Jon, how do you usually collect your… stories? Your tape recorder?”

“Oh I ah…” Jon makes a thoughtful sound, trying to find an answer. He wants to be respectful. He feels like he should be respectful, “I… well usually at the Institute I am… the Archivist… head Archivist. I… usually there is a little more formality, but yes I use this. The Statements, the real ones, do not seem to want to be digitized.”

He clears his throat, it feels awkward being outside and exposed. Yet, she seems absolutely at home in it. Whatever comfortable confidence she has out here, he wishes he could have some of it. Though he feels if he stays close he is somehow sheltered.

“Well, the world is your Archive, Mister Archivist.” She says dryly, “There are plenty of stories to be told out here. Plenty to collect.”

“Right… right you are I suppose.” A tired sigh and he huffs a small laugh, “Statement of Champagne….” “Pailyu.” “Pailyu? Your name is- I… oh god I am so sorry.” “It’s alright, Jon. I blame my mother. You don’t need to apologize for her choices.” “Yes, well um… right. Statement of Champagne Pailyu regarding…” “My background and how I became an Avatar of the Eye.” “Statement taken from source June 29th, 2017 by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins. When you are ready.”

A slow deep breath and a long exhale, “Thank you, Jon. I suppose finding a good place to start is a bit difficult isn’t it? Trying to find the things that are important and are the defining points of your life that would make seasoned psychologists nod and scribble down notes as to why you are the way you are.

My mother perhaps is a point. It always seems to start with a parent, doesn’t it? Her name was Ciara Pailyu. She was… well I actually don’t know if she was ever a good woman. If you knew what she did, I suppose you would find that she really was an awful monster. 

The Fears had nothing to do with it. She was the one who chose my name. I suppose alone, Champagne is a pretty enough name, but combined with Pailyu and suddenly I was reduced to something empty and only useful for other people’s enjoyment. To hold onto things that would only be discarded later. Temporary. Fleeting. Forgettable.

It is fitting really, and I guess that was always her intention. You see, if you have a chance to study the history of folklore and mythology, there are a great many gods and goddesses and beings out there. One of them was Carmun. She was a powerful witch, powerful enough to be called a goddess, who caused famine and rot. Perhaps… she would have gotten along well with the Corruption. My mother, apparently, was a descendant. By extension, so was I. Carmun wished to roam the Earth once more and reached out to my mother to make a deal. Wished to inhabit a body and wouldn’t you know it, my mother had a first born available. Not an ounce of hesitation in selling off her own child and in sealing away my voice so that I could not make any deals myself.

Of course I had not known that was the reason I could not speak at the time. I was an infant then, barely a personality and completely defenseless. My father, Niyol, did not know what she had done and had just assumed I was born mute. He did not love me any less and I think perhaps that was the only reason I ever survived being around my mother. Being sold to one day be Carmun’s vessel was not the only thing ‘strange’ about me. Oh no, I had to be able to see ghosts. Ghosts and spirits and gods. To be able to see the unseen and communicate with them. I could even interact with them just as easily I do you.

Most would just assume that they were the imaginary friends of a little child, but they were all so very real and so very kind. While I could not speak any living languages, the ghosts taught me how to speak the language of the dead. It is more of a breathy whistling sound, perhaps a little static sounding. When you are little and children are prone to making such unusual vocalizations, it worked out well for me. Still hurt, but I managed. I could communicate.

So I grew with my first language being that of the dead, with none the wiser. No one else understood of course, which my mother used as a reason to dismiss me easily. I think… my ability to see ghosts and to communicate with them was why I could also sneak about as though I were one myself. Out of sight and out of mind. Seen but not heard. I scared her often enough as a child when I tried to get her attention. Startled my father too, but I think he started to recognize what I was able to do. I think he could see them, but instead of the clarity I had, his was more like shadows from the corners of his eyes. That turned out to be a hereditary trait, perhaps amplified by the ritual used on me to steal my voice away.

It wasn’t until I was six that I could talk. The neighbor’s dog had passed and was now a ghost. She was a large chocolate lab named Cocoa. She was a protective sort and I loved her. Even had a little brown dog toy that my father got for me.

One day, she chose to appear in the form of an old woman to talk to me. So I did not realize at the time that she was, in fact, the dog. I was upset that I could not speak in a way that my mother understood. She acted angry and lashed out at me for being incapable of speech as though she wasn’t the one to take it away from me.

There is something powerful about unconditional love. Especially from a loyal dog. She had helped me simply to help, having been kind and patient when I was small and trying to navigate the world around myself. She took it upon herself to remove the seal, though there is still a scar left behind. A reminder.

Suddenly, I could use my voice, though I hurt, and everything was intense enough that even my father could see Cocoa. Found me outside with her. Was warned that I was not safe. So that night we left so that I could live with my grandfather on the reservation and my father promised to return soon. That he would join us. Soon became a word I no longer trusted. A promise at the end of our regular phone calls. My father died when I was eleven.

My grandfather raised me as best he could. Raised me with the traditions of our people. The stories. The practices. Encouraged me to use my voice. He was a severe man, but the gentlest one I knew. He taught me how to navigate the world that was largely unseen by most.

He was a wonderful anchor, and it was good to have someone, as the other children tended to avoid me once my novelty wore off. I was the ‘weird girl’ that talked to nothing. The one who struggled to speak and made ‘odd’ sounds. I didn’t mind too much. I had my friends, even if they were dead. The ones who had given me a voice even when I had none to begin with.

I took to art as another form of expression, perhaps inspired by the fact my grandfather ran a tattoo shop. I was always happy to watch him work. It was amazing to see how he could fill empty space with lines and colors and it could all become so coherent. He encouraged that in me as well.

I did well enough in school for him not to worry, and the additional lessons about the world outside of what I knew was to keep me safe. To keep me aware that not all things were my friends. I grew into adulthood and he… he grew ill and passed.

I mourned, though I had mourned for a while leading up to it as his memory became fragmented and his health declined. He had long given me the shop and changed the name too. The Heron’s Flower.

It was in that shop that through the door walked, well, a god. A volatile one who claimed to be looking for my grandfather. When he realized he was not there, I apparently was just going to have to do.

He did not want to give me a name to call him by and insisted I could call him whatever I wish, so I had given him one myself. I gave him the name Réalta. He was… unpleasant. Crass. Tried to get a rise out of me. I was fairly despondent by then. No anchors to really speak of.

I drew something that upset him. That hit too close to home. First Impressions can be quite upsetting. Then he decided I was attractive. I figured it was just the fleeting interest of an immortal. I would be soon forgotten or I would age and he would lose interest. Perhaps I went along with it because was just lonely. In retrospect, I really should have just adopted a dog. Animals are better than people.

I will save you from needing to listen to the details of my love life, but I did grow to love him. He actually remained with me. I couldn’t tell you if it was a good relationship or not. I didn’t have much to compare it to.

The problem was… he caused a lot of harm to others over the course of his lifetime. Comparable to the Desolation. To try and claim revenge against a literal deity is a fool’s errand, but when you are desperate and in enough pain, I suppose you will be willing to do anything. Of course, many people try for, well, an eye for an eye. I was attacked, because I mattered to him. Last year, I was attacked in a place I should have been safe, my shop. I fought back. I managed to talk him down. Learned his name and why he hurt. I found out why I became the unfortunate target for blood lust and rage. Réalta did not accept my attempts to keep things from turning to bloodshed. I tried to keep things from getting out of hand, but the one who hurt me… who attacked me because he hurt so much. Davin still held anger and Réalta did too, but only one of them had power and in the end… Davin burned.

Even when I asked… begged for him to not be. I risked being burnt myself. I still have the scar, shaped like his hand on my arm like some sort of brand. It made drawing for  myself the first few weeks near impossible. I was stubborn however and worked through it.

I had considered just… walking away from him. From everyone else. Everything inside of me told me to leave. Screamed at me to run, but I loved him. I felt that he deserved for me to tell him in person that I needed space away from him. To breathe. To think. Though if I am being honest, that house was still home to me. One of the few things, aside from the shop, that was mine. A shared space at the time, but the house was still mine. Never have I done well in a cage, Jon, and being told I belonged to him like some sort of property did not sit well with me. So I went back to the place I called home. I really wish I hadn’t. Maybe things would have ended differently.

Maybe waiting would have just been delaying the inevitable. I had thought that perhaps all of the trepidation was simply because I did not enjoy confrontation. I was someone who had to work not to vanish from perception. I often wonder if the Lonely had also wanted a piece of me… perhaps it still does. The Fears have always been so… isolating. Probably explains why there are so many cults tied to the Fears. People desperate for connection.

Ah sorry… I am rambling. Running and hiding from the point. I guess this is the part that I…

Gods… I always forget how much it still weighs on me. The clarity that remains in my mind. In my nightmares… I walked through the door of my home and heard Réalta arguing with the shade of a woman. One who was old and powerful. I did not know who she was yet, but I could feel that some part of me had a tie to her. It felt unpleasant like the vitality of every nearby thing would slough away and leave only rot as evidence of her existence.

I was not present for the entire argument, but when I came across them in the kitchen there were scorch marks on the floor as Réalta was arguing, again about how I belonged to him. I didn’t want him to destroy the only home I really cared for, and I remember yelling at him and I demanded to know what he was doing. I forgot to be afraid of the woman beside him.

Everything else happened so fast once their eyes were on me. You see, the inherent ability I have to just… fade into obscurity, it doesn’t work if someone is constantly trying to track me. Someone has to make a conscious effort to remember I exist. Had to make a conscious effort to follow me and keep their eyes on me. If they became distracted then maybe I would have a chance to escape. Except the woman was Carmun. The very goddess I was bound to. The one I was to become a vessel for. Apparently I was ripe for the picking and she wanted her body now.

All eyes were on me and even without a pencil in hand, the clear Impression I had gotten from them was burned into my mind. She was going to oust me from my own body. She was going to take all I created and make only rot come from my fingertips. Festering blight and famine and no one prepared to stop her. The other… fire and destruction and somehow he too was linked to Carmun, although in that moment I did not know how.”

Champagne has to pause then, her breathing shaky despite herself. Reliving this moment in sharp detail as she often did hurt her. “Champagne, are you-” “I’m fine, Jon… just… let me finish this. It needs to be said. Someone else needs to Know what I did.” Her voice is sharp but quiet and she takes a few more breaths before she continues.

“Statement resumes I guess. Heh. So… Carmun turned on me and in that moment Réalta turned on her. Flames again trying to lash out, except it also was going to consume and destroy my home. Destroy one of the few links I had to the one anchor I had grown to rely on.

For a long terrifying moment, I stood frozen in fear. I did not want to be seen. I did not want their eyes on me, wild with wanting control over me or my body. I did not want rot to spread from my fingertips. I did not want to burn in the ashes of the emotions of a man I foolishly thought loved me.

I had tried to run, thought that perhaps maybe if I got outside that they would follow. It was such a stupid idea: To run. To try to save the house, my grandfather’s house, before my own life. It is possible that I had been worried that house would be the place I would die in. That the last memories in a home that was full of love would become one full of terror and loss and destruction.

No matter my reasons, I ran. I ran and made it as far as the living room before I felt that wretched witch grab my hair and try to wrench me back. I had long learned to deal with ghosts and spirits by then and I went down onto the floor kicking and screaming to get her to let go. At the same time, flames erupted and Réalta had started to try and burn her. She let go, though my hair suffered in the process. I was scrambling to find anything to defend myself, scrambling across the floor towards one of the end tables I kept some tools in. The two were fighting behind me while I practically ripped the drawer out and the contents scattered. In the process, I knocked loose a false bottom on the drawer. I do not know how I spent so many years not knowing this thing was in my house. It was old and dusty. Older than any pen like that should have been. It was a long thing and a pale lavender in color and it… It called to me. It scared me. Part of me Knew I had a choice to make. I could be killed and my body taken over to rot the world with impunity. I could be trapped by destructive flames that simply wanted me to be a possession. Branded and eventually burned to ash if I tried to stray too far or if something else coveted what he owned or… I could take this tool before me. I swear the world went still as my hand hovered over it. The fighting seemed so distant. I had a choice and I had been so certain that I had known enough to maintain control over my life even with whatever… force that was tied to that pen. A force that felt like an endless pit that wanted to simply consume. That would never be full.

Yet… at least it would be on my terms.

I could make that choice.

I grabbed the pen.

Everything was suddenly intense. The world was now a terrible awful brilliant clarity that would make any artist weep. The flames were hot twisting ambers and yellows and reds and the soot left behind was ashen black threatening to turn into the brilliant colors of flames. The same carpet was rotting and the wood and paint of the space around them had begun to peel and warp between the heat and the corruption fighting one another. Discolored greys and sickly yellows fighting with intense flames.

Not only that, I could hear yelling about a deal that was made. The Eye wanted to Know. I wanted to Know. I wanted to know what this deal was.

I grabbed the nearest book, an address book I think, and flipped it open and started to draw. I had no control over my hand and while part of me desperately wanted to stop because I felt I was about to do something awful, I also needed to know what they wanted with me.

The world warped as ink became a scribbling swirling chaos that formed distinct shapes on paper. The area around is twisting and warping around us as the scene became something familiar and yet not. My childhood home from before I could speak. As the paper was filled with ink and inexplicably was changing color as I went, there were two bodies on the floor of what was once my bedroom.  Mutilated and rotting as though they had been forgotten and abandoned for a long time.

By then, Réalta and Carmun realized something was wrong. That they were suddenly on a stage and the memory versions of them both stood beside the bodies. They both realized what it was, but the one who reacted first was the man I thought loved me.

They had made a deal. They had made a terrible and awful deal. Carmun wanted him to hand me over. My father’s death in an effort to protect me from my mother’s choices and my grandfather had done his best to shelter me from a storm that was still threatening to take me. Réalta had not come to my shop by accident. Had not come to simply find someone willing to place ink on his skin. He came to kill a man who was no longer there and had decided instead of honoring his deal, he would keep me all to himself.

I was angry. Angrier still as I watched the scene play out, as I watched Carmun consume my mother’s soul. I Watched her consume my father, claiming their existence to fuel her own with no chance for me to ever call upon them. Ended. Gone forevermore.

I watched as the bodies lay rotting and then were burned away by the fiery god who only knew how to destroy what people loved most. I watched and watched and watched as though I was there in that moment in time. The scent of burning rotting bodies filled my senses, the heat kissed my flesh and threatened to take me with it. Even though I cried, I could still see it all so clearly.

Réalta begged me to stop, pleaded with me and tried to tell me it was all a lie. That he loved me. That he was never intending to follow through. That he was so so sorry. I was too angry with him to believe him. Not until it was too late as I turned the page and filled it with more detailed scribbling art. His most painful secrets and vulnerabilities torn from him and put on display for me to see and for him to relive.

It was too late and the irony is that he did love me. It was not enough to save him, and with that burned out and his very existence devoured by the ever hungry Eye. A delicious main course, but of course it wanted dessert.

Centuries upon centuries of vulnerabilities and all Carmun could do was watch in horror and wait for her turn. I filled that book with their secrets. With their screams. With their deepest most agonizing pains.

I filled every single page with fire and rot. With countless deaths and loneliness by their hands or the cost of their own actions. I watched every single moment of that terrible montage as the Watcher gorged itself upon the Fear of gods. I watched with sick delight as I made Carmun suffer for what she had done to me. To countless others before me.

I was delighted, I was terrified, I was sobbing and angry and tangled in memories and emotions not mine. I was lost.

Then it was done. I do not know how long I stayed in that space, but when I came back to reality I was suddenly dizzy and trembling. My hair was burnt and destroyed. There were scorched patches on the rug twisted with the warped rotten wood. As though I had drawn the rest of the home back to what it should have been, but that single mark of both remained. A coffee stain on the canvas of my life.

I wanted to collapse there, but some stubborn part of me pushed through. I was weak and yet energized by what I had done. As though the Eye was rewarding me for a job well done. I cleaned the house as best I could. All save the mark on the floor and the book remained as physical evidence.

I burned the book, but the memories still live in my head. Flooding me with terrible knowledge of centuries. For a long moment, I was lost in that as I wandered the house. I would find myself sitting in places Réalta once did. Displaying his mannerisms with the terrible truth of killing someone who did truly believe he loved me.

I would speak ancient and old tongues that were lost to colonization and time. I would look for sons I did not have. I would look for lovers that no longer were there. It was not until I found one of my sketchbooks that I came to myself. A solid anchor wrapped in leather and one of my first pieces I had drawn in it. An Impression.

Another ability that perhaps was why the Eye won out in its claim of me. The first Impression I get when I meet anyone. An urge to draw things I did not recognize nor had any importance to me, but had great importance to those that they were drawn for. Sometimes great changes would cause a new Impression to be made. Always more detailed and I would better recognize who they belonged to if I knew the person better.

It was my grandfather’s Impression. Drawn after we had gotten the call that my parents had died. A terrible accident, they claimed. We had both known better, but knew better than to investigate then.

The drawing was of a nest of twigs, bones and branches in a tree and within was a worn and dented bucket whose handle was held by a large blue heron. Inside the bucket was a brittle brilliant orange orchid that seemed half-way towards death. Bones of the dead that made the nest. Rot threatening the trunk as much as fire was trying to. A shadow of a predator circling. Red splotches that must have been blood. A protector determined to shelter his flower from the world that was too much. Colors splashed all over in a way that was nonsense and yet… I realized it was me that he was protecting. That my grandfather had put so much of himself into protecting me from the world beyond. Tried to teach me as best he could.

I suppose it was not enough in the end, he could only protect me for so long and the bucket was no doubt upended by now, but… I found myself. I fed the Eye enough to make it… amenable to my terms. I would choose who to feed it. I would feed only the worst and most terrible at the cost of myself, filling that empty bucket with terrible things and memories in an effort to keep any more of it from spilling out into the world.

There are a lot of terrible people and I suppose, in reality, I am one of them.”

There is a shuddering breath and at some point Champagne must have started crying. Soft sniffles as she tries to calm herself. There is a rustle of fabric as Jon starts making sounds of concern and panic. “Oh my god, I am- hold-hold on here I… I have a napkin in my pocket somewhere- I uh… st-statement ends.” A soft ah-hah and Jon holds his hand out to her. He sounds worn out as well, but also sounds far more steady than before, “Here. I… I think the bus is going to leave soon. We should go.”

“Thank you… and yeah. We should,”

[Click]

[Click] The sound of a busy airport in the background. Though with the clinking of glasses, it sounds a lot like they are sitting in a busy restaurant.

“Are you absolutely sure you do not want to come with me?” Jon asks earnestly, worry in his voice.

Champagne laughs tiredly and there is the sound of a glass being lifted and glass clinking inside as she knocks back her drink and sets the glass down, “Not really, but I think I am more a danger to your mission than not. Besides, someone needs to distract the Stranger so you can get home with your skin still attached to you.”

Jon groans and sighs before taking a sip of something, “Hopefully I can find answers when I get home. Cold Hard Logic sounds like a tall order when it comes to these Fears.”

“It does, but I am sure you will figure it out.” Champagne and the sound of a shift of clothes and the sound of bumping her bumping shoulders with him, “And don’t become a Stranger yourself. You have my number now. Reach out once in a while. Provided you don’t forget about me.”

“How could I possibly forget the person who fed Gods to the Eye? Or snuck past the TSA?” Jon muses at her.

A soft snort from Champagne and silence before an announcement is made over the loudspeakers and she hums, “Sounds like you should get to your gate, Jon. Thanks for the drink. I genuinely wish you the best of luck. Please try to take care of yourself and trust your anchors.”

“Oh! Yes, well I make no promises…” A sound of confusion as he trails off, “I… what was I saying?”

The shuffle of paper being slid over to himself and picked up and another sound of confusion, “What is this?” Another muffled announcement over the loudspeakers and realization seems to seep in when Jon gasps.

[Click]

[dcartcorner]

Commission for the fic "Commited to Flesh and Ink" by Anaia_Lionel. Thank you for the support!

[typewrite-dragon]

Committed to Flesh and Ink - Elsewhere AU - TMA

Something indeed lurks in the dark and it wants to feast on yours fears. There are some who want to stand against them and wish to keep them from overwhelming those who share the world with them.

Two of these people are Champagne Pailyu, The Archivist and Head of the Keay Institute Archives, and Gerry Delano, Archival Assistant.

Gerry wants every tool he can get to help manage the Fears. Even if it costs him his humanity.

--

This is a bit of a concept based off of @dcartcorner 's Reset: Elsewhere AU. Specifically set around how Gerry got his tattoo.

“You said you used to do tattoo work?”

Champagne Pailyu looked up from the files she was reading over and raised a brow at the disheveled man leaning against the doorway. He wore a comfortable sweater vest over a button up shirt that he rolled the sleeves up on and kept unbuttoned. Somewhere in the Archives she was sure was his jacket. Poorly dyed black hair revealed that his natural hair color was blond. He had it haphazardly pulled back. Champagne wondered if he would ever let anyone else dye his hair or if he did it himself to make a point.

“‘Hello, Champagne. How are you doing, Champagne? Has anything tried to eat your face off lately?” She responded blandly as she pulled a small page marker post-it and tacked it along the side of the paper she was reading.

The woman in question had long sunset and copper hair that was currently braided back. With the colder damp weather, she was comfortable being cozied up in a thick oversized pink sweater pulled over her own white button up shirt. 

Gerry rolled his eyes at her, he would never admit the small huff was a laugh. The woman was the most polite person he had ever met, but she could be just as blunt as he was.

“Has anything tried since I last saw you?” Gerry asked as he walked into the office.

Filing cabinets filled the room along the walls, some old and overstuffed. Filing boxes filled the rest of the room. Each one was labeled in bright neat letters. Flesh. Dark. Eyes. Web. There were more lurking about and some had combinations. There were other things drawn onto the boxes and filing cabinets. Wards to keep things in… or out. Knowledge was just as dangerous as the things they tangled with.

Champagne snorted and waved her hand in the air. There were bandages wrapping her fingers, slightly stained, “Yes, actually. I shoved it back where it belonged so my face is whole.”

“Your face might be, but your hands don’t look like it.” He wasn’t worried. Gerry Delano could not afford to be worried. It would just be a terrible thing to lose a valuable resource like the woman who looked up at him with eyes that nearly matched the old amber colored light bulbs in the archive. Champagne looked at her hand and wiggled the fingers, “Eh, it is fine. Just some nasty little Flesh monster. Blood often reinforces my work anyway. I cleaned it thoroughly and will heal. At the most slightly marked, but not enough to become a big problem. Just another scar for the collection.”

Two of the most notable ones that she didn’t bother to hide were the large claw marks across her throat and the curious hand shaped burn on her wrist. Gerry didn’t ask how she earned them, even if part of him nagged to do so. He couldn’t tell how much was the Eye or was his own morbid curiosity.

Asking would mean he cared.

He didn’t care.

“Right. So, back to my first question.” Gerry pushed forward and he leaned his hip against her desk, arms crossed over his chest.

Champagne leaned back in her chair and looked up at him, “Yes, I used to be a professional tattoo artist. Shop and everything. Technically still am. Why?”

“I realized I can’t rely on you to bind things and seal them away all of the time.” Gerry responded and he watched her brow raise silently and a flicker of annoyance in her features before she smoothed them over. He wouldn’t admit to the pang of guilt he had as he quickly added, “We’re not always in the same place and you are dealing with plenty here, Archivist.”

“Champagne.” She sighed at him, “I keep telling you to use my name, Gerry.”

He wouldn’t do that. Archivists were a dime a dozen. Why bother learning a new name when another one would soon take their place?

When she noticed he wasn’t contributing more or bothering to correct himself, she sighed and studied him, “You want a tattoo, I take it, to enable you to bind the fears? You realize it took me years to learn how to do this? To learn what my gifts were meant for?”

“Sure, but I don’t have years. I’ve seen you do it. I have a basic idea. I need to be on the same level they are.” He told her, studying her features as she carefully schooled most of hers, only allowing bits and pieces out. It was something he appreciated, the professional distance between them. She had been integral in taking down the head of the institute, but there was a cost to such a thing. A tangled web woven by more than one. A ritual interrupted and the place of power claimed in such a way so the burden was shared. Neither losing their humanity as a whole, but he was certain his upbringing gave him a head start. Yet she took the position that risked so much more. Gerry was not sure how much was happenstance or choice, if he just happened to hand the Eye a more suitable vessel than himself.

Champagne pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something quietly under her breath. She must have been really annoyed to be showing this much to him.

“Quick and dirty will hurt. It will take a piece of you with it every time you use it. The only way to be on the same level to be able to tie them down is going to be… the cost is too high, Gerry. Working for me… being here already marked you. You are going to have to reach for that part of yourself and risk your humanity every time.”

“Whatever it takes.” Gerry told her firmly, even if his heart had begun to pound harder and his palms started to sweat. He understood what she was telling him. That this was just another way to go about shaving off bits and pieces of himself. Yet, if it got the job done and there was one less monster in the world, then he supposed it would be worth it.

“Guess you will just need to outlive me to deal with me when the time comes.”

There was a sudden quiet after Champagne took a sharp inhale and she seemed to be mentally counting down. Eyes closed as she did so and Gerry watched her go incredibly still. There were so many unspoken reasons for why that upset her. Her hands curled into fists for a moment and then relaxed. She wasn’t even entirely sure how she got wrapped up in this in the first place, just coming across a strange man in America. Yet here she was, in London.

“Fine.” She broke the silence with a single word. It was sharp like glass.

Then her tone softened with resignation, “Let me finish what I am doing and we can do it tonight if you would like.”

Guilt again that Gerry was determined to ignore. He didn’t care. He couldn’t risk that. Maybe she was stronger than them both. Maybe she would keep her humanity longer where he would lose his own, and it was her who would have to learn a new name.

Then again, maybe someone else would one day need to bind her and replace her and the cycle would continue forevermore.

Part of him hoped not.

The awkward silence was made worse when Champagne simply picked up her file and started reading again where she left off. The room felt colder, though he was certain that was just his emotions betraying him before he could squash them. “Right. Tonight then, Archivist.” He turned away and left the office.

He didn’t hear when she softly whispered her name.

+~+~+

Gerry was startled out of his reading when he heard sharp knocks on his door, nearly upending his chair at the sound. A grimace and he snapped.

“What do you want?”

When the door opened the familiar tinge of guilt returned and he smothered it quickly.

The prickly attitude was something Champagne was used to. She was also used to sneaking up on someone easily. It wasn’t a function she could turn off. Though Gerry normally wasn’t so skittish. Probably running from his own thoughts again. It was something she could empathize with. Gods knew she spent a lot of time running.

“I’m done with work. Rest went home.” She held up a worn leather messenger bag as she stepped in further and closed the door. It was something she always had with her. Gerry had always figured it simply held whatever people normally carried back and forth. Except now he was really looking at how the leather strained.

“Oh.” He looked at the time and then was aware of how his eyes ached and the body’s need to stand up.

Awkward silence stretched once again and Champagne took it upon herself to break it, “We have the Archives to ourselves. Where do you want to do this?”

“Here is fine.” It was as even as he could make his voice when it sunk in that they were doing this. Part of him wished she would have said no, but he knew that if he asked anyone else or he tried to figure it out himself, it could go badly very quickly. He already had too many close calls. He didn’t want this, but he had to do something.

“Alright. Let’s clear your desk off.” Champagne set the bag down by the desk and started to scoop up one of the stacks of files.

Gerry hesitated before he got up and grabbed another stack, something to ignore the tension between them. He could tell that she didn’t want to be there either. Didn’t want to permanently mark him with fears and have them woven into his skin.

Where he treated the files callously, Champagne handled them carefully. The desk was cleared quickly and he watched her set the bag on his desk and start to pull out bottles of ink, inspecting each one. Then it was a tattoo gun. Sealed needles. A variety of other tools laid out over a silicone mat she rolled out and disinfected first. It was neat and organized and clean.

“Do you really carry that everywhere with you?” Gerry found himself asking. An old itch that begged to be scratched. He suddenly wanted to pick up and look over every tool and ink. Tools that were meant to create and were not tainted by Fear.

Champagne nodded without looking at him as she prepped her gun and pulled on gloves. There was tension still there and the fact she wasn’t talking to him nor looking at him dug at the guilt he wanted to ignore.

“Why?” He couldn’t sit with the silence. Couldn’t sit with the fear gnawing at him. Needed something else to focus on.

For a moment Gerry thought Champagne had not heard him, or she just refused to answer. Definitely the silent treatment as she continued to look over everything and check that it was all working.

“Sit down and take your shirt off.” Champagne said finally.

The unexpected order startled him out of his thoughts and it took a moment for him to process, “What?”

“Sit down and take your shirt off.” She repeated firmly, “Or at least enough to expose the non-dominant arm. I am thinking shoulder down. Enough to hide it if needed.”

There was a snappy response he wanted to give to her. A million other responses to the order to remove his clothes came to mind and then died when he met her amber eyes. They were unreadable and her expression carefully blank. He could tell she was upset.

“Sure.” He finally said, pulling off the sweater vest and tossing it onto the chair. He  knocked his hair askew in the process. Gerry didn’t try to fix it as he started to unbutton his shirt. It was something for him to focus on. Instead he tried ignoring the way his fingers almost fumbled with every button. It was hard. The way that he still felt fear even when he desperately didn’t want to. Fear that made him nearly jump out of his skin when gloved hands gently rested on top of his, stilling his movements.

He looked up enough to look down at Champagne. There was concern there, a look he had seen countless times before from her. He always forgot that she was that much shorter than him. Sometimes she felt like she should have been taller. He hardly ever saw her outside of this place and he couldn’t tell if her eyes just gave the illusion of glowing or if they actually were that bright.

“You don’t have to do this.” Champagne told him softly, “I am alright being the one to bind things. It doesn’t make me lose parts of myself to do so. I am just naturally weird.”

Her silence was as intense as the emotions she openly displayed in that moment. Gerry realized that it scared him just as much as the fears. That she could See him in a way that had nothing to do with the Watcher. It made part of him want to run and curl up in a corner. It was a part of himself that he argued with often. That he made him regularly decide that Fears would be faced out of spite, even when everything made him want to flee. The fear he felt now had nothing to do with the Fears, at least that was what he told himself, but he still wanted to run. Maybe he could face this head on out of spite too.

“I do, Archivist.” Gerry told her, voice trembled slightly. He supposed he could not hide everything.

Champagne rolled her eyes and sighed at the continued insistence to call her Archivist. The stubbornly placed wall between them. The instinctual response of correcting him died at her lips, however. After all, she was going to mark him with something that would be a tool that tore away at him piece by piece. That risked losing someone that she might care about. It was so easy to care.

Easy to care without committing entirely. Without letting them know. Sure the actions bled through, but it never was voiced. Perhaps in agreeing to this, she had no right to demand she be addressed by name.

“You asked me to trust you enough to get rid of the last head of the institute. I did and I am here. Trust me to take care of binding. Of pushing back the fears so you do not have to.” She had tied herself there. He did too, to a degree. He could go out further than she could. Gerry was still more Web than Eye. Less about seeing and more about feeling and following the tugs where they took him. Instinct.

She would be hurt if he didn’t come back from those ventures.

Not that she could just say that. Not to him. Not when he kept himself so distant.

Guilt clawed at him a little harder. She could leave, in theory, provided she continued to feed the Eye. It was easier here, closer to the Institute. Where he could keep watch. He could bring her back stories of places further away… if he ever told her any. Gerry realized he didn’t tell her very much either. Didn’t feed the very thing that tied her there.

That she willingly tied herself to for the sake of others.

Champagne trusted him enough to follow through on his plan. She now was just asking for one thing: to trust her to do the hard part so he could keep his humanity a little longer. Something forfeit as soon as his mother saw fit. He stood in the legacy handed down to him.

A legacy he did not want, and yet here he was, partly bound to this place.

“I can’t trust you. I need to do this.” He said quietly, taking a deep breath and shaking off her hands, forcing them to be steady even when he did not feel it. He resumed unbuttoning his shirt and didn’t look too closely at the regret of lost touch.

“Stubborn ass.” Champagne muttered, taking a step back and sighing as she returned to preparing. It didn’t surprise her that he voiced his distrust, but oh did it hurt.

That earned her a soft scoff as he got far enough down to pull his arm out from the sleeve and he shivered at the feeling of the cool air on his skin. He looked over to see what Champagne was doing. Mostly it seemed to just consist of her fidgeting with the tools on the table. As if making them all just right one last time would make it better. He sat down and cleared his throat, getting her attention.

Champagne looked over at him and opened her mouth to say something before quickly looking away and grabbing one of the markers she needed. It took a few breaths to fight off the warmth on her cheeks, but she managed it and cleared her own throat.

“Right. Alright then. I don’t have all of the tools for designing it and making a transfer, so I'm going to freehand it. Doesn’t need to be complicated, and I have an idea in mind.”

Champagne looked him in the eyes, “And seeing as we are integrating this into Fear. I need you to give me a Statement.”

Gerry scowled, “A Statement? Really. You can’t just do it without?”

“You said you needed to be on the same level they are. You want it to be effective? Then  you need it to be your tool to work with. So it needs to be your Statement. Your Fear is what I will weave into this.” She explained.

In the end, he was going to have to trust her. In hindsight, he should have expected that. He was the one demanding a tattoo after all. Demanding an ability that took her years to learn. Having the skill to do so was perhaps an entirely different matter.

“Fine, do you want a tape recorder too while you’re at it? So you can transcribe it?”

Champagne shook her head and she seated herself on the edge of his desk and reached for his wrist, “No, I won’t need that. I’ll be transcribing it onto your skin, in a fashion.”

“Have you done this before?” Gerry asked warily, yet he still gave his arm to her easily enough. It was the most physical contact he had allowed with anyone. It surprised him to see how much he did trust her.

“Not with Fears.” Champagne admitted, “But same concept. Impressions have always told a story, but the story means the most to the one telling it rather than the listener.”

“Impressions?” There was that damn genuine curiosity that creeped out.

The woman tilted her head as she started to gently draw lines from his shoulder down the arm, “Ever since I was young, I have always gotten… strong imagery off of others. Something significant and important to them that is always close to the surface. As soon as I could hold a pencil, I would draw them. I thought I just was hit with inspiration, but I always felt those pieces would belong to someone. The reactions to their owners have been mixed.”

Gerry studied her bitter smile and then craned his neck to study the lines she was drawing, “No wonder the Eye took to you.”

“Yeah, I suppose it was either that or the Lonely.” She said and hummed, “I suppose the End was an option, but I am ambivalent about my mortality. I think the patron needs you to be afraid of it.”

“Fancy way of saying you have zero self preservation.”

“Like you are any better.” She then tapped his nose with the end of her marker, “So, Statement. How about… what led you to getting tangled up in the Web.”

Nose scrunched up at the act and he rolled his eyes at her choice of words, “Alright. Fine. Suppose I owe you anyway given you helped overthrow my Mum. I should start with that.”

Champagne nodded and she took a deep steadying breath, “Statement of Gerry Delano, Archival Assistant, taken from source and committed to flesh and ink by the Archivist and Head of the Keay Institute Archives, London. At your leisure.”

Gerry watched her as best as he could while he started to tell Champagne about Mary Keay, his mother. It was something he had not told anyone, and as soon as he started with his childhood he found it hard to stop. He thought he knew what it was, but she had not needed compulsion to get him to speak. One of the few damn people who had dealt directly with the wretched woman, he supposed, deserved to know.

It would be a hefty meal for the Eye. A little less humanity for the both of them, he supposed.

The lines she drew were careful and stretched from the boney joint and down to just a few inches above his elbow. Varying lengths of straight lines that even crossed over his collarbone and towards his heart. Then she began to make graceful arcs. He was admittedly impressed by how easily she created the design. It made him wonder what her first Impression of him was.

The design was quickly evident that it was a web. A fitting thing for him, but he noticed that some of the arcs began to form eyes. Little dashes for the pupils in the form of thin slits. Whatever words were falling from his lips were ignored now as he recounted his childhood growing up roaming the halls of the Institute. It was like his body went on autopilot while he stared at her work in morbid fascination.

He was still talking when she stopped and inspected her work, pulling his limb this way and that to watch how the muscles shifted the temporary purple linework. Now he was certain her eyes were glowing as pieces of her hair fell forward, shrouding her face in shadows to contrast luminescent amber eyes that seemed to almost contain a soft halo of an eerie green.

When she let go of his arm and met his eyes, there was a mix of terror and a strange thrill that ran through him. He was sure he stumbled over his words, and part of his mind felt like it suddenly had cobwebs as he tried to focus hard to pinpoint what he was actually saying. Was he still talking about his childhood? About the number of assistants and archivists that had fallen in his mother’s efforts to build her legacy? Gerry was not sure anymore as his lips moved and words just kept spilling out like water. Everything was automatic, things pulling on his mind like he was a puppet and his chest aching with every voiced pain and fear he had thought he buried.

A thread of panic coursed through him and he started to try and move, trying to push away the cobwebs that prevented any clear thought outside of his story. Tried to get himself to stop speaking. Instinct screamed at him to stop. Stop before she committed it all to Flesh. To stop spilling his life story to the Archivist with glowing eyes. To stop telling her all of his secrets and reveal the large gaping wounds that she could dig her needle into.

He blinked when she touched over his racing heart so gently and he felt his vision blur. Eyes burned as tears formed and began to fall. It was such a kind gesture in contrast to an act as cruel as making him relive that story.

Gerry was sure he saw sympathy on her features, but he could not make out the apology she murmured over the sound of his own voice. Despite tear blurred vision and a fuzzy mind, he was aware of every single thing she was doing. He could somehow still see her face as she chose the color of ink. A small blend of two colors, a little amber orange and the deep blue based black, but still as dark as he often tried to make his hair as the darker hue drowned out the lighter.

Gerry watched her adjust her grip on the tattoo gun through persistent tears. Listened to its loud buzzing sound and the Fear in him spiked with Knowing. His vision blurred more, and yet he was aware of her coming closer. Every second of the gun nearing was excruciating. He wanted to change his mind so badly, but he no longer had control.

It was a familiar feeling, a terrible one. It became worse as he felt the stinging of needles hitting his skin. Did he make a sound of surprise? The needles hurt, a rhythmic relentless burn that did not seem to numb itself as she worked. Yet her touch was so gentle, so careful, it was almost enough of an anchor despite the loss of control and Fear. Was that why she incorporated the eyes? To weave her influence into his? To give him a fighting chance?

Would the use of that ability shred her humanity as much as his own with every use?

He supposed that was appropriate, he was her assistant after all. They shared the burden of that terrible place, now dedicating themselves to gaining control over such forces to keep them in line. Try to reduce the number of victims. Sacrifice their humanity to save the humanity of others.

Though Gerry always heard Champagne say it was simply a matter of maintaining the “ecosystem”. Whatever that meant.

Gerry did not want to sacrifice his humanity any longer, but it was too late. Had this even been his idea? Was it ever his choice or was the Web just pulling him into spilling his guts out as distinct symbolism of that fear marked his skin? Burning wretched lines with blood oozing out with every prick of the needle. Even if he wanted to, he could not will himself to pull his arm away. Instead his arm was stretched across Champagne’s lap and cradled there as she studiously traced over her guide while he spoke through barely restrained whimpers about lost control.

He just wanted to have control over himself again.

Soon enough something soft was being dabbed against his face and he startled. Eyes blinked to finally clear away tears and he saw the apologetic face of Champagne. Eyes no longer glowed as she carefully wiped away his tears. He suddenly felt exhausted, pressure in his head no doubt from crying and he could do nothing but slump forward and rest his head against her lap.

“I’m done.” She said softly as she wiped carefully at his face. Gerry had no idea when she had finished. Apparently she had time to clean his arm. It still stung horribly, but it was eased by whatever cooling ointment she had spread over it, “I’m sorry.”

Gerry made a sound of dismissal at her apology and he tried to push himself into a sitting up, but a wave of vertigo hit him and he grumbled incoherently.

“I thought your name was Champagne.” He mumbled into her skirt.

“Excuse me?”

“Champagne… sham pain… that felt pretty damn real to me.” He slowly enunciated each word through his exhaustion. His entire body started to tremble from the effort.

A loud groan and she actually laughed. It wasn’t a cruel sound. It was… nice.

“That was terrible. Look, let’s get you into that spare room I know you pass out in when you work too much. If you are feeling up to it later, I owe you a drink. For now, water and painkillers and at least one meal bar.”

Gerry made a noncommittal sound and he let her ease him upright into the chair. He looked over at the swollen red of pale skin with stark lines of black sprawled across his skin. It shined with the ointment she put on it.

The rest was a hazy blur as he found himself led off to the quiet room that always seemed to always be clean. He swore he saw her stuff something discreetly under the pillow as she went through the effort to make him comfortable. He was too tired to argue with her, to tell her to bugger off. Gerry did not want to admit that it was nice to have something so gentle after facing painful memories.

It felt grounding to have a bottle of water pressed into his hands as well as some pills he didn’t immediately recognize. A meal bar was also pressed into his hands and somehow he was able to eat it without fail. Maybe it was the Web again, or it was just the gentle insistence of the Archivist.

The Archivist. She was a terrifying force. He helped make her that way. He was too tired to regret that now. Too tired and numb to feel any more fear as he was pressed down into the bed and covered with a blanket. Her cool hands smoothed his hair from his face.

The room became dark, but not uncomfortably so, a dim lamp left on at the desk in the room and light refracted by several water bottles left behind and several more meal bars that tasted neither bad or notably good.

Gerry slept off and on for days, and for the first time he did not dream.

Yet, he could not get rid of the feeling of amber eyes focused on him through cobwebs in his head.