#hastur/tim stoker

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted - a TMA x Malevolent crossover, chapter 19

The plan seems simple enough: find a way to switch Daisy's focus to the real danger, the firebugs who worship the Desolation.

Unfortunately, nothing in Tim's life is that simple right now… and even worse, Jon has forgotten to follow up on a very important thing.

Gore warning! Also, Larson warning. Yeah. They're connected. 🙃

AO3

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Aww. He looks like a little angel.

Tim is incapable of giving Hastur a dry look in his own face, but he can certainly shoot one at the vanity mirror.

Hastur laughs his terrible sadist laugh (and Tim really wants to bottle it, but for the sake of the bit, rolls his eyes instead).

“Can we maybe try to be less of a dick?" he says.

As you wish, Hastur rumbles, and his right fingertips tap a pattern over Tim’s stomach.

This whole having a hand thing is such a dangerous thing to give Hastur. Devil-pants is, without question, an asshole. Tim shakes it off and goes to check Jon.

He does not, truth be told, look like an angel. Paleness has lent his brown skin a green tint; he already looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, but now, he looks like he might have spent it throwing up, too. Tim feels shitty. It’s impossible to remove his onus from this, accidental priest or not. “Jon. Hey, Jon. Come on, buddy. We need to get you showered and fed.”

Jon’s eyes work behind his lids.

He hears you, says Hastur softly. But I don't understand…

“Don't understand what?” says Tim.

He’s seeing things that are not here.

“Soooo... dreaming?” Tim suggests.

No. The… he’s connected to the people he's seeing. I don't understand. This isn't a power he should possess.

Tim tries to parse that. “So should I try to see what he's seeing?”

No. That’s too big a spell for our first practice.

“Fine. Jon. Come on, mate. You can do it.”

“Nng?” Jon says, and cracks his eyes open. “Tim?”

“Yeah. You okay?”

Jon’s eyes fill.

Oh, no, thinks Tim. "You good, bud?"

“Can I… tell you something?” says Jon, slowly sitting up. “And I mean that phrasing, though may I is also included, but I’m not sure I can. Oh. Also, good morning."

Hastur huffs.

Tim ignores both grammatical tomfoolery and jealous cattery. “Morning. So yeah, try. Take as long as you need.”

Jon swings his legs over the side of the bed, rubs his cheek, and makes a face at whatever he finds there. “I’m really… I’m struggling with all this.”

Tim nods. “I get that. A few days ago, I would have sworn to you in front of a judge, a priest, and a virgin that there was no such thing as magic or souls or whatever. And here we are.”

Jon's lips quirk. "Well, you've got one of those here, should you feel inclined to try. So. Here we are,” he says, and seems to come to a decision.

Did I hear you say you're a virgin?

Right, Tim's ignoring that. "I'm all ears."

Jon swallows. “When I was eight years old, I had a particular bully. He was about… I don’t know, eighteen or so? Big enough to cause problems, and old enough that his word was taken over mine.”

Tim knew it. This guy has been bullied his whole life. Still is, and thinks it is normal. It occurs to Tim that Jon would not know if Elias ("if," that’s really funny) has been crossing lines he shouldn’t. It would fall too neatly into Jon’s ouvre, just with a little extra supernatural spice.

Tim is completely sure Elias is aware of this. Tim is completely sure Elias has blown past those lines for years now.

Tim is angry enough he almost misses when Jon starts talking again. “When I was young, I was a deeply annoying child.” And Jon does a laugh he clearly feels is expected at the expense of his younger self. “So it wasn’t that surprising. The thing is, I… I found a Leitner.”

Tim stiffens. “The fuck? You were eight!”

“Yes,” says Jon, like leftover coffee grinds. “I don’t want to go into all of it right now, but… this book almost got me eaten by a giant spider that lived in a house.” He swallowed. “Instead, my bully came along. He knocked the book out of my hands, knocked me down, then picked it up to use its contents to mock me.”

Tim knows. “And he got eaten instead.”

“Yes.” Jon covers his face.

"Jon, this... this wasn't your fault. Any of it. There's no such thing as a kid who deserves to be bullied."

“I know that," Jon says into his hands, "but I still feel like it was.”

Perhaps his fate was justice, Hastur says.

“For just shoving another kid on the playground?” Jon bursts, and laughs weakly. “No. No. It should’ve been me. It wasn’t, and I’ve spent my whole life trying to disprove what happened. To prove it couldn’t happen, because statistically, something like that cannot possibly be a one-off, and it was real, it did happen, and now so much more is real than I imagined, and this isn’t… this isn’t how I wanted it to go. That’s all.” He rubs his eyes. “I sound pathetic.”

You do, says Hastur before Tim can stop him, but that's not a terrible thing in this circumstance.

“Hastur,” Tim warns.

No, says Hastur. He should hear this. Sometimes, the universe produces justice. More often, it doesn't; but I find the fact that a near-adult felt it fine to harm a true child, and his doing so led to his death, directly, as a consequence of his own actions, absolves that child from any ill.

Jon looks up.

You are not guilty, Jonathan Sims, says Hastur with what sounds like all the authority he believes he once had, with the power of the pope, with a fucking god-like surety that sounds like he actually has the power to forgive sins.

Briefly, Tim is gripped with the mad urge to laugh, but he does not. Jon is staring, wide-eyed, and seems to be taking this very seriously. “You do?” whispers Jon.

Well, Tim can’t laugh now.

I do, confirms Hastur. And I think you know I’d hardly lie to you. I don’t even like you, particularly—but Tim does, so for his sake, I will speak. You did not do this. Let that shame go.

Jon stares. His eyes are wide, amazed, moved.

This, Tim suddenly realizes, is probably one of the ways Hastur manages to get cultists in this day and age: showing up, being all this, making them feel heard and special. Nope.

Cutting that off at the pass. “He’s a dick about it,” he says, keeping his tone light, “but I agree. There’s no excuse to bully someone less than half your age.”

Jon drops his gaze. “I suppose.”

“So do I.” Tim has no intention of letting Hastur bait that hook again, whatever hook it is. “So you’re having trouble with all of this because it’s happening so fast… and you have such a big reason to want it untrue. I get it.”

Jon rubs his eyes again like a tired child.

“Come on, man,” says Tim, helping him stand. “Get a shower.”

“I didn’t… my clothes,” says Jon pathetically.

“Your utterly gore-soaked clothes? Yeah, I’m calling a pass on that,” says Tim. “I’ll find you something. Just go get cleaned up, okay? Food, then, too.”

“And then?”

“Then… we might be going to Sheffield,” says Tim, hoping desperately that he is not, in fact, herding all three of them to their doom.

Jon obeys and goes to shower. He doesn’t even remember to close the door.

Tim sighs. “Yeah, we’re doing great.”

At least we feel less nauseated, says Hastur.

“You’ve really got a thing about throwing up, don’t you?” says Tim, checking drawers. As he thought, clothing of various sizes sits in these drawers, cleaned and pressed and waiting for whomever. “The fuck does he do here?” he mutters to himself.

I just don’t like it, says Hastur after a long moment.

“Throwing up?”

Who does?

“Nobody, but… oh, he’ll like this,” says Tim, and lifts out a simple green button-down, Oxford-collar and—as if planted—a nothing-brown sweater-vest with dark green chevron stripes.

He will, says Hastur. Also, did he say he was a virgin?

"That really isn't our business, Hastur?"

Of course, of course. I'm merely concerned for his welfare, both mentally and physically.

Tim cannot help his eye-roll. “Don’t think I trust this sudden opinion change of yours,” he says, laying the clothes on the bed next to some socks and boxers.

What? says Hastur, innocently. I am allowed to change my mind, Tim.

“Yeah, but you don’t go from not liking someone to liking them for no reason.”

Let’s just say… Hastur seems to consider his words. I like the sounds he makes when he is drunk.

"Okay, but that's worse? You see how that's worse, right?" Tim suggests politely, and heads for the stairs.

Oh, Tim, hums Hastur, you’re so suspicious.

“And that didn’t go very far in easing my suspicions,” Tim quips.

Hastur laughs at him.

Or maybe with him. It’s such a big, cruel sound that it’s hard to tell, and Tim’s imagination puts that sound in some interesting situations, and oh, it would work so well, and before he knows it, he finds himself asking— “Say,” he says. “Is that what you really sound like?”

My voice? Yes, says Hastur.

Tim decides he has no safe reply, and goes silent.

#

There are voices down there. One of them is Elias, and he’s… laughing? No, not quite laughing—it isn’t that evil as fuck sound he let loose earlier today. No, that’s… that’s…

“Is he fucking flirting?” mutters Tim.

He can feel Hastur startle. What? What makes you say that?

“Just listen.” Tim leans on the banister, doing just that. “The way he’s talking. It’s flirty as fuck.”

Hastur listens. It sounds aggressive to me, both passive and otherwise.

“Yeah, it’s that, too,” says Tim. “It’s the way he’s talking. Familiar. Definitely flirty. Distinctly rude. The fuck is down there, his ex-wife?”

Sounds male to me.

“Yeah,” says Tim, unsure if he wants to walk into whatever this is. He sighs. “Let’s get it done.”

With Elias, in the kitchen, is a man. A large man, beefy and broad, with white hair and beard, wearing a dark pea-coat and white captain's hat lined with gold leaves. And the man is already looking Tim’s way, as if he knew he was coming down before Tim did.

Elias turns in his chair and beams. “Tim! There you are. Come down here and meet your new business partner.”

So Elias is putting it on thick, and everything Tim thought upstairs is, he's sure, confirmed. The two are sitting an inch too close together with their hands too close on the table, yet the captain guy leans away from Elias like he’d rather be anywhere else, and Elias is utterly gleeful about the whole weird setup.

If this isn’t an ex, Tim will eat that captain’s hat. “Hi,” he says, and sits in a chair across from them. “So. Weird day, huh?”

The captain smiles. It’s a fantastic smile, friendly; the white beard and hair don’t match the youth of his face, and Tim has no idea how old this guy is. “So this is your mystery-sorcerer, is it? Nice to meet you, nice to meet you. Call me Peter.”

‘Peter’ doesn’t offer a hand to shake, so Tim doesn’t, either. “Tim. Business partner?”

“Peter Lukas is captain and owner of the Tundra, a large, seaworthy beast that can and has take you where you need to go,” says Elias.

“Part-owner,” says Peter so affably that Tim has no question Elias' comment was a stab.

Elias looks briefly shocked. “Part?”

Peter ignores him, confirming it. “I’m told you’re going to need some help reaching a few difficult places. Not to worry. I’ve got the resources to get you there, as long as the Institute fronts the funds.”

Tim looks at Elias.

“Oh, we’ll be paying, don’t worry,” Elias says brightly. “It all goes under the operating budget.”

“The hiring of random vessels to go someplace difficult,” says Tim as dryly as he can.

“Oh, I like this one, Elias,” says Peter. “He’s got a bit of bite to him, doesn’t he?”

“I was concerned you might,” says Elias.

“Well, not to worry. The issue at hand for me is impossible with this fellow,” says Peter as if that makes sense. “That’s all right. The money’s good, and it isn’t that long a trip.”

“Really?” says Elias sounding ridiculously amazed. “The Arctic is hardly right around the corner."

“The Arctic?” blurts Tim.

Peter waves his hand, affable and dismissive of all that Elias is. “Not to worry, Tim. It’s hardly time for your trip now, is it? I understand you’re going to Sheffield.”

Tim stares. “So… did you just tell him all the things, or is my National Insurance number still under wraps?”

Captain Peter laughs. It’s a great laugh. He’s absolutely delightful to hear, to watch, and yet it feels like the edge of an abandoned moor covered in mist and ready to swallow travelers.

The Lonely, whispers Hastur, and he feels afraid.

Well, that cinches it. “Thanks, but I think I have to decline?” says Tim, who will stand the fuck up for Hastur no matter if he’s a god.

Elias smiles.

Fuck, thinks Tim, because it’s clear Elias expected him to protest.

“Well, I can’t say that’s particularly wise,” says Elias, “but if you really want to abandon your passenger’s plans, that’s up to you.”

What? says Hastur, who perks up like a German Shorthaired Pointer. What? What about me?

“The item you need is in Sannikov Land,” says Elias mildly.

Oh, shit. The god-flesh. “The g… the thing is in the Arctic?” Tim squeaks.

Then we must go.

“Hold on,” says Tim.

Non-negotiable. If what I need is there…

“It is,” Elias says. “Anyway, all of this is moot. You’re going to Sheffield today, and assuming that goes as we all hope—”

“Wait, you said you were going to work on that,” Tim breaks in.

“Indeed. Chief Inspector Henderson has assigned some capable people to set up the sting. All you need to do is go.”

Tim can feel the incredulous face he’s making, but it goes beyond even the power of baby Merlin to stop it. “So,” he says, casually, “you ever have a moment when you realize your life has gone completely insane, and that maybe you’re just hallucinating, because what in actual hell is going on?”

Captain Peter smiles and laughs again, the perfect response, light and chipper. “Yes,” he says. “And I must say, Tim, you seem to be handling it admirably.”

But Tim knows how he feels, and knows his instinct is almost wrong, and he is absolutely certain that Peter is not moved by his charm. That Peter is repulsed by it. That Peter feels Tim’s amiability, and it disgusts him on some wild, deep level that Tim has never known. Hastur’s whispered words suddenly make sense. “The Lonely?” Tim says. “That’s one of these fear-gods? Loneliness?”

“You’ve known a bit of it yourself,” says Peter absolutely winningly. “I can see it on you—though with your partnership, you’ve certainly gone beyond its reach now, haven’t you? Ha-ha!”

While Tim has Hastur, he isn’t alone. “Yeeaah,” he says, drawing the word out. “Is being Lonely-core sort of inherently creepy, or is that just a quality of being Elias’s ex-whatever?”

They both look shocked.

(That may be the most satisfying thing that’s happened in days.)

Hastur laughs, low and wicked and eager.

Elias turns to Peter. “I did warn you.”

“Yes, well,” says Peter. “Well. Not to worry. I’ve handled rougher seas. And I'll be ferrying you toward an end-game, anyway.”

Was that a threat? Did this Peter have his sight set on them after they were separated? After, when Tim could be alone again? “Ratcheting up the creep factor a bit much, aren’t you?”

“Only in response to aggressive protective coloring,” beams Peter.

That was pretty good. Tim snorts. “I can't decide if I like you or want to set you on fire.”

“Prefer a bit more distance, if it’s all the same to you,” says Peter Lukas as if he’s flirting and not offering to stay far, far away.

“Wonderful! We're all getting along,” says Elias, and claps his hands. “The lieutenant is nearly here. I'll let you know when they're ready, Peter.”

Lukas stands. He’s tall. Large. Tree-like, and Tim has a wild image of this form against a backdrop of waves and moon and mist and mourn, somehow immaterial as if made of fog and sorrow, and it is terrifying. It is fear embodied of being abandoned, alone, in a world unseen of roaming eyes that see but never notice, laughter far away but never shared, homes and hearths so distant they did not even reflect on the water, and you will always be alone—

Whatever rises from Hastur now is rage-kissed, loud, shakes the table, rattles the china, and makes the lights flicker. Hands off. Do that again, avatar, and you will be alone in Hell.

“I'm not entirely sure if you’re actually trying to ward me off with a promise like that,” says Peter Lukas cheerfully. He taps his hat. “See you soon.” He leaves. He does not, Tim notes, require direction out, or lack knowledge on how to lock up.

Elias is smiling.

“Soooo,” says Tim. “That guy. You two?”

Elias waves the question away. “His family is one of the prime sources of funding for the Institute.”

Tim’s feeling spicy. “So you married in?”

“No, of course not,” says Elias. “We've merely known each other for a very long time.”

“If you haven't fucked, I'll eat his damn hat,” says Tim, which is, of course, when Jon arrives at the bottom of the stairs.

Jon stumbles. “What? Who?” he says.

Elias smiles. “If you’re ready, I'll call you a car.”

“We can take the train, and don’t think I missed you didn’t answer,” says Tim.

Elias tilts his head, looking up through his eyelashes, absolutely salacious. “Tim. Do we need to involve HR?”

"Oh, wow," says Tim.

“Is something happening here I should know about?” says Jon as primly as if he’d walked in on children drawing on the walls with Sharpies.

For absolutely no sane reason, Tim is struck with the giggles. “Could you two be more opposite?”

“We’re not opposite at all,” murmurs Elias. “Not at our core. In the end, we will both do whatever it takes… to see.”

Jon has gone still as a statue. He looks caught.

So that backfired. “Oh, good, the baiting started nice and early today,” says Tim. “Come on, Sims. I'll get you breakfast en route.”

“I—”

“Nope,” says Tim preemptively, and takes him by the arm. Then he hesitates. “You mind if I, ah. Touch you like this?”

Jon looks up. “Does it mean I’m going with you on whatever your next assignment is?”

Fuck, Tim thinks. “Yes.”

“Then you may do whatever you need,” says Jon in full Received Pronunciation, and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“Not until—ah! He’s here,” says Elias, and goes to get the door before the bell rings.

“Freaky, that guy,” murmurs Tim.

“Who’s here?” says Jon.

“I’ll handle this,” says Elias over his shoulder. “Let yourselves out through the kitchen.”

Don't be seen, is what that means. “Servants’ entrance, it is,” Tim drawls, and steers Jon out that door.

#

Elias must have an app or something, because the car he called is already here. Tim slips into the back with Jon. As he guessed, the driver knows where they’re going.

The driver is… large? Very large. Uncomfortably large, slightly hunched to keep his head from hitting the ceiling, shoulders considerably wider than the seat. Something is really weird about this guy. Tim subtly makes sure the doors are not locked.

"Food in the bag there," says the driver, who has a thick accent, a thick voice, a meaty pronunciation. "Sandwich."

"Oh! Oh, thank you?" Jon stares at the driver. Obviously stares, which will not go well even if the guy is normal.

“So,” says Tim, pulling his attention away, and drops his voice. “Seems we’re gonna be doing a sting.”

“A… a sting?” whispers Jon.

“Yeah. Setting it up to take down some firebugs. That's who was at the door—a cop.”

Jon stares. “Since when are you working for the police?”

“I’m not?”

It’s the Desolation, Hastur says quietly.

Jon pales, going slightly green. “Oh,” he says.

Tim suspects Jon knows more about them than he does. He lacks the courage to follow that trail right now. “They… they want to talk to me,” says Tim. “They don’t know I've got… you know.” He points at himself, and Jon nods. “So, yeah, Elias seems to think we’re setting up a sting, or something. The idea is pulling that Hunt lady off our trail.”

“You don’t know many details for the bait being dangled,” Jon murmured.

“You don’t have to go with me,” says Tim. “You can get out. The guy can stop the car.”

“No.”

“Jon, this is a really bad idea.” He doesn’t want to be mean about it. “You’re just the type of person they’ll…”

“Want to hurt?” says Jon, who may be weirdly naive, but isn’t actually stupid. “I’ve no doubt.”

Tim sighs. “I don’t really like this, sempai.”

Jon looks so grim. “I'm not worried about me. The real harm they can do is lure you in, I reason. With your abilities, you could destroy the entire world.”

Tim dearly wishes Jon hadn’t said that.

He can feel it. The hunger for it. The anticipated joy of destroying everything that had ever hurt him, and he has to turn away and look out the window and remember why he wants to save the world and not damn it.

It takes a minute. It’s not lust. It’s not hunger. It’s a need so deep that it feels like an integral part of him. Tim wipes his eyes.

You’re all right, Hastur soothes. Breathe with me. In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four. In, two, three, four five…

“Fucking dom,” Tim whispers, managing a weak smile, and looks back at Jon.

Jon is watching him. Only watching him, and yet Tim can feel it. It’s the strangest thing. It is… not comfortable. In a flash of instinct, Tim knows something else is watching him through those brown eyes.

“Is that the Eye?” he blurts.

Yes, says Hastur.

“What?” says Jon, startling, fortunately falling out of it.

That felt awful. Tim sighs. "Bloody hell. We're a mess, you know?”

Jon nods. “I suppose.”

Tim settles back and pulls out his phone. “Oy, driver—any chance you got some kind of mobile plug situation?”

“Yeah,” says the guy in that big, meaty voice to go with his big, meaty self, and without looking, hands back two wires with different connectors.

“Baller,” says Tim, and offers one to Jon.

“Thanks,” says Jon, taking it, and then—still holding it as if he’d forgotten it existed—pulls statements from his bag to read.

Tim pops in his ear buds, cranks up some Clean Bandit, and tries to ignore that call to end the world.

#

Three hours in traffic aren’t too bad. They give Tim a chance to snooze while not inebriated, which is immediately more restful, and to calm himself down as much as he can.

He knows Jon is right. This could be a problem. A huge risk. It’s not dissimilar to waving a chunk of meat in front of the lioness he nearly let loose in fucking Chelsea. Tim sighs. What magic do you want to practice doing?

He can feel Hastur all but sit up with ears perked like a happy puppy. You’re willing?

Feel like it might be a good idea. Beside him, Jon still reads statements, hunched over, a gargoyle-monk-nerd combination (including brown skin, which Tim is certain has a lot to do with his targeting) that is either endearing or annoying, with no in-between.

Tim finds him endearing. Poor little guy.

Yes, yes, ignore him. Let’s focus on us.

“What?” says Jon.

“Nothing,” says Tim. “We’re planning. Go back to your scary bits.”

Jon gives him a scathing look Tim wishes he could bottle and goes back to the scary bits.

We will begin with something so very small. Your imagination is keen and clear; your power is wildly strong. Thus, we will start slowly, and I will help you.

You have the power to help me? I mean… you can interfere?

I don’t have your will or thoughts like I do your hand. Hastur is almost gentle saying that. But I can talk you through. Help keep you grounded. And I think, when we sync properly, I will be able to help throttle, as well.

Tim sighs, puffing out his cheeks. Swear to me on John’s grave this isn’t some scheme to take control.

There is a pause, and Tim realizes he’s caused hurt.

It is not a scheme to take control.

Hey. I’m sorry. Didn’t know that’d hurt you.

Another pause. It did not, Hastur lies like a chump.

Someday, he's going to have to get the details on this whole John and Arthur situation. Sure.

“About ‘ere,” says the driver, slowing down. “Sure about this place? Not a nice area.”

“Yeah,” says Tim. “Uh. This.” He holds out the letter, carefully folded to hide all but the address.

“Yeah, that’s it,” says the driver. “Dunno who sent you here, but they’re not your friend.” And he laughs, almost a wet sound, definitely a cruel one.

Who in fuck has Elias hired to do this? “So, uh,” says Tim. “Did he pay you, or…”

“I’m paid,” says the guy, and rolls down his window to spit out of it, and maybe so his left arm can finally move. “Be here when you get out. Don’t take too long. ‘S not fun defending the bloody car, innit?”

“Sure,” says Tim, and elbows Jon.

Jon, who was so absorbed in his statements that he didn’t even realize the car had stopped. Jon, who was so glued to the page that he blinks as if waking from a deep and druggy sleep. Jon, who… actually looks a hell of a lot better than he did three hours ago. There’s color in his cheeks; his eyes are less tired. “What?” he says.

“We’re here,” says Tim. “Just let me talk, okay? Please. And, uh… since the car’s staying, maybe leave all that inside? It’s flammable.”

Jon looks as though Tim suggested they hunt down any infant relatives he might have and feeding them to crocodiles. “Oh!” he says, and briefly clutches manila folders to his chest. “Oh. Yes, you’re right, of course. Very good suggestion.” He takes a moment to pack it all away.

Tim breathes slowly. “I can do this.”

Yes. You can do this.

Tim swallows around the lump in his throat. “I can do this. They won’t get me. Or you. Or anybody.”

Before you, I would have assumed no human could. But you… Tim, I believe you can.

Hastur might be lying. Tim is too upset to tell right now. “Thanks.”

“All right,” says Jon, who has tucked his bag against seat in front of him. “Let’s go.”

Tim takes another breath and opens the door. His heart is pounding.

“I’ll be here,” says the driver, sounding bored, his arm and shoulder fully out of the car.

That guy has got to be eight feel tall. And wide, Tim thinks.

Hastur chuckles softly. At least he might make a good shield, should we need to run.

"Rather not," Tim murmurs, and walks.

The building in front of them used to be office space. No one uses it now, nor most of this street; and for there to be such unused real estate is, Tim knows, definitely a sign of bad things.

I can do this, he tells himself, double-checking Jude Perry’s instructions as he heads around the side toward the alley-facing door. I can do this. Jon is on his heels, and breathing quickly (afraid), and Tim does not like how it makes him feel, how that appeals, how the same patient wickedness that wants to burn the world loves that fear. I can do this, he thinks, and does not believe, and opens the unlocked door. And there—

So it had to be a good dozen people once. Maybe. There are at least twelve heads, faces stretched in terror, lying at obscene angles all over the floor.

And it had to be a good dozen recent people, too, because the blood is still fresh, and the torn limbs are still oozing, and ruptured bowels are still leaking, and Tim gags even as the sound of messy, open-mouth chewing draws his eyes away from the discard pile and to the current smorgasbord.

Three mostly-whole dead people lie there, piled, their flesh sort of crushed together like fisted ground burger, their blood shockingly red, the odor of their offal thick and greasy and bad, and a man crouches over them like something out of a zombie game.

He wears ordinary clothes—a button-down white shirt, horrifically stained, and tan slacks, and polished brown Oxfords, and for no reason Tim spots the expensive FitBit, and the neat round glasses (wire-framed) which sit folded on the floor just out of the splatter zone, and the carefully combed blond hair, and the gore up to his elbows, and the man turns with fresh flesh dangling from his mouth and pupils that have completely overrun whatever color his irises used to be, and he smiles, and flesh falls with a splut from his mouth as he speaks with an American southern accent which makes it all seem more surreal.

“Well,” says the man, standing smoothly, nary a popping knee or hesitation to indicate any kind of stiffness or lack of ability to get them. “I do declare! I didn’t expect you to walk right into my lap.”

Jon gasps. “That’s him! The guy from the hospital!”

The man glances past Tim toward Jon. “Huh,” he says. “Tastier than you were, by golly… but I think I’ll let you marinate a bit more. Now, this, though.” He takes one step toward them, and viscera squishes under his shoe like jelly. “This is a fuckin’ proper feast.”

Run! Hastur bellows.

Tim does not need a second warning.

He does not question his reach for power.

Does not question his choice to grab Jon around the waist like a scared rabbit and bolt, and run, and tear down the alley.

His terror overwhelms any mad desire to stay and burn their enemy down because it didn't work for the others and definitely will not work for him.

Jon screams.

The guy is right behind them, and Tim thinks, briefly, I need to fly! which he does not know how to do, and in desperation and terror and fear, he leaps.

“Hey!” shouts the pupil-void man behind them, below them, and Tim already knows that he has no idea how to do this, and he is not flying, but he has leaped a tall building in a single bound and they are coming down hard a couple streets over, falling as the wind steals Jon’s screams, and he does the only thing he can think to do: he imagines-yearns-demands-commands a portal to the ocean, so they can land without breaking like dropped eggs.

Suddenly they are no longer in the city at all, and smack into the water hard enough to knock out his breath.

The cold salt is a shock, and he already knows Jon inhaled it, and Tim kicks as hard as he can, eyes burning, aiming toward the light because that’s the only way he knows which way is up.

They surface, gasping, coughing, choking, their clothing dragging them down, smacked in the face by careless waves.

There is no land in sight.

Tim is dizzy. Very dizzy. Badly dizzy. “Fuck!” he manages.

Steady! Steady! Whatever invectives or oaths Hastur might have to share, he’s holding them back for now. We work together. Another portal is too much. All we need is a boat. You can do a boat. Summon it, create it. Anything. Even a fucking log. You can do this, Tim! You can do this!

Jon chokes, goes under a grasping wave. Surfaces again, eyes red and streaming, coughing up water.

Tim tries to recall the yacht from the billionaire he slept with. A twinge in his head; no go.

Tim tries to imagine an ordinary sailboat, lovely and new. A twinge in his head; no go.

Fuck it. He imagines a raft from some kid’s book he read, logs strapped together with a truly useless sail. Of course, that works.

And it is any port in a gods-damned storm. Tim gets behind Jon by some miracle and swims backwards, pulling toward that raft, which he wills not to get away from them in spite of the waves that lift them and lift the raft and put it out of their view and dunk them under and—

Hastur’s hand grabs it.

Tim muscles Jon onto it enough for him to pull himself aboard, then manages to climb on after him, gasping. Shuddering. He can feel it coming: exhaustion. Unconsciousness. And yes… he’s probably going to lose another body-part.

He wants to cry. He doesn’t want to lose body-parts. He doesn’t want to be blind, or crippled. Or lost on a raft in rough seas who the fuck knows where.

I’ve got you, says Hastur, his left arm wrapped around Tim, secure and tight. I’ve got you. You saved us. Whatever comes of this, you saved us.

“What… what…” Jon is gasping, and throws up more water.

“Guy from…” Tim clings to consciousness. The sun is horrible. He hates the sun, he decides. “The hospital? The one you texted me about?”

“I forgot about him,” Jon manages, draped over his own waist. “I froze. I… thank you. I froze.” His voice breaks. “He would’ve gotten me, and I’d have stood there. You… you saved me. Again.”

You saved us all.

Tim turns so that awful horrible terrible sun (which he does not picture blowing up because who the fuck knows anymore) doesn’t destroy his remaining eye, and curls on his side. “I’m afraid.”

Jon doesn’t know the reason. He can’t. “We'll find land. We... where the blasted… where are we?”

I know, says Hastur, who does know, and even in this state, Tim can feel that he is not eager, that he is not demanding, that Hastur feels regret. I’ve got you. Whatever comes, I’ve got you.

Tim has to believe him. He can’t stay awake any longer.

I’ve got you, Hastur’s voice says, following him into the dark from which Tim can only hope and pray he returns. I’ve got you. I will never let you go.

[podcastsexyman-battleroyale]

Art Request

Hi folks! We’ve got a large number of participants for our little tourney! Since these are podcast people, most of them don’t have official/free to use art. So, especially since we have multiple characters from the same podcasts, I need your help!

Below is a list of characters. If their name is not crossed out, that means I need art! Please dm me your art (and how you would like to be properly credited if it differs from your blog handle). Do not send art that isn’t yours unless you have explicit permission from the artist.

Characters are ordered by show (shows listed alphabetically) and not by bracket listing. Brackets will be revealed after preliminary rounds.

Alice (Alice isn’t Dead)

Rat/Jacob (Archive 81)

Aava Arek (Campaign Podcast)

Amos Faraday (In Transit)

Kayne (Malevolent)

Kellin

Hastur/The King in Yellow

Collins/The Butcher

Wallace “Andrew” Larson

Isaac Prince (Mayfair Watcher’s Society)

Queen of the Summer Sun (Mistholme Museum of Mystery Morbidity and Mortality)

Bryony Halbech (Red Valley)

Barret Racket (Rusty Quill Gaming)

John Hunger (TAZ)

Kravitz

Roger Kaplan (The Bridge)

Mark Bryant (The Bright Sessions)

Nyathi (The Secret of St Kilda)

Sid Wright (The Silt Verses)

Katabasian/mason

Elias Bouchard (TMA)

Oliver Banks

Gerard “Gerry” Keay

Michael Shelley/The Distortion

Tim Stoker

Mike Crew

Mikaele Salesa

Jordan Kennedy

Peter Lukas

Sasha Wire (TPP)

Ty (Woe.Begone)

Marcus Cutter (Wolf 359)

Eric Chapman (Wooden Overcoats)

Kevin (WTNV)

Earl Harlan

Kasper Rodes

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, chapter sixteen - a TMA x Malevolent crossover

A power outage.

An enemy invasion.

An unexpected outcome to a violent evening.

Chapter sixteen of Corrupted, a TMA x Malevolent crossover.

AO3

-------

The wind is absolutely wild out there. Even in the Archives, Tim can hear it: howling. Creaking. Ridiculous and impossible in a city built the way this one is, but all that unseasonable cold had to go somewhere, and physics are what they are.

The power lines keep going down. That means the power is out, and Tim lies in the dark on his squeaky cot.

Quietly, he has to wonder if this is going to be his fate—both eyes dark someday, as he loses more body parts.

So much has happened. “You know,” he says. “I think I’ve adjusted pretty well, given all that’s gone down.”

You have, Tim, says Hastur.

“Not sure I’m taking your word on that one,” says Tim. “Given you’ve never been in this situation.”

I have someone to directly compare you to.

“That Arthur guy.”

Yes.

“So what’d he do?”

Lose his shit, fight, tantrum, fuss, run, and cause innumerable problems for everyone he met.

“Aww, tell me how you really feel,” Tim mutters.

The lights flicker on, making Tim’s eyes water, then flicker off again. He sighs.

I’m serious.

“Well, from what Jon said, this was back in the thirties, right? So he didn’t have therapy and a copious amount of fantasy novels and films to prepare him for it.”

Hastur’s hesitation is an odd one this time. It feels weighted; not guilty, exactly, but reluctant.

Tim frowns. “Out with it.”

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

“Right. There’s something you’re not telling me.” And he guesses: “Something you think I’m not going to like very much.”

Instead of answering, Hastur changes subjects.  You know, I can see, Tim, he says out of nowhere. We don’t have to stay down here, if you don’t want.

“That doesn’t make a lot of—ow.” Lights on; lights off. “How can you? You’re using my rods and cones and whatever.”

I don’t know. It’s curious, isn’t it? I suspect, should you wish to see, you could—but with your track record, you’d make your eyes unable to process light at all, or something, so I’d suggest you just let me navigate.

Tim sighs. “Yeah, that tracks. I feel positively betrayed, you know?”

Betrayed?

“I have magic powers, and I can’t use them, because I keep fucking up,” he says.

Hastur starts to speak.

Tim interrupts. “No, I’m not going to your cultists.”

There’s a pause. Fine.

That’s an awkward disagreement which isn’t getting solved today. “Yeah, let’s go upstairs,” he says. “It’s boring down here.”

You aren’t a man who likes to be idle.

“Called me a shark for it before,” Tim reminds him brightly, and rises.

The cot squeaks.

I find you less a shark these days, says Hastur, as though there are numerous days to consider. I like you more than I like sharks.

“Sharks are cool!” says Tim, inching toward the door, arms out. “All sleek and deadly and ancient.”

Sleek, certainly. Deadly? Somewhat. But you’re not ancient, no matter how old you think thirty is.

“I am well into old wise man of the village, I’ll have you know,” Tim says, finding the doorframe. “Okay. Direct me.”

The Archives are black as pitch, but it seems Hastur is not lying about being able to see. That woman’s idea of organization is madness. Directly ahead of you are two stacks of boxes, three deep, acting like a corridor. Once you’re at the end, two boxes sit directly in the center of the opening.

“I remember that. Have to skinch around that guy,” says Tim and goe to do so. “Hey. Maybe we should make this a game.”

A game?

“Sure. A trust fall, like.”

And what would the stakes be? Hastur rumbles.

Tim reaches the box pile blocking his way and inches right. “I dunno. Sure seems like we’re competing over body parts now, doesn’t it?”

Hastur is silent for a long moment.

Tim kicks the box again. “Oi. Where?”

Once you navigate around this box, take two steps left. Directly ahead of you and six inches to the right will be a stack of paper as tall as your waist, for some reason.

Tim is dearly tempted to hip-check it. “She’s got to be doing this on purpose.”

I’d say so. It’s narrow, so go slowly. You’re free to move forward if you stay straight.

“My friend,” says Tim. “I have never stayed straight in my entire life, and don’t intend to start now.”

Hastur’s laugh is low and dark. Ah, I do like you.

There is less regret in it now. Tim’s not sure what that means. “What’s that mean for me practically?”

I no longer wish to possess your body. I want my own.

Huh. “The one Bouchard’s offering?” says Tim. “The completely theoretical body that requires the help of the guys who want to eat you?”

Yes.

“The fuck why? Not that I want you to want my body, just… you know, I’d like this to make a little sense?”

I never said I didn’t want your body, Tim.

Well, that was a thing to say. Especially the way he said it; low, resonant, taking his time with every syllable, as though imagining his incorporeal mouth doing something else.

Tim stops walking for a moment, then resumes. “Can’t shake me by being sexy. Answer the question.”

Hastur sighs. I’m on a time limit now. I understand this; I’ve come to terms with it.

And just like that, they are on serious topics. “Devil Pants,” says Tim, moving on.

Yes.  I can’t stop him. There’s no one left in this universe who could even be a balancing factor. I’m going to die.

That doesn’t feel good to hear. His heart aches, a little. “Hastur…”

And if I’m going to die, I want to feel fully myself first, Hastur says. I want my godhood back. It’s been fun, playing human; fun, wearing costumes, exploring your amazing world, experiencing all the things you mortal people do. But now that it’s going to be over… I want to die as myself.

Fun. Driving monks mad and who knew what else. What a mess. “All right,” says Tim, logging it away and picking his battles. “So the god-body, then. I get it. I just wish you weren’t giving up so quickly.” His foot hit a box.

Left, then correct right again and continue. There’s no one who can help me, Tim. Hastur’s voice is low.

“Maybe we could pull a bait-and-switch?” says Tim.

Boxes. Left two steps, then forward again. A bait-and-switch?

Tim complies. “You know. Get those fear-thingummies to go after him instead of you.”

It wouldn’t work. Deities my level and lower are fair game to the Fears, but him? Not him.

“Whoa. Really? Devil Pants is that big a deal?”

I am a Great Old One, far from minor. I can—could—create and destroy worlds at whim. But he is an Outer God. His power, compared to mine, is greater than even mine would be compared to an average human’s. He could end your universe, Tim.

“Shit.” Tim shuffles forward. “I’m having trouble picturing this.”

Of course you are. It’s like trying to actually imagine a billion of something. Human minds can’t really do it.

Tim chooses not to be insulted. “Well… is there an an Outer God we can go to for help, then?”

None of them are here now. They left when all the other gods did. Besides, it would do no good even if there were.

“Why?”

Would you care if a single-celled organism called for your aid? Or even hear it?

“If it got my attention, sure,” says Tim. “Seeing as they aren’t sapient, far as I know. Besides, Devil Pants sure seems invested.”

He likes chaos. He likes pain. He’s a sadist. Humans die very prettily.

“Fuck that guy,” says Tim.

Tim. Please show some wisdom.

“He’s already going to hit me with a truck or set me on fire and drop me in an orphanage.”

I promise you, he could do worse.

Tim sighs. “Fair. But why did the Outer Gods leave if they weren’t in danger? Oh, oops.” A stack of paper goes down, sliding all over the floor, judging by the sound. “Sorry, Lara,” Tim stage-whispers.

Lara?

“Elderly Lara Croft.”

Hastur laughs.

Tim finds the stairs. It’s a relief; there’s a weird claustrophobia that comes with this darkness. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a genius. So why no Outer Gods left?”

They left when the rest did. They had various reasons.

“You’re really sure there’s no one here but you.”

If anyone else is, they’ve hidden so well that I haven’t seen them in thousands of years.

“You mean like how you hid?”

Hastur hesitates. And if they were here, they’d have no reason to help me. I have nothing to offer them.

“Maybe I do. Baby Merlin, remember?” He starts on the stairs.

Tim… why would you leverage that? Why would you leverage yourself?

Tim sighs. “You’re an asshole, but you don’t deserve to be eaten, all right?”

Many would argue that I do, says Hastur, low and warm.

“Well, maybe I think nobody does. Anyway, done with basement time! I’m ready to trade in the mole-man existence.”

Hastur chuckles. Tim. We’ve only been down here for two whole hours.

“Unacceptable,” says Tim. “I’m not made of money, you know, and time is  money, so. Transitive properties, or whatever.”

Hastur chuckles again as Tim makes it to the ground floor.

#

It is creepy in the library.

Ambient light through the opaque Victorian windows casts it all in gray and black shadow, and Tim tells himself to stop being spooked.  It’s just shadows. It’s nothing. It is not moving the way he thinks it is.

Regardless, staying still feels unsafe, so he carefully paces. “Do you see anyone?” he says, sotto voce.

No, though Bouchard’s door is open. I feel him in there.

“What, sitting in the dark?”

Probably seeing through the eyes of the whole city, taking in their consternation for his god.

Tim pauses. “You know, my life has gotten really weird?”

We could go talk to him.

Tim snorts. “I’m bored, but I don’t know if I’m that bored.”

I could tell you a story.

That sounds interesting. “A story from the ancient Great Old Whatever! I’m honored. Sure.” His steps seem loud, and Tim tries to quiet them.

Many, many years ago, I saw a portal created by cultists.

“Your cultists?” Tim finds a bookshelf with his hands and slides along it.

Oh, no. Not mine at all. These served one so far above that I don’t think she even knew what they were doing: Shub-Niggurath, Mother Goddess, Lord of the Woods.

“Mother, huh?” asks Tim softly. “Don’t suppose she’s here.”

No, as I said. She was too great to eat, but her children… her uncountable children were in danger. She left and took them so they wouldn’t be eaten.

“Huh. That sounds… responsible?”

Her children are regularly at fault for the destruction of entire worlds and the madness of all who survive.

“Oh. So kinda gray area, then, I get it,” says Tim. “Good mom. Bad citizen.”

Hastur chortles. I really do like you, Tim.

That feels so weird, the way he says that. “Okay. Um. Meaning?”

Meaning, says Hastur, I will try to preserve you.

That feels like the most honest thing he’s said. Tim swallows. “Glad for that. I guess.”

You should be, purrs Hastur, as though conferring a great honor, and continues.

Back to safer topics. “So you saw a door meant for someone else and decided to just slip through. Is it all right if I say I have a bad feeling about this?” says Tim.

Yes, says Hastur. Perhaps if I’d had you, I wouldn’t have made the mistake I did.

Tim had been joking. “Oh, no.”

Oh, yes. I tried to take the portal.

“And?” says Tim, feeling along the bookshelf, stopping beneath a window.

And the humans who’d opened it were in the middle of a fight with other humans, trying to close it. The latter succeeded… and I, the Great Old One was cut in half.

Tim whistles, low. “Where was the portal going?”

To Earth. My Earth, in my universe.

That sounds… bad. “Why would… okay, let’s come back to that. What happened when you were chopped?”

My other half was still sentient, of course.

Oh. “Is that where John came from?”

That’s where John came from.

“Literally part of you? Fuck!” Tim says. “So the Arthur situation. How did—” The front door creaks open, a flashlight shines through, and he stops talking.

A man enters, muttering. It’s Jon and someone else.

Tim frowns. “The hell is he doing out of hos—”

Hastur’s hand reaches, fast, across his waist as if to stop him.

Tim goes still.

“I really don’t think we can do anything for you until the power comes back on, though you’re welcome to sit in our reception area until things calm down out there,” says Jon.

“Thank you, young man,” says an older voice—a strong voice, but strange. It resonates, Tim thinks, like a voice in a steel drum, unnatural, hollow, somehow metallic. “I can normally navigate just fine in this city, but without things like crosswalk alarms, it becomes truly hazardous.”

“I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine.”

“Kindnesses like yours make all the difference, Mister Sims,” says the old man.

Hastur’s silence says much. Tim’s instinct says more: something is very wrong with whoever this is.

The shadows are moving now, for certain; Tim isn’t nuts. They’ve begun to shift, to undulate, seemingly too thick in the limited light from the windows and Jon’s torch.

Hastur is still silent.

You think this guy can hear you? Tim thinks at him.

Hastur squeezes.

Tim steps back between shelves, out of the way of Jon’s questing beam.

Jon passes them without a glance. “I’m afraid I can only offer you water to drink at the moment.”

“Anything is appreciated, Mister Sims,” says the old man, and he turns to look directly at Tim.

The old man is tall, thin, with sparse white hair and a scraggly beard. The thing that matters, though, is his eyes. They are solid white. Absolutely solid, without pupil or iris.

The old man smiles at them, full teeth bared.

Tim stares. That’s not normal, he thinks inanely, and takes another step back.

The shadows actively avoid Jon’s beam, and Jon clearly can’t see them; they curl around his feet, playful and predatory, as though ready to take him down on command. “Here we go. This lobby furniture is at least comfortable.”

The old man carries a cane—white-tipped, the kind a blind man would carry. He’s not holding it that way, though. He’s got one hand on the tip, and one around its shaft, a strangely ready pose. “Many thanks. I don’t suppose we’re near your boss’s office.”

Jon stops walking. The billowing darkness at his feet is hungry, edges licking his clothes. “My boss?” he says.

“Elias Bouchard,” says the old man, and chuckles. “At the moment, anyway.”

Jon has gone as still as a deer in the eyes of a hunter. “You… know him?”

“Indeed, I do,” says the old man, low, as Elias materializes out of nowhere to stand behind Jon.

Though it makes no sense, Tim can clearly see Elias’s eyes, though the rest of him is hidden in silhouetted gloom. “It’s all right, Jon. I’ll take it from here.”

“There you are,” says the old man, low.

“Maxwell,” says Elias Bouchard as if he tastes something bad. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“So you do know each other?” says Jon, his voice unsteady.

“We do,” says the old man. “I need to thank you properly for bringing me in. Couldn’t have gotten near him otherwise.” And then there is a sound.

Tim knows what it is from movies, from games; from countless hours watching television, and he is completely sure what just occurred: the old man’s cane was hiding a knife, and it’s been unsheathed.

The old man grabs too fast for Tim to see. The torch drops to the floor and rolls, splashing their struggling feet with alternating light and darkness.

Tim starts to move. Hastur grips him, tight and warning.

Jon makes a choked sound.

“Now, now,” says the old man, gripping Jon against him tightly. “Don’t struggle. I wouldn’t want my hand to slip.”

Tim clenches his jaw, bends down, and quietly removes his shoes.

No, whispers Hastur, but Tim ignores him.

Elias sighs. “Is this really necessary?”

“Well, you wouldn’t answer my letters,” says the old man.

“Naturally not,” says Elias. “You are going to fail.”

“We will not,” says the old man. “Everything is ready. Mister Pitch is coming. I’m here to give you one final chance. Join me. Leave this nonsense behind.”

Jon lets out a tiny cry, and Tim, creeping closer, has to focus not to breathe like an angry bull.

“Must you molest my librarian?” says Elias. “You’re not making a very good case for your promises of clemency.”

The old man laughs softly. ��Librarian? As if that’s what he is. Did you forget I’ve listened to your theories for years? Maybe you think me truly blind?”

Tim won’t just lunge. The lunatic old man has that thin blade to Jon’s throat, and even in this bad light, Tim can see the front of Jon’s shirt is stained dark with his own blood.

What the fuck is wrong with everybody? Why do they keep hurting this guy? Jon didn’t do anything but show kindness to a blind old man!

It’s anger that moves, anger that surges, that translates Tim’s will, and he has no chance to overthink it, to plan, to try to avoid any damage.

Maybe that’s why it works.

The handle of the old man’s cane is suddenly red hot, instant, like a switch flipped on. The old man shouts and flings it, shocked.

Disturbingly fast, Elias grabs Jon and yanks him away.

The old man reaches for them, snarling, shadows moving with his hand as if on a leash.

Tim tackles the old man, counting on inertia and weight and youth—

And finds him solid, shockingly strong, with a grip like ice and an expert twist as though he’s been cage-fighting for years, and for a horrible moment, they grapple. Shadows snake around Tim’s legs with painful tightness, locking his feet in place.

Lights! Tim thinks, and as if he summoned them (which he swears he did not), they suddenly come back on.

The shadows vanish. The strength and solidity of this old man do, too, and abruptly, Tim is bearing a frail old man to the ground with a crunch so unpleasant that he thinks he might have broken all the psycho’s bones.

#

It somehow figures that Daisy Tonner is the cop who shows up.

The ambulance is already there. The old man, whose arm is broken, doesn’t seem upset by any of this. He keeps smiling, face turned unerringly toward Tim wherever he stands, because apparently, it’s What the Hell, Let’s Scare Tim Day.

Finally, they cart Maxwell Rayner off. Jon sits where they put him, looking dazed, the white bandage around his neck redder than Tim likes.

“Why are you here?” Tim asks him quietly.

“I didn’t want to miss anything,” Jon whispers back. “Also, some weird guy came around asking about you, and I didn’t want to risk being overheard if I just called to warn you.”

“What weird guy? And why didn’t you text?” says Tim.

Jon has visibly forgotten text was a thing. He goes red.

“And then Mister Stoker managed to tackle him,” Elias explains, the perfect witness to such random tragedy. “I wish I could tell you more; we simply don’t know what drove this elderly man to come in off the street and accost us.”

“Uh, huh,” says Tonner, not taking notes, watching Elias, unblinking, like a wolf watches a rabbit.

Elias smiles like no rabbit has ever smiled in the history of the world.

Tonner turns on Jon. “Mister Sims, I need more than what you’ve given me. We’re still missing things. Like how the hell his hand is burned in the pattern of that knife handle.”

Jon isn’t a good liar. Fortunately, this isn’t a lie. “I’m sorry,” says Jon. “I don’t know what to tell you. This man came up, and said he needed help, and then when I turned around, he… did this.”

“He’s blind,” Tonner says.

Jon just looks at her, and his tone goes sharp. “And that means he can’t hold a knife? Do your job, detective, and figure it out. I’ve told you the truth, and badgering me won’t produce a different answer.”

Tim flinches. That would go over great.

What a genius, Hastur drawls.

Tonner takes a step toward Jon.

Jon flinches back as if she’d bared her teeth.

Elias steps in, hand on his shoulder. “Easy, Jon. I know you’re stressed. Detective, we’ve all had a terrible day, and may I remind you that we are the victims here? Are we nearly finished?”

Jon looks down, hunched.

Tonner turns toward Tim.

Tim, who has some of Jon’s blood on his hands. Tim, who’s bruised from tackling that startlingly strong man. Tim, who really wanted to never see this woman again in his life.

Tim gives her a thousand-watt smile. “Hello again.”

“Funny, finding you in the middle of this,” says Tonner. “And I suppose you have a perfectly reasonable excuse for being here?”

“Sure do,” says Tim. “I work here.”

She looks deeply startled, and turns to Elias as if offended. “What?”

“He’s my newest employee, detective,” says Elias. “Why?”

“I suppose you’ve got paperwork to back that up?” Tonner challenges.

“Certainly, though I hardly see why it’s relevant to your investigation,” says Elias. “I have nothing to hide. If you want to see it now, I can show you.”

“Show me now,” says Tonner, as though she thinks he’s going to forge it the moment he’s out of sight.

“Well, I’m sure a little harassment is all in a day’s work for you,” Elis says mildly. “This way, please.” He heads for his office.

“Watch it, Bouchard,” Tonner says, on his heels.

Tonner’s partner sighs. She studies Tim, thoughtful, arms crossed. “Anything else you want to say on record?”

What was her name? Hussain? “No, officer. We just got really lucky tonight. No one’s hurt too badly, and I’ll take that as an outcome.”

“Mm,” says Hussain, noncommittal.

“How’s your night going?” says Tim, trying the charm.

“Weird,” says Hussain. “Seems when the lights go out, the crazy fills its place.”

“Right?” says Tim. “Can’t thank you enough for all you do, protecting us ordinary citizens.” He is deadpan.

She eyes him.

His serious expression does not crack.

Hussain gives up. “Mister Sims, we’ll be calling on you later as a witness.”

Jon is touching his white bandage so gingerly, almost as if to convince himself it’s really there. “Of course, officer. Whatever you need.”

Hussain nods and goes to talk to the EMTs.

Jon sighs. “I’m sorry about all this.”

“Not your fault,” Tim murmurs back. “Some lunatic on the street comes in and attacks everybody, it’s hardly your fault.”

“He didn’t attack everybody, though, did he? Just me.” Jon sounds bitter.

Tim’s not sure he can blame him. “Want to stay here tonight?”

“What? In the library?” Jon says as though scandalized.

“Down in the Archives. You’re shaken up, and I think it might do you good to have someone look after you.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need looking after,” Jon says loftily.

“If this were reversed, and you saw me shaky and bleeding from the godsdamned throat, would you say, ‘Hey, good luck!’ and just walk off?” Tim challenges, pushing, urging Jon to accept.

Jon looks uncomfortable. “If you’re sure I won’t be a bother.”

He will.

Tim ignores that. “You won’t.”

“Thank you.” Jon is sincere. His dark eyes are just a touch shiny.

Such an awkward little dude. Tim feels justified in his unspoken adoption.

Tonner suddenly storms past, then spins on her heel, and fixes Tim with a sharp glare. Were her eyes always fucking yellow? “We’re not done, Stoker.”

“Sure?” he says, resisting the urge to get sarcastic.

Tonner stomps off.

Hussain sighs and follows.

The EMTs, having finished, give Jon some final instructions and paperwork, and leave.

Jon stares at nothing, looking gray.

“So,” says Tim to Elias. “Don’t suppose you can explain what just happened?”

“I can,” says Elias. “But not right now. Instead, I’m going to invite you both to my house.”

What?

“Huh?” says Tim.

Jon just blinks owlishly.

“I have plenty of room,” says Elias. “You both require a safe space to unwind tonight, and some food you don’t have to cook. And my home, unlike both of your apartments, is protected.”

“What, like the Institute is protected?” Tim snaps.

“When someone touched by the Eye doesn’t hand-deliver enemies over the doorstep, yes,” says Elias.

Jon hunches again.

Tim’s eyes narrow. “Don’t you fucking dare make him feel bad for this.”

“I won’t,” says Elias with a straight face and wide eyes. “Anyone could have fallen for this.”

“Yeah, I’m thinking no,” says Tim, but Jon interrupts him.

“Will you give us answers if we come?” says Jon.

“Oh, come on, Jon,” Tim murmurs.

“Yes,” says Elias. “You have my word. I will answer questions and explain what just happened.”

Jon looks at Tim, pleading.

The downside of adoption: that look is hard to ignore. He sighs. “You know what? We might as well. This is already all weird and fucked up. Might as well throw an awkward family dinner into the mix.”

Hastur chuckles. Awkward family dinner. Very good.

“I’ll bring the car around. Let’s not linger,” says Elias, and heads for the door.

“You sure about this?” says Tim.

Jon’s look is now hungry, sharp. Unwavering. “Tim, I need to know what’s going on. I need to know if what I saw was real. I need to know what just happened, and who that was.”

“All right, all right, I already agreed,” says Tim.

Foolish, murmurs Hastur. But perhaps expected. He’s driven by his accidental god.

“What’s he saying?” says Jon.

“You really can tell when he’s talking to me, huh?” says Tim.

“Yes,” says Jon. “You change, somehow. It’s hard to explain.”

That is unnerving. Tim swallows.

A polite honk echoes through the front doors.

“Our ride is here,” says Tim dramatically, and helps Jon stand. “Come on. Let’s do this. You got keys?”

“It’s how I let the enemy in,” Jon mutters.

“Not your fault. I’d have helped him, too.”

No, you wouldn’t. You saw the shadows.

Then why didn’t he? Tim thinks at him.

I don’t think he could. This is something the Eye can’t handle well.

A ‘balancing influence,’ Elias had said before, as though some of these things counteracted one another. Why could I see it?

Because of what you are.

Baby Merlin, Tim thinks, keeping an eye out while Jon locks up.

Elias’ car is, of course, ridiculous. Some fancy Mercedes, fortunately a sedan. He smiles behind the wheel.

“Front or back?” says Tim.

“Back,” says Jon at once. “I don’t want to talk.”

“Fair enough.”

As they pull away, Tim pretends not to see the angry shadows lasing around the steps of the Institute, as though angry they can’t wreak vengeance inside.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, chapter fourteen: Morphine - a TMA x Malevolent crossover

An injury. A plea. An offer of employment.

Things have gone right off the rails, and Tim needs to make a choice: specifically, what it looks like, right now, to be a good man.

AO3

------

Tim doesn’t have a lot of sex dreams.  He did when he was thirteen, certainly, but after that annoying hormonal phase, sex just isn’t where his sleeping mind goes. 

He knows that would be surprising.

When Tim dreams, it’s time spent with Danny, or his mom’s last birthday party, or some puzzle at work, or something completely trippy like a Tube ride that doesn’t end. 

Well, that’s not happening today.

Some part of him is aware this vision isn’t happening now. That his body is walking someplace, and speaking some words, and what he sees and feels in this moment isn’t real. Except it is real. And it’s not really about sex, is it? 

It’s possession, it’s holding another being so close and so intimately but not with human arms , and somehow it is natural to be moving with dozens of limbs, to be touching and exploring and entering and—

Tim wakes with a start and finds himself in a hospital.

It is jarring . He’s in his own body, just four limbs, significantly smaller than he just felt like he was; he’s sitting in a waiting room, inundated with the astringent smells of a medical institution, with the quiet sounds of a few people watching videos on their phones, with uncomfortable plastic chairs and muffled coughs.

He stares around. He looks to his right.

Elias Bouchard looks back at him, peering, unreadable (and yet somehow so damn smug ). “Well. Welcome back, Tim,” he says softly. 

So he and Hastur will be talking about the dreams later, but this is happening right now, and he focuses. “Uh. Hi. What?”

“All is well. Jon is cared for; the damage was superficial.”

“Damage? What damage?” He doesn’t remember what happened. Not after… 

“You know, there are quite a few cultures in which saving another’s life places them firmly in your debt,” Elias says conversationally.

“Uh,” says Tim, and realizes he can’t feel his left hand.

He looks at it. Tries to flex it; it does not move.  Okay. Okay. So that was the price for saving Jon’s life.

Worth it. This is who Tim wants to be. Someone who saves people, who chooses to do the hard thing and help people. It was worth it , he tells himself, absolutely worth it, and he will tell himself that until it’s true. He blinks a few times, trying to hide moisture. “Don’t suppose I could ask for a recap of recent events?” he says, his voice rough. 

“Well, if I understand correctly,” said Elias lightly, “you successfully navigated the wildness of the Vast, took proper advantage of Simon’s favor—which I had intended you to do, so I am glad—and survived the extraction. Then, you were attacked by the Stranger. Or, to be more precise, Jon was.”

He sounds so gleeful, doesn’t he?

Oh, there you are, Tim thinks, and wishes dearly Hastur could hear him.

“And then,” says Elias, “you saved him.”

“I remember doing that,” Tim says slowly. “But after that…” 

“Well,” says Elias. “It seems you passed out. Not to worry! Your passenger took care of the rest.”

Better not have hurt him, Tim thinks. “What happened?”

“We are in the Chelsea-Westminster hospital,” says Elias. “You helped Jon up, got him home via train, and then got him to the hospital, where I came to meet you.”

“What happened to Jon? How bad it is?”

Not that bad.

“Well, to put it frankly, a bit of… skinning occurred on his legs, from the knees down,” says Elias. “But only a bit.”

Tim stares. Hastur made Jon take a train after he’d been skinned? “Why did to do that? Why didn’t he go to a local hospital?”

“Because—correctly—he realized that to do so would keep Jon in danger. The Stranger, it seems, has deeply infiltrated Penzance, and Jon would be vulnerable. It was not safe to bring him to a medical establishment there.”

“So… Hastur did the right thing?”

“He did, in my opinion,” says Elias. “I am quite fascinated by all of these developments.”

The Stranger pretends, says Hastur pleasantly. It is the fear of the not right, that something is off. Its acolytes often steal the skins of others and murder them to return wearing their form.

Dear gods. Tim has never heard of anything so awful. “How bad is Jon?” he says, because that is the important thing. “Does he need skin grafts, or something?”

“No, just some care,” says Elias dismissively. “He’s more fussy than anything else.”

Tim didn’t like this man. “Well, when can I see him?”

“Probably soon?” Elias’ gaze lost focus for a moment, and it was the freakiest thing in the world. Tim knew Elias was seeing something else. Somewhere else. Something not at all in this room. “Mmm. They’re finishing bandaging him now. I’d say probably within a few minutes, if you are wise about asking.”

Tim sighs. “What did Hastur say? What did he do?”

“Oh, he was quite delightful,” says Elias, absolutely bright as the sun. “The things he’s seen! Ah… conversation with this being is something I don’t believe I can put into words. I could do it forever.”

And deep inside of Tim, Hastur rumbles, a sort of weird non-feline purr.

Oh, for the love of fuck, Tim thinks at him. You want to go into Elias’ body? Would that make you happy?

I cannot, says Hastur. It would be profoundly unsafe to try, and not only because that is hardly his body to begin with.

Woo, there’s a can of worms. A big one.

A can of worms for later. “I want to see Jon.” Tim stands.

“Of course.” Elias says in some kind of new-knowledge-post-orgasmic-chill, and can’t be bothered to do more than smile.

Tim heads for the counter. So you can hear me now?

Yes. It seems you’ve activated some kind of spell. Very convenient, Tim. Very impressive.

And Tim could almost feel the not like Arthur sentiment.

Great. Fucking great. “Hello,” he says to the nurse, leaning into his smile, his charm, his influence . “I’m a friend of Jonathan Sims. I would really love it if you let me see him.”

#

Jon is out of it.

“Jon,” says Tim softly.

Jon beams at him. “Tim! Hastur! Hi! Hi both!” He lay in bed, his trouser-legs cut away, his legs heavily bandaged. He looks like someone stopped partway into making him a mummy.

The nurse looks amused. “He did say this was fine, but…”

“No, no, it’s good ,” Jon says. “Do I need to sign some more things? I can sign so many things . You wouldn’t believe how many.”

“I’m sure,” says the nurse. “Fifteen minutes max, all right?”

“Yes, sir,” says Tim with a salute. “I really appreciate this.”

The nurse smiles (just a touch flirtatiously) and leaves, having been swayed for reasons he does not even know to allow Tim back here, even though Tim has no business doing so legally.

This magic thing isn’t too bad. It really isn’t. “Hey, kiddo.”

“Hi!” says Jon again, and points to his IV. “Did you know that morphine was developed from opium in 1810?”

“They’ve got you on morphine?” says Tim, horrified, revamping his idea of how badly injured Jon must be.

“Friedrich Wilhelm Adam Sertürner isolated the alkaloid, and called it ‘morphium,’” says Jon happily, doing his best with the German name. “He named it after the god of sleep, Morpheus! Isn’t that something?”

“Sure, it—”

“Oh!” says John. “And he kept experimenting on animals, and then himself, and in 1917, he published, ‘Ueber das Morphium als Hauptbestandteil des Opiums,’ which means, ‘On morphine as the main component of opium,’ and that’s when it really got interest in the medical community.”

“Fascinating,” says Tim, and pats his arm. “So you’re feeling pretty good right now, eh?”

“Oh, it hurts,” says Jon brightly. “But it’s just scars . It won’t matter. Do you know what I learned? Do you have any idea?” He tries to sit up and lean closer and succeeds at neither. “Those things . I got to see those things. ”

“The… the fear-gods?” says Tim, slightly lost.

“Something,” says Jon, his eyes enormous. 

“Well, they won’t get you here,” says Tim. “I’m pretty sure. Lie back, all right?"

“Oh, some of them are here.” Jon looks very serious; his eyes seem to take up his entire face. “But they aren’t interested in me.”

Tim goes still. “Who?”

“Some of the mortuary workers,” says Jon, and smiles. “I think I’m going back to sleep.”

“All right.” Tim is grim.

“Hey,” Jon mumbles. “Hey.”

“Yes?”

“Take me with you on your next trip. Or… or come with me on mine.”

“Why would… we’re not going to have another trip,” says Tim. “Are we?”

“I think so,” says Jon. “Elias seemed to think we would.”

“Well. I’m going to find out about that,” says Tim. “Rest up. I won’t take you anywhere until you’re well.”

Jon looks like he’s going to cry. “No, I don’t want to wait that long. Please don’t leave me behind. I need to see , Tim!”

Oh, yes, says Hastur, low and eager. I like this one pleading. At last, I see the appeal.

Okay, done with this . “Take care. I’ll check in soon.” Tim leaves. What the hell is wrong with you, Hastur?

Nothing. I am feeling quite well.

Tim sighs through his nose, frustration rising. He heads back to the waiting area with full intent to talk to Elias and find out what the hell is going on.

Elias is waiting for him, standing, with a tight smile. “Shall we?” he says.

“Shall we what?” says Tim, sharply.

“Have a little talk?” Elias gestures for the door.

Oh, good. So Elias had spied in their conversation. “Lead the way,” says Tim, feeling warm with anger, skin buzzing with a simmering, quiet rage, and absolutely disturbed by the fact that he cannot feel that heat in his left hand.

#

The hospital is only a few blocks from the Institute, so they walk.

Elias is in a fabulous mood. He walks calmly with long strides, head high, and as long as Tim doesn’t speak, he hums.

Tim wrestles with anger. There are good ways to do this. Smart ways. Just strangling the guy won’t accomplish any of them. He takes a deep breath. “So did this work? Are the cops off my tail?”

“A good portion of them, yes,” says Elias. “Not all. There is a reason I picked six places, you know—but I think we may not need all six, after all.”

“All right,” says Tim. “What the hell are you doing with Jon?”

Elias looks at him sidelong. “An interesting question. Why do you ask?”

Because Tim knew . Knew, though he couldn’t say how or why, but he’d never had reason to doubt his instinct. “Because you’re using me to do something to him.”

Oh, Tim… Tim’s left hand rose and gently lay on his stomach, as if pleased. (As if substituting for a tentacle, the sensation of which Tim remembers all too well from that dream, or memory, or whatever it was, but will not address now.)

“Really?” says Elias. “Interesting.” He peers again. “Hastur told me you had… some curious abilities.”

The hell did you say to him? Tim thinks, frustrated.

Only that you are to be respected.

“I am given to understand that it is dangerous to cross you,” says Elias, low and pleased. “Though I confess that merely leaves me wanting to see just what you’d do.”

“Burn you, probably,” says Tim, but does not mean it.

“No, I don’t think so,” says Elias, who really misses nothing.

Tim frowns. “So I noticed you didn’t answer me? And while it’s a great little distraction, I’d really like to know what you’re doing to Jon, or… I don’t know what I’ll do, but it won’t be good.”

Lovely, says Hastur, that hand just slightly clenching on his belly.

Why did Hastur have to get a hand? This is not safe. Tim is very aware of where that hand is, and how it feels against him.

Maybe all of this is going to drive him nuts. That would be one way out.

“I accept your query,” says Elias. “And I raise you a proposition: become an employee of the Institute, and I will tell you absolutely everything.”

Tim stops walking and stares.

Oh, that clever beast, says Hastur, thoughtful. He wants you under the auspice of his patron, and is willing to spend any currency needed to do so.

“Hastur is correct,” says Elias, and smiles.

Okay, no. This feels like getting cornered out of nowhere, like being in an open field, and suddenly against a wall, facing a wolf pack. Tim swallows. “What happens if I say no?”

“Everything continues as is,” says Elias. “I don’t believe you would suffer, particularly.”

“And Jon?”

“My plans for Jon will continue with or without you,” Elias says, low and menacing. “Though I am now certain his survival chances will increase with you.”

“You’re leveraging his survival ?” says Tim.

“I think we are beyond deceptive pleasantries, don’t you?” says Elias. “Regardless of your choice, I don’t plan to lie to you. I believe you’d know if I did, anyway—and that is not a good way to burn through one’s personal currency.”

“So you wouldn't lie, but just not tell me things, eh?” Tim growls.

“Yes,” says Elias.

Tim. I feel this is a trap.

“He’s got a point,” says Tim.

“He does,” says Elias Bouchard, always smooth as butter, always ready to respond, to parry, to deflect and answer in such a way that the asker feels stupid.

Tim understands what he sees. This man is, from Hastur’s account, more than two hundred years old; and he is intelligent, and used to getting his way. Elias is good at getting his way. So is Tim; but Tim also knows that his comparative lack of experience is the problem.

“What happens if I work for you?” says Tim. “Be precise. Be clear. Because I swear, if you lie to me, I will burn that building down.”

“Will you?” Elias seems surprised. “Employees inside and all?”

“If you trick me badly enough, I wouldn’t be able to help myself,” says Tim, which may or may not be true, but makes for a beautiful threat.

He sees and feels Elias weigh this, hold this statement in his hand, gauging if it’s true. And he sees the moment Elias decides it’s not quite worth the risk. “If you agree to work for me,” says Elias Bouchard, “I will, of course, pay you.” He names a sum comparable to what Tim made in publishing, which is… surprising. “Full benefits, of course. But that isn’t what you’re asking.”

“No, it’s not,” says Tim.

And Elias decides. “The part you may have issue with is you will not be able to quit.”

Cold washes through Tim, shocking and bad. “What?”

“I can let you go, but you cannot quit—not as long as you can see.”

Tim takes a step back. “Right, so, that sounds like absolute hell.”

Elias raises one hand, as if to say, peace . “Not only am I willing to bet my life that you will not want to quit, but the true benefits will be enough to keep you around by choice.”

“Which are?” says Tim, quite unconvinced.

“Full access to all the knowledge the Institute has gathered over two hundred years,” says Elias. “Well, one hundred and ninety-four, but that is quibbling.”

Go on, says Hastur.

“Also the full knowledge that I have gathered, which does not sit upon the Institute’s shelves,” says Elias. “I will—and am willing to write it contractually—answer any question you have.”

Tim, this is—

“Too good to be true,” says Tim. “I want the downsides. Now.”

“Those enemies the Institute have made will see you as a threat,” says Elias. “It is not unlikely you will be in danger—but the thing is, you already are . They are coming for you, anyway, Tim. This way, you will actually have backup. Resources. Help. Whereas if you are on your own, you and your passenger must rely on your… abilities, whatever they are.”

Amazing, the way this man made everything sound just slightly insulting. “Not really winning me over here.”

“It’s simple, Tim,” says Elias. “Face it all alone, or face it with help. Those are your choices. The cost is caring for Jon, and dealing with me—both of which you’ve already proven quite expert at.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Tim mutters.

“Talk it over with your passenger,” says Elias. “I will be watching either way; and what I have already promised is yours, no matter what you decide. But I will mention…” His voice lowers. “We are being followed. Behind us are three people: two of the Corruption, and one of the Desolation. No matter what you do here, Tim, you will not be ignored. You cannot be left alone. You’ve made too big a splash, and gotten absolutely everybody wet. My offer is aid, with the cost of involvement with Jon, and the understanding that I will send you on information-gathering missions. Those may seem too high to you. I understand, if so. Do let me know, would you?” And, back to humming, he heads on down the sidewalk and to his Institute, cheerful and pleased.

Tim exhales slowly. “Okay, what the fuck.”

Tim. Hastur is afraid. Followed?

Tim looks. “I don’t see anybody.”

Tim. Please. We need to get inside somewhere.

“You know, for a tentacle-monster of gigantic proportions, you spook really damn easy,” says Tim, but walks slowly toward the Institute, too. "Had a weird dream. We need to talk about it."

A dream?

"Not until this horseshit is decided." It doesn’t really feel like he has a choice. He wants to help Jon; it feels like an important thing to do, a good person thing to do, and he’ll make that choice, regardless. But without knowing what Elias is doing with Jon, that will be harder.

He has to protect Hastur, too. Hastur may be a jerk, but he doesn’t deserve to get eaten. Tim doesn’t want that to happen. So that is a choice, too.

And all that knowledge… all that information. Answers to questions, there for the asking.

But he wouldn’t be able to quit. What was up with that? Jon mentioned it, too. As long as he could see? What the actual hell?

I cannot make this decision for us, Tim, says Hastur, low. This is tying us directly to one of the Powers. I have never done this.

“If you were in my position, what would you do?” says Tim.

I would take his deal. At the very worst, I could burn down the Institute and murder him, and thus be freed from his employ.

There was a weirdly comforting practicality in that.

Tim was horrified he found it reassuring, but he did find it reassuring. This was not a no-way-out scenario. And, most importantly, Elias clearly knew that risk—and believed Tim would find reasons not to burn the place down.

He’d have to make sure doing this didn’t… collar him, somehow. Cut off powers. Choke him. But if it did not…

You are considering doing it.

Tim looks, and spots, for just one second, a person on their tail. She is a woman in a red dress, with long dark hair, and nothing should be wrong with her; but something is, oh, something horrible is , and though she is at a distance before ducking into shadow, he swears her skin moves like boiling porridge, as if whatever is inside her bursts and bubbles and drips all down her form.

Bile rises in his throat. “Let’s go find out if it’ll limit us in any way. And if it doesn’t….”

It could be a fair deal.

Tim snorts. “With that guy? No. We’re getting screwed somehow, but it may still be better than going this alone.”

We could always reach out to my cultists.

"That isn’t happening. Let’s go find out the details,” Tim says, and follows Elias inside.

Elias answers his questions.

Elias puts everything in writing.

The only gotcha, as far as Tim can see, is his inability to quit. “You know if you don’t let me go and I want to go, I”ll kill you,” he says, barely feeling like himself, yet meaning every sick and wicked syllable.

“ Yes,” says Elias, as though eager to know what it’s like to die burned and screaming.

Tim knows it’s probably a mistake, but he sees no other path forward. He doesn’t know enough. There are too many monsters after him. They need help.

He signs on the dotted line, and is weirdly disappointed that he feels nothing change.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, chapter ten: A Sopping Wet Cat - a Malevolent x TMA crossover

Between elderly Lara Croft and the deeply-adoptable Jonathan Sims, Tim's feeling less alone.

Now if only Bouchard and Hastur weren't playing footsie while Tim tries to find his own footing…

Chapter ten of Corrupted, a Malevolent x TMA crossover.

AO3

--------------

It’s after five p.m., but Tim is sure Bouchard will let them in. He doesn’t even bother calling this time before taking the bus. If Hastur is right, and Bouchard can see just about everything, he’ll know they’re coming.

Tim’s not sure how he feels about omniscience actually being real and belonging to just… some guy.

The gods in this world might be dead, but they exist, and that throws his entire philosophy of life into question. Even worse, they were eaten by something worse—which begs the question of what the fuck a god actually is.

“Is that guy a god?” he murmurs into his earpods.

Who?

“Bouchard.”

No.

“Right. How are we defining gods?”

How do you define a cat?

Tim purses his lips. “Guess you know a cat when you see one, huh?”

Indeed.

“So it’s not just a power thing, apparently, given that this guy isn’t one. Did that mean there were gods without power, too?”

Yes, actually. Hastur sounds warm again. You can be so very smart, Tim.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, blah blah blah,” Tim mumbles.

Hastur laughs softly.

Tim falls silent. He has a lot to process.

At least it’s easier to reach the Magnus Institute now that he can see. The area is truly lovely; old buildings, probably all National Trust, absolutely clean sidewalks (he can’t imagine the army of people paid to preserve that), and discreet little signs that don’t stick out in any way because reputation matters more here than advertising.

“Oh it's expensive,” Tim sings to and I'm so happy. “So damned expensive! Couldn’t afford a cup of tea! Bet the coffee tastes like pee!”

Hastur laughs. What on earth are you doing?

“Being delightful so the poor police don’t come out and nab me.”

Unlikely to work as a deterrent.

"Well, a guy's gotta try." And then Time spots a slight man in a sweater-vest juggling and losing his folders in a spray of knowledge all over the steps.

“Damn and blast!” the fellow announces like an eighty-year-old, and Tim knows who he is.

“Hey, Jon, right?” Tim says, jogging lightly toward him. “Let me help.”

“Oh! Mister Stoker.” Jon blinks at him. Then behind him. Then at him again, looking confused.

Tim turns and sees nothing. He shrugs and turns back, bending to gather papers. “Sorry I don’t know what order all this goes in.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” says Jon in a deeply peevish way. “She’s not going to organize them anyway.”

“She?” says Tim.

“I have been reassigned to the archives,” says Jon with a little sniff, and pushes his glasses up his nose. “There, I have discovered that Ms. Robinson has no sense of order, nor a positive attitude toward anyone who wants to help.” He stops. His eyes widen. “I am so sorry. This isn’t any of your trouble. Please don’t say… er, anything. I’m very grateful for the opportunity.”

Just listening yesterday, Tim had thought Jon was a prick. Looking at him today, he’s certain Jon is actually a nerd—probably a bullied one—who’s wearing spiky intellectual armor to stay safe.

Tim knows the type. He’s adopted a few in the past. “Mum's the word, boss," he says, and hands over a sheaf of paper back.

Jon stuffs them into folders without any attempt at organizing. His face looks hot. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, Mister Stoker.”

“Tim, please. I’m gonna be around for a bit, so no need to be so formal, yeah?”

Jon’s shoulders untense. “You are? That’s, ah, good to know? I’m sorry, but this is after business hours, and we’re closed.”

“Naw. Elias will let me in,” says Tim.

“Oh! He’s expecting you?” says Jon. “And I’m keeping you! Come along, now, let’s not waste any more time,” he says as if the delay were Tim’s idea, and scurries up the stairs.

What an annoying little man, says Hastur.

Nope. Dorky in the extreme, maybe; he definitely knows the type. Tim grins and follows.

Jon juggles folders and keys; ungraciously accepts a hand with the folders; drops his keys; and finally, face red, gets the door open. “I’m glad to hear we were able to help you. Nasty things, Leitners.”

“Leitners?”

“That bookplate. Jurgen Leitner owned evil books—and legitimately produced some of the few verifiable supernatural occurrences on record.” Jon gives him a challenging look.

Tim just wants to scoop him up and wrap him in a scarf and make him watch some sci-fi. “I believe you.”

The relief is visible. “You do?”

“Seen some things. Yes.”

“I’m really glad we can do something for you,” says Jon. “You know, it’s very strange. I’ve worked here for three years, and I've never once seen Elias get involved in any—”

“Mister Sims, what are you doing?”

And there she is—the little old lady who doesn't look like a bad-ass god-fighting machine, but definitely is. She's tiny; conservatively dressed. She’d be cute if she weren't so severe. Her reading glasses hang from a chain around her neck, and though she lacks any obvious weapons, she still has books in her jacket pockets.

Tim wonders which one's the flamethrower.

Tread carefully, Hastur says, unnecessarily. I don’t know what she remembers after Kayne’s intervention.

“Ms. Robinson,” Jon stammers. “He’s, ah. There’s been a, ah.”

"Hello," says Tim. "Your boss asked for me."

Her look flatly dismisses what he says like wiping away footprints in the sand. "Did he."

Jon looks confused. He's frozen, folders bulked under one arm, keys still in hand.

"He did!" says Tim brightly. "So why don't we all go and see what happens?"*

The old woman stares him down.

Gimlet eyes, Tim thinks, having encountered the phrase in publishing a few times, but never before now actually seeing them.

"Let's do that," she decides, and gestures toward the darkened Institute and Elias’ office. "In we all go now, chop chop," says elderly Lara Croft.

He's already inside. Bouchard. It's safe to enter.

Tim would give a lot of money to know how Hastur knew that, but he can't ask now. He smiles his absolute warmest at both of them and walks into what he desperately hopes is not his tomb.

#

Bouchard is waiting for them, standing in his office doorway. Tim feels weirdly justified. “Thank you, Gertrude,” says Bouchard. “Tim, if you please—right this…” He stops. Stares. “Interesting,” he murmurs.

“Are you sure you want to handle this?” says the murderous old bat.

“Yes, it’ll be fine. He’s not a danger,” says Bouchard.

He’s lying. You are.

Bouchard’s look. It’s hungry. What the hell.

“Jon,” says Bouchard, suddenly. “I will need to see you after this meeting. All right? Clear your schedule. It’s going to be a bit of a thing.”

Jon looks absolutely spooked. “Sure, of course, Elias. Right.”

Lara “Gertrude” Croft looks highly suspicious.

“Right,” says Jon, glancing back and forth. “Um.” He flees.

“That guy needs a movie night,” Tim says.

Gertrude stares at him.

“You know. With friends? A bit of beer, or something? Snacks? Everybody cozy in socks? Bras off?”

She stares harder.

“Right. Maybe you need one, too,” says Tim.

Bouchard clears his throat. “Shall we?”

“Sure.” Tim gives her his brightest smile.

She does not respond. Well, now she’s a challenge.

Bouchard’s look has not changed. Thoughtful. Penetrative. He gestures to the seat across from his desk and sits behind it, fingers steepled.

“You really make a guy sweat with a look like that,” says Tim.

“I’m glad to hear it,” says Bouchard. “And please—do call me Elias.”

Tim shifts. “We’re all on first-name basis here, I guess. Tim.”

Elias does a little gracious nod. “So you’ve had an adventure of some kind since I last saw you,” he says. “For one thing, your vision has swapped hands, if you'll pardon my mixing of metaphors."

“How did you—yeah. That happened. Also, that old bat out there tried to kill me for no damn reason?”

She was aggressive, says Hastur.

“I must apologize for her, not that I have any control over her, really,” he says. “The fact is that when it’s time to stop her, I’m going to have to kill her—but she makes a marvelous distraction in the meantime, doesn’t she?”

What an absolutely fucked up thing to say. “I’m not sure I can agree with that?” says Tim.

Yes… I see your point, says Hastur, because of course, it makes sense to him. And she has done so since before you claimed this body, am I right?

Elias’ smile grows teeth. “I see you don’t miss much.”

No.

“I am mindful of it,” says Elias.

I’d guess… in the neighborhood of two centuries?

“Very good! Yes. I’m surprised one such as yourself would be aware of such mortal lifetimes.”

Hastur responds like a cat petted along its spine, arching its arse in the air. I’ve had to pay attention to such things. Human bodies are… regrettably fragile.

What the actual hell?

Tim frowns, feeling the anger rising, trying to push it down. “Hey, old guys. I’m still here, you know,” he says.

“Yes, and that is a perfect segue,” says Elias, smooth as fucking butter. “I don’t know what happened yesterday. I know Gertrude came back with her memory altered; I know whatever you got involved with raised a sort of… fog through which I could not see.”

“So you were watching,” says Tim.

“I watch everything I can,” says Elias, as though this is perfectly normal. “That is how I serve my patron. But I could not see what happened.”

Tim doesn’t care to tell him. Elias just rubs him wrong.

Chaos. That’s what happened.

“Vague, but fair enough. I cannot even see the memories in your head, Tim, which tells me on one level how strong the forces we’re dealing with are—but there is one thing I do see. You have been marked.”

Tim feels… bad?

He hunches a little. It’s not a familiar feeling, this. He's not even sure "bad" is the right word. “Yeah. Apparently, I’m doomed to become a rage monster, la-di-da.”

“This does place me in an awkward position,” says Elias. “You have, in a manner of speaking, been claimed by a patron other than mine, and they tend to be… possessive.”

Yet you have not thrown us out, says Hastur warmly (because the manipulation seems to have worked), and Tim frowns just a pinch harder.

“Naturally. I’ve never seen anything like this—which means, I fear, that you are practically catnip for me.”

And the two old assholes laugh, and Tim has almost had enough.

(But should he have had enough?)

(Wouldn’t he be more patient with this nonsense, normally?)

“Right,” Tim says. “So. I’m going to assume you also saw what happened at the police station.”

“I did. Most unfortunate.”

"We had something of a plan about that."

“Yes, and I may be able to help you with it—if you’re willing to make a deal.”

Here we go again, Tim thinks. “If you’re already watching, what difference does it make?”

“All the difference. It changes your perception of events, and alters how you feel. It becomes a gift to my patron—given under duress, which is even better—and thus, empowers me.”

Tim stares. “At least you’re honest.”

Surprisingly honest, says Hastur darkly.

Elias shrugs. “The fact is that you're difficult to see into, which is... unusual for me. Surface thoughts are easy; but I don't even know your name.”

He didn’t mean Tim. “You don’t know?”

“I can’t see it. I can see his memory of himself, but not his name—it’s clouded, even in your mind.”

We really are catnip to this guy, Tim thinks. “You don’t have to tell him,” says Tim.

I know. I’m weighing whether his aid is worth whatever price he extracts.

“I assure you, whatever ‘price I extract’ is going to be observation-based. That is, after all, what I’m all about.”

And that was weird. Very weird. Because Tim thinks Elias just lied.

There’s no reason for it. He can’t see any difference in face or body language. But he’s sure Elias lied. He’s getting something out of this beyond observation. Anger bubbles, slowly simmering.

I’ve had… various names.

Elias is looking so damned intense. “I would love to know. It might even help me refine my current thought on how to give you some… support.”

“Don’t give away the farm,” says Tim.

I see no reason to hold this back, Hastur decides.

“If you’re sure.” Tim is not sure.

I have been called Hastur. The Unspeakable One. I have been called… the King in Yellow.

Elias’ eyes light up like he just won the lottery. “Phenomenal,” he whispers. “Lord of Carcosa. Regaled in a gown of yellow, twice as tall as any man! Majestic, he glides over the ground to take his throne in lost Carcosa, for he is the king that was and shall be!”

“Oh, boy,” Tim says.

Yes, Hastur says.

“Well… I am, I will not lie, deeply honored,” Elias lies, and does a proper bow as he says it so Hastur can tell by the sound that he lowered his head.

Tim wonders if this really is the better option than cultists.

The metaphorical lid is beginning to bounce on the pot of his anger, clanging, jarring out of place with rising rage—and Elias sees. Tim knows that he sees.

Elias is enjoying this.

Rein it in, Tim tells himself, because this isn’t like him, this isn’t usual, he’s a patient man, he’s dealt with shit like this from shitty managers all in the past, this isn’t new, this… he doesn’t have to… he…

“Your self-control is extraordinary,” says Elias, softly. “I’m very impressed, Tim. And I appreciate it. I don’t particularly want to be burned—so I thank you.”

At least that time, he wasn’t lying.

Tim.

“What?” Tim snaps between clenched teeth.

Please.

Well, fuck, what’s Tim supposed to do with that?

They’re both waiting to see what he does with that.

Come on, you, he thinks. Pull it together. He breathes slowly. Deeply. Shuddering.

“You are remarkable,” says Elias, and he sounds like he means it. “I wouldn’t have guessed—forgive me.”

He is, says Hastur, as though he planned for any of this.

“I think I hate you both right now?” says Tim.

“Fair,” says Elias. “And I’m sorry that you’re in the position you’re in.”

Again—he’s telling the truth now.

Does Elias know Tim picked up when he was lying?

Tim thinks he does. Elias, Tim realizes, is a fucking dangerous piece of work.

You have an idea? says Hastur.

“I do. This is, of course, based on research and memories from those in my line going back some thousands of years. If I understand correctly, your current vulnerability is largely based on… well. Your host’s mortality.”

That isn’t… fully inaccurate.

“As opposed, let’s say, to possessing a body closer to what you had before?”

My original body? There are no bodies here closer to what I had before.

“What if one could be created? How would that affect your situation?”

Tim has no idea. “What, give him his own body? Go all deific Frankenstein?”

I need to… consider this. You say it as if there were a possibility of such a thing.

Elias’ eyes lid. It’s like he knows he’s hooked a fish, and can take his time reeling it in. “Well. You no doubt feel the stored power of this place. That is because we collect artefacts. This particular hobby is not unique to us. I may—theoretically—know of some deific flesh, carefully preserved in crystal. And I may—theoretically—know someone who could potentially use it to craft you a new body.”

“Why would you go to all that trouble?” says Tim.

“Because it will be an amazing thing to watch, and as things currently stand, you won’t live long enough to… ah. I apologize.”

“Scratch your itch?” says Tim, dry. “Get you the fuck off?”

“Something like that,” says Elias, who isn’t so easy to ruffle.

I need to think about this.

“Of course you do. Might I suggest you stay here until you do, though? No obligation, no payment—well, beyond watching you, which I will be doing anyway, no matter where you are.”

“You knew I already planned on that part,” says Tim.

Elias shrugs like a prince. “I choose to be gracious, nonetheless.”

Tim wants to hit him.

Keep it down, he tells himself. You’re not the rage. You not the… whatever the fuck wrath monster. You’re you.

“I offer protection,” says Elias. “We are not, of course, impervious to invasion, but we are far safer than a hotel, or an apartment, or, gods forbid, the street. Three agents I can see followed you here—two of the Corruption, who would devour you with mold, worms, maggots, disease; and one of the Desolation, who… well, to be frank, I don’t know what she’d do, given that you, Tim, are marked—but I assure you, she is not here on a mission of mercy.”

“What?”

“You were followed—and I am not talking about your policewoman.”

“Wait, we were?"

“You didn’t notice? Oh, dear,” says Elias.

Fuck.

Yeah, pretty much.

We shall stay, says Hastur as though the favor being given is them gracing this place with their presence.

Tim realizes with a shock that he isn’t sure his opinion is any good right now. He’s too angry. It’s not his rage. But it’s… spilling into everything. Tim has never felt unsure in his life. This is a horrible feeling. He wipes at his eyes, surprised to find them wet.

“Come.” Elias stands, not revealing whatever he thinks of this display, and heads for the door.

Are you all right?

Hastur seems to mean it. Can Tim trust that, either?

Yes. He knows he can. Whatever else is wrong with him, he knows he’s reading other people correctly, including Hastur. “Not really?”

I will do what I can for you once we are alone.

“More spells?" Tim scoffs.

Oh, the things I can teach you...

“Sure,” says Tim without conviction, and follows Elias Bouchard deeper into his spooky mid-london temple.

#

Elias hadn’t lied; it’s a neat little space down there, in the archives.

Well. It’s a mess. But the living quarters are definitely cute.

Gertrude Lara Croft Robinson is down there already, eyeing them, visibly daring commentary on the stacks of mismatched files, the open cardboard boxes balanced precariously against each other or on chairs, the truly heinous amount of cobwebs in every corner, between every shelf.

“Uh,” says Tim. “Nice haunted house you’re running here.”

“Mm,” says Elias.

Gertrude gives Tim a skewering look.

“No, really,” says Tim, stepping over six sagging boxes and around two piles of unsorted papers. “Get a fog machine down here and you’ll make bank.”

“Yes, well, Gertrude insists there is a reason for all of it,” says Elias as if his kingdom’s condition is of no concern.

Gertrude says nothing.

Tim suddenly wonders if she’s hiding weapons in the paperwork.

The little living area is, happily, free from nonsense. A very tiny kitchenette, a small cot sharing space with boxes and office supplies, and a bathroom with a cramped toilet and sink.

“There is a shower upstairs,” says Elias, “though it is in my office, and you will need to arrange time to use it.”

“Weird,” says Tim. “But okay.”

Elias shrugs. “It is a very old building. James Wright had it installed, so I am to understand, but what he was thinking, doing it there… well. I have no idea.”

A lie. Tim peers at him.

Elias smiles and it is a bright, sharp thing, like light glinting off a blade. “Oh, you are good at that, aren’t you?” he murmurs.

“What—was that a test?”

“It was. Over something I think you can agree, at least, is harmless.”

“Hard not to be insulted,” Tim says.

“Of course—but I had to be sure you knew on your own. I can clearly see Lord Hastur did not clue you in.”

“Lord Hastur?”

“I’ve never met a god before, and I’d prefer to be on his good side. Wouldn’t you?” says Elias.

Tim rolls his eyes so hard they hurt. “Subject fucking change. How can you help with that police officer?”

“Are you willing to do some footwork?”

Tim frowns. “Sure?”

“Good. Then I can send you to a few places which will, in time, lead her on a completely different trail.”

“So you already knew our plan.”

“Yes. I won’t send you alone, either. It’s hardly safe. Just give me some time to make a couple of arrangements.”

Truth. “Okay. I guess. Fuck, this is… Am I really kipping in a haunted basement to hide from maggot gods?”

“I fear before all of this over, you will experience far stranger things than this,” says Elias. “Now—do try to get comfortable. I will fetch you a key, as well as the code for the alarm.”

“Elias!” Gertrude protests.

“He is officially under our protection.”  And there, right there, is the most real Elias has been this whole damn time, because that hardly sounded like the same man. The smarm is gone, replaced with a frankly terrifying hardness, the kind that makes Tim think he could shoot a guy in the face and walk away without a second thought.

But maybe it’s necessary to corral someone like Gertrude. She looks positively raucous for a moment, then glances at Tim.

Tim holds his hands up. “No quarrels with you. I’m just trying to stay alive.”

“I reserve the right to kill him if he tries a ritual inside the Institute—whether or not he knows what it does,” Gertrude snaps.

Well, she certainly remembers some of what happened.

“Fair,” says Elias.

“Sure?” says Tim.

Gertrude nods as if her head is an axe and marches away.

Elias sighs. “I really do apologize for her.”

Will she honor your command?

“For a while, anyway. Her focus is ‘protecting humanity,’ whatever that means, so as long as Tim provides no such active threat, he will fall off her radar.”

“She came after me yesterday," says Tim.

“She’d thought you were attempting a ritual to give one of the Fears more power,” says Elias.

“She didn’t even ask. She just… assumed.”

“In the name of saving the world, she sacrifices people,” Elias says coldly. “It makes one wonder what the value of life is to her.”

So that’s a whole host of unspoken stories. “Wow.”

“Indeed. I’ll send help down with a key and all shortly. Rest, Tim. As best we can, we’ll keep you safe.” Elias smiles (and, oddly enough, was telling the truth), and leaves.

Tim flops onto the cot.

It squeaks.

“That’ll make masturbating awkward,” he says without thinking.

Hastur laughs.

#

Tim did not expect to fall asleep.

It’s not like this is the best cot in the world. But there’s something weirdly peaceful about this place; the sounds of paper rustling outside the little room, presumably Gertrude moving piles from one spot to another (also presumably just keeping an eye on him). The sweet emptiness of being underground, with so much stone and paper and threadbare carpet, is its own wonderful white noise. Tim hasn’t been in a silent place in a long time, and finds it soothing. Even the simmering anger seems to be calming.

He yawns, stretches, is amused that the cot creaks again. “Mm,” he says. “Guess this is what monks see in it, or something.”

What—the silence and isolation? Perhaps; though they tend also to be… industrious orders, working far more hours than usual. The time allotted to rest in silence is slim.

“Fuck that, then. Guess I’m starting my own monastery—to laziness.” Tim stretches again. “Hey—why do you know about monks?”

I’ve spent more than one life in one such place.

Tim sputters. “Are you serious?”

Yes. There isn’t much in this world that I have not at least tried, Tim.

Tim sits up. “You really did monk things?”

I did.

“Like… prayed to gods you knew weren’t there, or whatever?”

A dark chuckle. Well, says Hastur. I will admit that I tended to leave such places altered, compared to when I went in.

“What did you do?”

Finely honed insanity, says Hastur, as though recounting a garden he’d grown.

Tim gapes at nothing. “Insanity? Hastur, why would you do that? What'd they do to you?"

Nothing. It was merely amusing at the time.

Maybe Tim is overtired. He should find this beyond horrifying, but instead, it’s just frustrating. “Look, do you even know it was wrong?”

Why would it be wrong? Hastur feels sincere. I am a god. I am no mortal. I am no human. I have graced this world with my presence out of necessity, but I have the right to do as I wish while I'm here.

“No, you don’t,” says Tim, baffled as to how he can possibly get his message across.

I disagree.

“Yeah, obviously, but that doesn’t make you right.”

No? And your twenty-nine years of life tell you this, do they?

Tim has an epiphany. “No, actually. That Kayne guy did.”

It feels like Hastur goes stiff as a board. What?

“If just being bigger than someone gives you the right to do what you want to them, then we’re actually morally wrong for running away from him.” Tim’s proud of that one.

Hastur has no mouth to sputter. He manages to do it, anyway. That is not the same!

“Sure it is. He can, so he should, right?”

I didn’t say should.

“No, but you said you have the right to do it. Well, does he?”

It’s not the same, Hastur insists.

It’s Tim’s turn to be smug, and he leans into it. "I didn't realize you were morally deficient. That's gonna make this rough, Hastur."

I am not deficient. I am morally superior.

"Right. Superior. In being deficient."

Tim...

Tim sighs. “What the hell am I gonna do with you?”

I think, Tim, rumbles Hastur in a low and terrible tone, the real question is what I am going to do with you.

Tim goes very still.

And there’s a knock at the storage closet door.

Tim has never been more grateful for an interruption in his life as he leaps off the cot to answer it. “Saved by the… hey, come in!”

It’s Jon.

Jon, who looks like a gray ghost, who holds out a key, a post-it note with a six-digit code, and a torn-out notebook page with addresses scribbled on it. He looks smaller than usual, as if whatever just happened to him has compressed him right down.

“Oh, thanks.” Tim takes them. “Hey—you okay?”

Jon stares at him. “Did you know there are things?” he says.

“So that’s a nope,” says Tim, who has decided to adopt Jon whether Jon knows it or not, and takes his arm to gently lead him in. “Sit down, already, before you pass out?”

“I am not going to pass out,” bristles Jon.

Tim sits him down, anyway, right on the cot.

It squeaks.

Tim checks a box labeled PAPER, finds it sturdy, and plops down onto it. “You okay?” he says again.

“There are… there are fear gods.”

Poor guy. “Apparently so. Might help to talk it out, yeah? Why don’t you start at the beginning? Was it Elias?”

“Oh, gods, yes it was Elias.” Jon puts his face in his hands.

Hastur finds Jon’s distress funny. The chuckle is soft, dark, cruel; it makes Tim angry—and he’s pretty sure this anger is his, not some stupid Desolation’s. Still, he takes a moment to force it down. “Yeah. I did know, little buddy, but only for about… two days? Or so? I’m losing track.”

“Oh,” says Jon.

What the hell had Bouchard done up there? “I’m guessing your boss filled you in.”

Jon looks forlorn. “One of them’s got me already, apparently?”

Accidental priest. “He just went full info-dump, didn’t he?” says Tim, who feels utterly justified in disliking that guy. “I’m sorry. I’m still wrestling with it all myself.”

“He says one of them’s got you, too,” says Jon. “And I am… I’m to go with you as we leave today, and as we gather what is necessary to distract… police? From your trail? Then retreat back to the Institute as quickly as possible.”

TIm blinks slowly. “He’s sending you?”

Jon reddens. “Yes. He says I… he says. I…”

“Hey, it’s okay. Hey. You can tell me whatever. Just verbally process, I don’t care."

Tim, we don’t have time to play therapist.

Tim ignores him. “What happened, Jon?”

“I tried to quit to prove him wrong,” says Jon. “I couldn’t.”

“Okay,” says Tim. “That’s horrible.”

“I wouldn’t have believed him except he knew about Mister Spider,” says Jon.

“Okay,” says Tim. “Do I want to know what that is?”

Jon stares. “Can we go? I… I don’t think I can sit here and think too much about this right now.”

“Sure, all right. We can talk later,” says Tim. “But—no offense—why is he sending you?”

“Oh. Because I saw who was following you this morning.”

Tim blinks. “You did?”

“Three of them. Two looked quite ill, but one just looked… angry. They all made me nervous; I’d assumed you knew, but Elias said you didn’t.”

Remarkable, says Hastur. He truly is in tune with the Beholding.

“I didn’t see them,” says Tim. “I really need the extra set of eyes. I’m a bit of trouble, you know?”

“That’s what he said.” Jon stands (and the cot squeaks). “I’m really not in a place to wield rational arguments at the moment.”

“Right. Well, let’s go, then.” Tim guides him out the door. “What's at these addresses?”

“He didn’t say.” Jon is shaking. His slightly oversized sweater-vest nearly hides it, but he is, and it makes his voice tremble.

Pathetic, says Hastur.

“Do you hate kittens, too?” Tim murmured softly.

“What?” says Jon.

“Nothing.”

Gertrude is glaring at them. “I’m watching you.”

“What?” says Jon very weakly.

“There’s a queue for that,” Tim quips, and hurries Jon out.

“That was odd,” says Jon in a high, spooked voice.

“Yeah?”

“Could’ve sworn she had blood all over her for a moment.”

What? says Hastur. Tim. Tim, I’m going to need you to do a spell.

Tim ignore that. “Don’t suppose Elias told you why I’m in trouble.”

“No. He said that was your purview, should I earn your trust.”

Tim! We need to do a spell. I need to know what’s going on with this annoying little man.

“Earn my trust? Wow. He really is a dickhead, isn’t he?”

Jon sputters. “He’s… I don’t know! He’s just Elias! I’ve barely noticed him in the past three years. Once my interview was done, we’ve hardly interacted!”

Tim!

Hastur’s confidence in Tim’s spellcasting abilities might be high, but Tim does not have that confidence. At any rate, it’ll be difficult talking to Hastur unless Jon knows the score, so…  Why not? “Right,” Tim says, trusting Jon at Elias. “So… the Powers Elias told you about? Something like that jumped out of the book I brought in. It’s in my head right now.”

Jon is taking this very seriously. “Really?”

“Really. Talks all the time. Real awkward.”

Tim, Hastur warns.

Tim deadpans it: “He wants me to cast some kind of spell to check you out.”

Tim!

“Check me out?” blurts Jon, stopping before the final stair. “For what? A new host?”

Hardly. That would not be worth my time, Hastur snaps.

“Naw,” Tim says. “He’s not a swinger. He just wants to see, is all.”

Jon’s eyes seem take up half his face. “What?” he says.

“You know, because he’s in me already?”

This has gone right over Jon’s head. He stares at Tim as though he’s speaking Sanskrit.

Like a sopping wet cat, Tim thinks with growing fondness. “Never mind. Let’s go check out these addresses, yeah?”

He’s an idiot, Hastur declares. Mentally deficient.

Is Hastur jealous? He feels jealous.

“Sure,” says Jon weakly.

“It’s gonna be okay,” says Tim, and pats him on the shoulder.

Hastur growls quietly.

New game, thinks Tim, because how could he not, and follows Jon into the lobby.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, Chapter Seven: Gods-Damned Merlin, a Malevolent x TMA fic

An escape.

An item lost.

A theological lesson.

A date.

AO3

-------

Hissing blood drips, as if whispering terrible secrets. Wind whistles through the torn metal of the hangar. Tim pants like he carried the manky armchair in here at a run.

He is amazed at the lack of sirens. He wonders if there’s any kind of security—some CCTV footage somewhere. Well. If there is, someone’s going to have a hell of a story on their hands.

He struggles harder. He grunts. It hurts.

Fuck! Stop that!

“Got to get loose,” Tim pants. “Got to get out of here.”

You are hurting me.

Tim goes still. “What?”

What the fuck did he do? Are you bleeding?

“A little? Look, we’ll be fine, I just need to…” Tim strains again.

The armchair’s seat abruptly collapses in on itself, and Tim is swallowed, just his legs and head sticking out.

“Oh, come on!” he says, sunk deep (and there are rusty springs or something in the bottom, and it is not pleasant). “Really? Really? ”

What is happening? Ah! What is that?

“Fell into the damn chair, that’s what!” Tim takes a moment and breathes. He can see. He can get out of this. He has to get out of this. “Hey. Bet all this sent up more than a flare, right? Gray-skinned monsters are definitely coming.”

At the very least. Though the power being flung around during that fight should keep things away for a bit, they will be coming. We need to move.

“I can’t. He’s tied me. Shibari is… it’s this fancy…”

I know what shibari is. I do not care. Get loose!

“Sure, I’ll just press the ‘get loose’ button. What was I thinking?” Tim mutters, and strains.

He can’t get out of the chair. The fabric and stuffing may have rotted through, but the wooden frame is unfortunately still sturdy.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he says softly. “I feel like a steak pie in a tin, only instead of cow and potato, it’s you and me.”

Almost unwillingly, Hastur asks: And which of us is the potato?

“Definitely me. I’m starchy and I taste great no matter how you cook me. You’re just beefier, no matter how you slice it.”

Hastur sort of grunts; not quite agreement, not quite argument. Absurd.

And Tim knows he’s starting to win him back.

It shouldn’t matter. It really shouldn’t. Hastur is a monster—one who has, apparently, inspired a three-thousand-year-old manhunt. But what Hastur said… hurt. Tim wants Hastur to like him again.

So, I’m pathetic, Tim thinks, and struggles. “Oh, what the hell, let’s try this: hey, Siri!”

And by some absolutely insane miracle, Siri’s voice pipes up—a little distance away, under something, but clear: “Yes, boss?”

“No way!” Tim laughs and shifts a little, trying to spot where the phone landed. “Now that is a military-grade case!”

What are you doing?

“I'm gonna call… fuck, who should we call? Police? Yeah, that’ll work. Hey—”

Don’t. Don’t call the police.

“Why not?”

We don’t have time to wait for them to get here.

Tim scoffs. “Got a better idea, then?”

My plan is to use a simple spell to loosen the rope.

Whatever else can be said about the being that is Hastur, he has balls of solid steel.

It takes Tim a moment to answer. “Okay, look,” he finally says. “I have zero reason to trust you right now. You know that, right?”

And I, says Hastur like some grand Duke of Motherfuck, have no reason to trust you after what you did. Yet here we are, and we must choose to work together to survive this.

That son of a bitch. As if their positions are at all equal…

But then, Kayne had called Hastur a narcissist. Well. This isn’t Tim’s first go-around with one of those.

He keeps his tone humble. “Fair. I fucked up, and I own it. But there’s still a pretty big power imbalance here, so my point remains.”

Oh, is there? Hastur challenges. And I suppose since you have the power, you think you should make the decisions?

Walked right into it. “No,” says Tim. “You have the power. You’re some ancient… thing? Thousands of years old? There’s magic, and you damn near tricked me into… I still don’t know what? Dog the bounty hunter is after your ass, and I’m caught up in the middle of all of this, and I don’t know what the fuck is going on. I’m terrified. You’re the one with the power. You’re asking me to trust you, and I’m saying I’m afraid, and I don’t know what to do.”

There’s a pause, and Tim can absolutely feel his volley worked. Whatever Hastur has for hackles smooths down.

(Why did Kayne think this was so strange? Don’t people usually know how other people feel? Tim always has. Body language, or something.)

(That would not explain Hastur, though.)

It was not… entirely your fault, what you did today, says Hastur as if making a great concession.

“Yeah, it kinda was,” says Tim, struggling.

You have been marked by a deity of destruction.

“So I’m terminal?” Tim says, trying to joke.

Hastur doesn’t take it as a joke. It’s why you lost your reason. Why you antagonized that woman, threatened me irrationally, and opened the book. I’m sorry, Tim. If I were fully myself, in my own body, I could save you. As it is… I cannot.

Tim just breathes for a moment, though it feels like his heartbeat is restricted, though his throat feels tight. “But it is possible. You’re saying it is possible.”

Not with the humans this world currently has. They don’t breed for magic anymore.

“Okay, that’s a whole host of what-the-fuck-are-you-saying, but… point remains. Possible.”

Maybe.

“Maybe nanobots can do what magic does.”

That isn’t how magic works.

“You don’t know that.”

I do. There are worlds where humans have mastered technology and magic, but this is not one.

That was… gentle.

Tim cannot handle gentleness right now, not from whatever the fuck Hastur is, so he moves right along, putting that in the box of fucking later. “I’m still the one who did it. I own it, Hastur. If that’s the name you want.”

It is my name.

“Yeah, but is it the one you want?” He grunts, trying to force the chair’s frame apart. “I don’t deadname people. You want to be called John or Sally or Aziraphale, I don’t give a fuck. I’ll do it.” An olive branch.

Surely I would be more of a Crowley. An olive-brach back.

“Nature-wise, sure, but I don’t know the vibe you’re going for. Still thinking D.B. Cooper, myself.”

Nonsense.

“Fitting. You must’ve stolen something real good to get chased for three thousand years.”

Hastur sighs. Three thousand years is a blink in the lifetime of one such as me, Tim. I feel like I barely got free. And the only thing I stole was myself.

“What… that guy owned you?

No.

Okay, so… that’s a growl, a completely inhuman sound, and Tim has no idea how Hastur is doing it. “Okay. Sure. Okay. Who is he?”

Let’s save the questions until we are in a safe place. Tim, I give you my word that this spell is a Minor Working. I could do it through a dead tree, if I had to; you require no magical affinity for it to work, and it will loosen the ropes enough that we can flee.

Was this another olive branch? “So you mean you could do it without my permission?”

I could. I am choosing to include you.

Definite olive branch. Tim licks his lips, tastes spores (or whatever the fuck is on the armchair), and spits. “Ugh!”

Disgusting!

“Wait, did you taste that? ”

Yes. Ugh.

Okay, that goes into the pile of fucking later, too. “We… we’ll come back to that. All right. What do I do?”

What do you do?

“Might as well test the magic-meter on this, right? A Minor Working, or whatever. If Kayne meant what he said, you want to know if I’m magical, and… to be honest, so do I.”

You’d trust me enough to do that?

“No,” says Tim. “But yeah. I will. And if it doesn’t work?”

It would cost neither of us, should it fail. If you can’t do it, I will simply perform the spell myself—which will feel mildly uncomfortable, as my power is not human, and your body will be confused, but will do no harm. And if you succeed… well.

“If I’m ‘gods-damned Merlin?’”

You are unlikely to be gods-damned Merlin.

“You really did what he said? Set a limit like that?”

Why would I bother inhabiting a body without the power to do what I wish? My vessels are carefully chosen for me.

So that's a bit of storytelling that chills Tim to his soul. Horrifying. People chosen. For all he knows, bred.

Can't deal with it now. Tim shakes it off.

He wants to know if he can do magic—a small and fluttering hope, like a candle in the dark.  “What do I do?”

Focus on the rope. Concentrate on where it lies on your body, its tension, its texture. Then repeat this word: ahahog.

“What’s that mean?”

Without magic? It will do nothing. With it? If you are magical at all, the rope will loosen, as the fibers themselves will be expanded, and you should be able to wriggle free. It’s extremely simple.

That doesn’t sound simple at all. It sounds like impossible physics. Did the ropes gain matter? Did they take in air molecules, somehow? How the fuck did this work?  Would it work?

There's one way to find out: he focuses.

He knows damned well what this rope configuration looks like, though it is over his clothes. Knows the material; he’d handled this rough, prickly rope himself before Kayne used it to bind him. Eyes closed, rope visualized, really wanting to get loose, he speaks. “Ahahog.”

The meaning flashes through his head: expand.

The rope explodes.

Pops like it was shot, completely blasting away from him and leaving his skin stinging, but free.

Ow!

“Woo!” he says, and scrapes his arms free to raise them like he scored a goal. “Also, ow! But woo!”

What just… that felt…

“It worked! Blew the fuck up!” Tim wriggles and writhes and pulls himself out of the damned armchair. “Ugh. You know, you are damned lucky we put on one of my least favorite shirts today, because it is definitely never coming clean. Where’s my phone?”

The rope exploded?

“Yep! Hey, Siri!”

“Yes, boss?”

“There you are, you glorious bitch. Oh, fuck, I’m sore. Damn those cleat hooks…” He pulls out his collar and looks down at himself. “I look like I’ve been mugged by gnomes.”

Gnomes?

“Yeah. Little guys wearing brass knuckles about the size of my thumb.”

Hastur makes a choked noise.

Tim knows he’s beginning to win Hastur back.

Good. He wants to. “Right. Okay. Ow. Fuck. Ow.” Tim walks.

Ow! You are badly damaged!

“I’m just scraped and bruised. What, none of your ‘vessels’ got bruised before?”

My vessels were treated as gods in their own right, pampered and adored to the end of their mortal lives. 

Into the fucking later box with that! “Right. Spoiled as hell. Got it.”

Hastur huffed a little. Spoiled? Do you know what you’re saying?

“Nope. Mostly because you haven’t told me.” Tim picks up his backpack and begins replacing what fell out of it.

Hastur must be able to feel that. Tim.

“What?”

 My book.

“Sure, I’ll just… hm. This place is a wreck.”

Try not to look at Dagon.

“Why should… ow.”

You looked at Dagon.

“You just told me not to think about an elephant, all right?” said Tim, rubbing his eyes. Dagon wasn’t right. Huge; somehow taking up more space than he actually did, existing outside the dimensions Tim’s eyes were set up to handle. Fish-man to the thousandth degree. It hurt to look at him, strained something inside his head. “Ow.”

So I feel. You should be fine. Even dead, he can make weaker minds fail, but I begin to think your mind is not weak.

“Sure. All those hours playing Angry Birds paid off,” Tim mutters, still looking. “Bad news, Crowley. I don’t see your book.”

Hastur is fine. And it has to be here. It cannot be destroyed.

“All right. Under Dagon, maybe?” Tim says. “If so, we're out of luck.”

Damn. Let us be certain: we need to use another spell. For this, I would need your volition.

"Volition not on offer just yet,” says Tim.

Please. I can’t lose the book. It’s important.

Hastur means it. It feels like the most honest thing he’s said.

“Tell me why.”

Please, Tim. I promise I will once we have the book and are away from this place.

“Fine. All right. I’m keeping track of your promises, so you know.”

And I am good for them. Now: Picture the book. Feel it in your hands. Remember its weight, its width.

“Right,” says Tim, recalling with a little chill that it doesn’t quite fit right in the human hand and suddenly understanding why it doesn’t.

Then say this: mgah'n'ghft.

“Mgah'n'ghft,” Tim tries to practice. “Mgah'n'ghft. And what’s that do?”

Finds what you’re picturing within a small distance. It is a Minor Working; the weakest magic talent will do. Please hurry.

“Here’s to hoping I don’t blow it up,” says Tim with caustic brightness, and focuses. “Mgah'n'ghft.”

The meaning filters through, and he doesn’t have a word for it. Where, but like a command. Find, but more locational.

He doesn’t expect it to do quite what it does.

Flying?

No, that is not the word for this, not the word for moving through matter like a fish through water

Too much mind too much gaze too much existence

A fifty-dimensional expanse, a human brain trying to see through thousands of eyes

The book, clutched tightly by Infinite Cruelty And Laughing Death

Kayne says, “Well, howdy! Also, bye-dee!” and whacks Tim with the souls of a thousand worlds

Tim shouts and falls onto his knees.

What happened? What was that? You’re dizzy! Hastur declares.

That’s putting it mildly. He gasps, head down, braced. He can barely keep himself upright, even on all fours. It’s like he’s forgotten how to exist in three dimensions. “What the fuck was that spell?”

A finding spell! It’s a Minor Working! You shouldn’t be dizzy!

“Well, we are major fucked,” Tim gasps. “Kanye’s got your book.”

What?   Hastur breathes.

Tim tries to stand and can’t. The world spins more; his head is heavy. “Don’t throw up, me,” he tells himself. “Cast-iron stomach, we can do this.”

But you can’t—Hastur stops. But that would not have—Hastur stops again. Kayne has it? How did you even learn that? What did you do ?

“What you told me to, nerd,” says Tim. “Fuck. Got to get out of here. I swear, I can feel monsters about to tear my spine out.”

They’re about a mile out. Not that you’d know. Whatever else you may be, you don’t seem to have any skill when it comes to identifying the inhuman.

“Oh, what the hell, was that a dig? In the middle of this, a dig at that Sela thing? Really?” He grunts. “I’m so dizzy.”

Orr'eog. Strength for an hour. Hurry.

“You’re joking. You think I’m going to do another spell after what just happened?”

Tim. What choice do you have?

How dare he?

And Tim might have just gone with the anger rising in response to that if he hadn't been swallowed by rage within the last hour.

He will not do that. That's not who he chooses to be. He will not. Marked? Mad with rage? No. No.

Slow breaths. In and out. “I have a choice here, you fucking mark,” he mumbles, and clenches his fists, and redirects it to determined. “And I am going for it, whether you want me to or not. Orr’eog!”   Picturing strength, energy, the sensation of being young and strong and healthy and—

Tim’s jaw drops.

Oh… oh, Tim, Hastur purrs like some eldritch phone sex operator.

Tim takes a moment. “So,” he says.

Tim… we should…

“Sh-sh-sh. I need to find the words.”

Do you. Warm. Intense.

“I could climb a mountain,” Tim says.

Likely.

“I could fight a bear.”

Inadvisable, but yes.

“I could climb a mountain, and then fight a bear,” says Tim.

We are being hunted, Hastur reminds him.

“Catch me if you can, fuckers!” Tim proclaims, and takes off at a full run.

He does it while laughing like a loon.

Has he ever felt this good? Closest he can think of was being seventeen, fully warmed up on the track, at the peak of his physical health before he took a desk job. Running then had been easy, and never felt the same, no matter how long he spent on the treadmill.

It’s more than easy now. It’s joyful.

He laughs as he speeds out of the hangar, through the abandoned farm, past rusted bits of metal that for all he knows are just movie props (and the color is so gorgeous he could cry), under stormy skies filled with clouds that catch both light and shadow like the tempting curves of a body (he was never taking colors for granted again, ever ), toward the distant dark road and home.

Rain patters his face. He feels incredible. “You’d make a great drug dealer. Anyone ever tell you that?” he shouts.

Hastur sighs. Your bodily sensations are… distracting.

“Fuckin’ A, they are!” Tim says, and laughs as he runs on.

#

He doesn’t want to run all the way home (only because it will take too long), so he finally slows down and pulls up his rideshare app. That’s when he discovers that his real estate agent called him twelve times in the last day, leaving twelve messages.

That… dims the joy a bit. He listens to voicemails while he waits for his ride.

Insurance, she says. Police, she talks about. Contract, she warns.

It comes down to this: the house was damaged in a mysterious incident investigators fortunately think has something to do with a wild animal. While the buyer technically closed three days before on Friday, since they hadn’t taken possession yet, it falls to Tim to repair it—or they can, and will, back out.

The good news is insurance will cover it.

The bad news is Tim needs to make a police report and answer all kinds of questions and find affordable handymen in a limited amount of time.

“Fuuuuuck,” he mutters as he hits message ten.

This is an unnecessary complication. We don’t have time for this.

“Yeah, well, unless you fancy living in a box in an alleyway, it’s very much necessary,” says Tim, listening to the final two messages. “Damn it. I’m going to have to make a police report.”

How do you know Kayne has my book? says Hastur, circling back.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Tim says, raising his hand to get the driver’s attention. “I don’t even know what verb to use. I didn’t see, I didn’t feel. It was like…” He grips his own arm, hugging himself. “It was just… too much? It was awful. I think if he hadn’t thrown me back out again, I’d have exploded.”

You transformed the spell, Hastur whispers.

“Sure? Into what? Here we go.” And he’s in the car. “Hello! Sorry for the mess—had a great hike,” he says, and keeps the charm on until the driver is happy to have him no matter how he smells. Then pulls out his earphones. “Gotta take this call, sorry.”

If he has my book, Tim, I’m in trouble.

“Pretty sure you were already,” Tim murmurs into the mouthpiece.

Not like this. One: because much of my power is bound into it. Its absence limits me greatly. Two: because of my failsafe. When my host dies, I am returned to the book. It is the ultimate way to prevent me from going to the Dark World.

“Um… that doesn’t seem super smart? Books are really flammable, buddy. Don’t know if you knew that.”

Not my book.

“Not your book, okay,” says Tim.

My book was created by me and for me.

“Uh, huh,” says Tim, watching the city slide by.

It has protections, backups, layers upon layers of safety woven into the fabric of its pages. You could drop it in a volcano, and it would be whole and unblemished when it finally came free as the earth spewed its substance.

“Are you serious?”

You could drop it to the bottom of the sea, and it would be pristine as some fool of a fisherman pulled it from the depths and opened it to see what it said.

“Shit, really?”

It has never failed to work in thousands of years… until you.

Tim stills. “Failed to work?”

And now,  even if I can find a way to avoid him, I’m fucked—because if something happens to you, because my soul will go straight into his hands.

So that explains why Kayne took the thing.

Guilt pounds alongside his heart. “Three thousand years of successful hiding, for whatever reason, and I completely wrecked it.” He swallows. “I’m sorry. Again. But what do you mean, failed to work?”

Hastur clams up.

Oh. Great. So that’s probably fine.

#

The magical strength boost has faded by the time he faces the stairs to his walk-up, and he is sore. He groans the whole climb. “It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since you showed up,” he mutters as he locks his door and leans against it. “Feels like a year. It’s so not fair that I have to be a grown-up right now.”

Tim. He has my book.

“Have you been thinking about that this whole time?” Tim says, and stops halfway toward his little kitchen. He remembers, just now, that he has no food.

He really wants to cry.

Yes. I can’t think of a way to get it back.

“Don’t think it matters, mate,” says Tim. “He’s got your scent now, yeah? Book or no.”

This… this isn’t supposed to happen.

And Tim isn’t supposed to be facing police and insurance challenges, either, but this isn’t the time to say. “What was supposed to happen?”

Hastur clams up again.

Tim sighs and starts digging through a box he’d labeled “LA CUCINA” for some reason he’d found funny but now can’t recall.

I can feel you searching for something.

“Yeah. Food.”

There are spells we could use to conjure it.

“I’m sure you’re not just trying to get me to trust you with magic so you can wallop me with a mind-control spell or something down the road,” Tim mutters.

Tim. With the power I suspect you have, you could do far more than that.

Tim laughs. “What?”

I think you may actually be gods-damned Merlin.

Tim snorts. “Sure. Sure I am.”

I’m not joking.

He doesn’t feel like he is joking.

A chill rushes down Tim’s body, mild shock buzzing under his bruised skin. “Well, I’d better hope I’m not, or you’re taking my body, right?”

I don’t dare. Kayne would come for me at once.

That tells him two clear things: one, if Hastur could take his body, he would. Two: he's terrified of Kayne on such a level that he won't do the one thing he's been trying to do all day. “You’re really in trouble here, aren’t you?” he says, quietly.

More than you can imagine.

He finds a box of pasta. However, there is nothing to put on the pasta. “I am not desperate enough for plain boiled noodles,” he mutters, and keeps digging. “Are you going to tell me why? And who John is? And what that first spell had been going to do? Who are you, anyway?”

That one, Hastur is happy to answer. I am the King in Yellow. I am a god of vast and unimaginable power. I am Lord of Carcosa, the Unspeakable One, the Feaster from Afar. I am the Dweller in the Depths, and Him that Slept Beneath. I am Prince of the Great Old Ones.

“Wait a second. Great Old Ones?” Tim frowns at a box of muffin mix (long out of date) requiring eggs, which he does not have.

Yes.

“That’s familiar. Wait a minute. Cthulhu? Actually like Cthulhu?”

My fool half-brother. Even now, he sleeps in your ocean, assuming some faithful remnant will awaken him. Hastur scoffs. It’s never going to happen.

Tim falls back from his crouch onto his ass, mouth open, squashing the muffin mix box. “What?”

I am the—

“Wait just a damn minute! Cthulhu? That’s real? ”

Not the way you know it. Lovecraft was a poor cipher, as many of your poets and artists have been. He took in some information, went mad, and bungled the rest.

“Okay, I need a second. Right? Just fucking… hold on.” Tim shakes his head. “I’ve played board games with these names. King in Yellow? Wait—fuck, that was… there’s a book.”

Yes. Inaccurate, but yes.

“I don’t remember it, anyway. Skipped reading it. Nearly fucked that exam, but I didn’t care. I was already graduating.” Tim rubs his face. “It’s real?”

Some of it.

“So… so I’ve got a god in my head. An actual god. Is what you’re saying.”

Yes.

Mr. Eager, dark and hungry. Big spooky.

Funny, though. Tim would have bet money a god would be more… alien. “And who the fuck was John? I’m not familiar with the whole Cthulhu mythos, but I’m pretty sure I’d remember a god named John.”

Silence.

“Fucking Cthulhu,” Tim mutters, heading for the bathroom and peeling off his ruined clothes.

He is not part of this.

“Sure. Wait, so when I said brothers… wow. You really misunderstood me, if monster-squid is your brother.”

No. Softer. I have lived here for a long time, mortally speaking. I understand you loved your brother like yourself.

It’s Tim’s turn to fall silent.

He tosses the shirt—it was just a freebie, anyway, from a publishing conference years ago—and finally showers.

“Weird,” he says, soaping up.

Hm?

“Touching myself. Just… bathing. And knowing you can feel it.”

I can.

“Weird. Very weird. Deeply uncomfortable.”

Just ignore it.

“Welp,” says Tim. “I am not going manky for your sake, anyway, so.”

I’m glad to hear it. I also smell what you do.

Tim snorts. “Well, that cinches it.”

Cinches what?

“Here’s what we’re doing,” says Tim, toweling dry. “We’re in trouble. I know it. You know it.”

Yes. Softly.

“So we are going on a date.”

A what?

“I’m cooking for us. I make a damn good curry, and you’ll love it.”

Tim…

“And we’re doing a proper meet-and-greet. You are going to answer my questions, because I don’t know enough to be your partner in all of this. And I suppose you’ll have questions, too.”

Tim, this is silly.

“And after that, we’re going to make a plan. Look, I’ve already started on lists.”

Lists.

“Yeah. No gods in this universe, some guy named Kayne, some guy named John, the book not working right…”

Hastur sighs. Tim. This is—

“Nope. You were about to say hopeless or just a  matter of time or something stupid like that. We’re not going there.”

Hastur pauses. I was. It is a matter of time. You’re marked. Kayne has found me. Had I full access to my own power right now, I could perhaps find another way to run from him—but I do not.

“See, right there. You’re some fucking… god. Why don’t you have full power? Why is it in the book?”

As I said, one of my failsafes. Were I to simply enter the body of a human in my fullness, they would instantly die, no matter their magical skill. I needed a way to use my power without destroying my host.

“So you put your power in a losable thing. What, you didn’t learn from the One Ring?”

That fiction hardly existed when I was designing my escape, Hastur says loftily.

“See? That can be one of the things we’re talking about. That book. And what you meant by failed. ”

Tim… there’s little point to this.

“Bullshit. I’m not giving up so easy.” He has a few cuts that need butterfly strips, but most of the issue is bruising. He feels damned lucky.

You are so young, Hastur murmurs.

“Hey, now,” says Tim. “I’m gonna be thirty in a month.”

All of thirty years. Well.

“I can buy beer, and everything,” Tim says, heading for the door and grabbing his shopping bag.

What are you doing?

“Food. I know you feel how hungry we are.”

I do. Low. You really didn’t have anything here but a bit of peanut butter and bread?

Tim walks down the stairs, thoughtful. “I’ve been really low for a while, Hastur. It’s just… it’s just true. What happened to my brother was the final straw, but… yeah.”

That is unfortunate. You deserve better, Tim, Hastur purrs.

“Save it for the date.” Tim enters the small store.

This shop is one of the reasons he chose the apartment he did, even without elevators. It takes very little time to find what he needs for a damn good (if simple) curry, along with some other foods for breakfasts and possible midday meals.

“Might be a bit optimistic here,” he says. “I’ll get stuff for three days. That way, if we’re caught up in another dimension or something, I won’t have to feel too bad about food going bad.”

Very forward-thinking.

“You want something to drink?”

I… don’t know if it would affect me.

“Pretty sure it would.” He buys some lager.

Hastur sighs, but Tim knows he’s at least amused by all this.

Tim is just fucking hungry. “Hope you’re ready to answer questions.”

Do you think to get me drunk, and thus more honest?

“Yep!”

Hastur scoffs.

#

Tim wasn’t kidding.

He feels a little relaxation is deserved, after all of this, and his last act as an adult (in his mind) is to call his agent and set up a meeting for tomorrow. He still has to go to the police, but he will do it later.

For now, there’s curry to make.

That smells divine, Hastur says as Tim sautees garlic and onion. Perhaps I have been in my book for too long.

“How long? Why were you in there so long?”

Nearly seventy years. And because there were no worthwhile candidates.

Whoop, into the fucking later box with that. “We are about to drink beer on an empty stomach.”

Do as you wish.

Tim does. He’s into his second bottle before the curry is ready, and he hums as he stirs in the tomato puree. He feels great. Really damn buzzed. “Hope you’re watching, Bouchard!” he says, and toasts the ceiling above the stove.

He probably is. There is the tiniest hesitation. He’s probably touching himself.

Tim starts giggling.

Hastur laughs, low and wicked-sounding.

“Victory!” says Tim. Stove off (he double-checked), enormous curry filling a bowl meant to feed a family, Tim chows down.

Fuck! Hastur declares as approval of Tim’s cooking.

“Fuckin’ A,” agrees Tim, and eats the whole damn thing.

#

He lies on his mattress, staring at the ceiling. It has a sheet. He feels this is as far as he’s going to go right now. “That was a lot of beer.”

It was delicious, Tim. In my court, you would be celebrated as a chef of great renown.

Tim starts giggling. “Oh. Good. That’s what I want with my life. Line-cook.”

Oh, no, says Hastur. You would cook only for me.

“Oh, right, of course,” says Tim. “Who’s John?”

A beat. Do we have to do this now?

“Come on, Hastur.” Tim reaches and shakes his own hand. “We’re working together. I’m not giving up.”

You were giving up on yourself, though.

“Yeah,” says Tim. “But it’s different when you’re trying to help someone else, yeah?”

Hastur sounds a little choked. You really would do that?

“Yeah.”

But you’re not an acolyte.

“No, I told you—not all living things are assholes. That’s all.” And his instinct says to go quiet.

To let Hastur sit in it.

To see what he does.

John… was part of me.

Tim inhales. Hastur was actually talking? “What does that mean?”

I… made a mistake. I was cut in half. But I am a god; I am not like you. Thus, the part cut away was sentient. And he… first, he died. I couldn’t reach him. Then, he was summoned back completely by accident—bound to a book by people who thought they were trapping him. If they’d known where he was, they would have left him there.

“There, as in... the Dark World?”

Yes. But his book was designed poorly. It killed the first several people who opened it. They exploded.

“Fuck.”

Indeed. Then, someone didn’t. A human man named Arthur Lester. But… but my John… didn’t remember anything. Anything; who he was, what he was. Where he belonged. And Arthur took advantage of him. The two of them… stumbled around, and… and...

Hastur was getting emotional.

“Hey, it’s okay,” says Tim, patting his own hand. “We don’t judge here. This is the… the safe-space bed. Yeah.”

Is it?

“I haven’t even had sex on this one,” he says. “It's brand-new.”

Hastur laughs.

Tim laughs, too.

I do like you, Tim, Hastur says, and then snarls: You are... nothing … like Arthur Lester.

“Yeah, so the way you say that? It’s bad. You don’t like him.”

No. I hated him. Hated… him. He entangled with John. He… kept him from me.

“Kept him?”

He even convinced John that he didn’t want to come home!

Oh. Oh. Oh, Tim has a bad feeling about that situation and Hastur's understanding of it. “Oh.”

Hastur puffs. I did everything to get him back! I asked. I ordered. I tortured.

“Oh,” says Tim, his eyes enormous.

It didn’t work. Finally, I had to break Arthur’s legs.

“Well, fuck that guy, I guess,” says Tim, who can feel his eyes are even wider, and wonders if Hastur can feel that, too.

It… worked. For a while. John came home! But he wouldn't... he wouldn't join. And then Kayne showed up out of nowhere and took John away again!

“I feel like I’m missing a lot of context,” says Tim. “But it sounds awful. Why’d he do that?”

I don’t know. Hastur’s voice breaks. He found them fascinating. I didn’t even… I never fucked around with Outer Gods. Why would I do that? I didn’t even know him!

“And an Outer God is different from a Great Old One?”

He is more powerful than I am even than I am more powerful than you are.

Tim has to take a moment to parse that. “Fuck,” he finally says.

But with all his fascination, and his… his interfering … he said he’d kill them someday. And eventually, he did. He just… Hastur’s voice shakes now. He just did.

“Oh,” whispers Tim.

And then I knew he was coming for me. I knew. He said he was coming for me, and he'd done what he said with them.

“So… you ran.”

He just killed them. They didn’t do anything wrong. He just… got bored.

Those last four words fill Tim with such broad, undefined fear that he shivers. “And why did you come here? No gods?”

The Powers. The fear-eaters that rule this timeline. They ate the gods. All of them. There’s none left here.

“None?”

Ah, Tim… Hastur breathes it. You have no idea what was lost. The variety; the power. Certain magics tied to gods, or magical beasts or elements, vanishing along with their creators. It is a tragedy. This place is a veritable wasteland, comparatively, compared to other worlds.

“And… he wouldn’t look for you here?” Tim yawns.

No. Why would I come here? I ran from him out of fear, and this place is dangerous.

“You’re like a mouse hiding between the front paws of the cat out to eat it,” says Tim.

Yes! That. I’m that. I'm. It’s that.

“Seems like it worked. Until me.” Tim sniffles.

Oh, Tim… I don’t blame you. I know your… kind of person. I know all about kinds of people.

“All of them, huh?” Tim blows his nose.

Yes! I’ve enjoyed… I’ve spent my time here… I’ve done everything.

Tim does not laugh. Somehow. “Shibari?”

Pfft, that’s only been popular since the Edo period. Of course I’ve done shibari.

Yow. "In… bodies. Chosen for you.”

Yes!

“Stolen?” very softly.

No! Most of the time, anyway. They were raised for me. Knew what they’re doing. It is an act of worship.

“Fucking… cultists? But how can you have cultists and… and breeding programs, or whatever, and nobody knew?”

Because the world’s full of cults. Mine just happens to be real.

Tim is sure he could argue with that if he were sober, but he is not. So. “And Kayne’s chasing you just… because?”

I don’t know the original reason. But… I suppose now, because I got away from him. I think my success is what fueled his rage.

“That tracks. Wow. Is he a god of death, or something?”

No. He is child of the Blind Idiot God, and… Hastur pauses. What was I saying?

“Kayne. Blind Idiot God?”

No, he’s not the Blind Idiot God. He’s child of the… of that. There’s only like… a dozen beings that powerful. And he’s an ass.

Tim starts giggling. “You said ass.”

Hastur laughs, too.

Tim has more questions. He does. Or he did. Right now, he can’t remember them. He rolls onto his side, pulling the blanket up to his chin, still giggling. “Ass.”

Ha! You said it this time.

“You’re not so bad like this,” yawns Tim, eyes closing.

Well. Well, you.

“We’re not done talking,” murmurs Tim. “Promise me.”

I promise, Tim.

“Keeping track of your promises,” Tim murmurs, and falls into an exhausted sleep.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, chapter 12 - Afterparty, a Malevolent x TMA crossover

The Desolation works by feeding genuine anger, sending it out of containment, out of control.

What a shame Hastur ensured Tim's anger is genuine tonight.

Chapter 12 of Corrupted, a Malevolent x TMA crossover.

AO3

---------------

Tim takes a moment.

Freaking out on public transport will help no one. Although, he admits, freaking out also seems like the thing to do.

He makes a list.

One: magic power confirmed—including more of it than Hastur seems to know what to do with, which is a problem, because if Hastur doesn’t know how to handle it, Tim doubts he can pick up a book and learn.

Two: he does not need to use the growl-language (which is good, because it makes his mouth taste like charcoal).

Three: the magic can be overused, which makes sense—it’s like a muscle, and he has to strengthen it slowly.

Four: overusing it leads to… blackout? Eye loss? Is that what happened?

He doesn’t know what happened. “What happened?”

“Well,” says Jon, “Hastur is an asshole, for one.”

The dark chuckle in his mind makes that sound far worse than Jon’s words, and Tim looks more closely at him.

Jon is mussed. His hair is out of place, falling slightly into his eyes. His sweater vest is stretched out oddly—like maybe someone grabbed a fistful of it and pulled. He’s missing his two top shirt buttons.

Jon’s skin is dark, and it’s not super light in here, but Tim thinks there might—just might—be the beginning of a bruise on his jaw.

Right. Okay. Sure.

This anger isn’t a bubble. It isn’t a flame. It’s a rising heat, invisible, permeating.

“Are you all right?” says Tim evenly.

Jon huffs, and won’t meet his eyes, and might be trying to convince himself. “I’m fine. Your resident psychopath is demanding and absolutely insulting. When you fell, he somehow took over.” Jon pauses and meets Tim’s eyes for this part: “I’m glad you’re back. I was worried you were… gone.”

“Not yet.” The anger is growing, growing, rising. “What happened?”

Jon scoffs, and it is an amazing scoff (and if Tim were in a better mood, he’d want to bottle that and do it at rude people for fun, but oh, he is not in a better mood). “After all of that, he refused to do anything helpful, and insisted I buy us tickets to Cornwall, and then feed him, and keep an eye out—we are being followed, by the way—and here we are. Another hour and a half until we get there, and I don’t know what the plan is in Cornwall at nine at night, but maybe King Tantrum does.”

He’s much more confident now that you’re back, says Hastur, sounding so darkly amused. You were right, by the way. He’s endearing. I like his whimpers. Perhaps we’ll keep him, after all.

The heat grows. Tim licks his lips. “Hey—are you sure you’re okay? You can go. I don’t give a fuck what Bouchard or Hastur said. You’re free, Jon.”

Jon looks at him. In his eyes is fear, and hunger—and hunger is the wrong word, Tim realizes now, because that’s not hunger. That’s need. “I’ve got to see this through. I have my reasons. I… maybe I’ll tell you. In time. But I’ve got to see this through.”

Tim nods. He wants to grip his shoulder, or some other affirming contact, but he won’t touch Jon again without permission after whatever just happened. He stands. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be here.” Jon returns to what he was doing, which appears to be reading files from his bag and scribbling things in his notebook. Just nerdy things, harmless things.

And now, at that angle, Tim can definitely see a bruise.

The heat inside him blooms. It eases any aches or pains, any tiredness, reaches from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. 

He leaves, and Hastur is silent. He walks slowly and casually toward the restroom, where he waits outside it for a minute or so while it is vacated, and Hastur is silent. Calmly, Tim steps in, and calmly locks the door behind him.

He looks in the mirror, and barely knows what he sees.

Rage has transformed him. One eye is the bright gold of blazing fire; the other is a strange, sickly yellow—and it’s not the yellow one he sees through. Rage has sharpened his features and reddened his cheeks, shadowed his eyes and popped the vessels on his neck as though he’s straining to lift great weight.

Rage has filled him like poison gas, and he’s breathing more every second.

Is there a problem, Tim? Says Hastur, completely chill.

“Yeah, a couple of them,” Tim says, and he barely recognizes his voice, either—the bitter anger, the low and simmering violence. “So. You hurt him?”

Funny. I thought you’d be more concerned about the eye.

“Oh, we’ll get to that, assuming I don’t fucking pluck it out and flush it down the toilet.” It doesn’t even feel strange to say.

Now, Tim, chides Hastur, and Tim decides that Hastur isn’t afraid enough.

“Do you think I’m joking?”

Hastur feels... cautious. I think that whatever Kayne did means that when you overexert yourself—a deeply common thing among first-time magic-users, practically inevitable—I gain a body part.

“Cool, cool,” says Tim. “So I guess I’d better go find those guys who want to eat you before you gain any more? Huh?”

And Hastur had not expected that.

Maybe he should have. 

(Maybe he had expected a different response because Arthur had had a different response, and he was overconfident—and Tim’s not sure how he knows that, or knows something like this happened to Arthur, but he knows.)

You’d die, too.

“Ooh, big scary threat, there. I’m already doomed by the fucking narrative, aren’t I? Gonna go out one way or another. Maybe I want to do it knowing you’re going out screaming like a little bitch.”

There’s a pause. And Tim knows that Hastur just became aware of the rage.

(And Hastur was right—it took root because the seeds were already there, because Tim’s anger at Jon being bullied with his body is real, and this Desolation—this other thing—is feeding it nitro.)

Tim hesitates, too.

There’s some reason he’s supposed to fight this. He can’t recall it. Not right now.

It’s a moment balanced on the head of a pin.

I… mistreated him, yes, because I panicked, Hastur says carefully, as if testing lily pads to see which might hold his weight and not drop him into the depths below. After what happened, I was sure we were being targeted, and we needed to leave—and I needed him to cooperate, and he wasn’t. I panicked.

“Not sure I believe you, buddy,” says Tim, who still can’t remember the reason why he shouldn’t listen to this anger, why he shouldn’t give in to the urge to tear out his own eye, why he shouldn’t just go to the front and crash the whole damn train and laugh his way through all the glorious screaming.

There’s a reason. There’s something.

Ask Jon. He'll tell you. Hastur finally sounds scared. Tim. I need you to listen to me. It’s trying to claim you.

“Sure. Re-run. Already marked.”

No. Not marked. It’s trying to get you to do something… terrible, making you one of its avatars. Easy, Tim.

“Says the guy who bullied the nerd who was just trying to help?”

He wasn’t trying to help. He argued, and demanded answers, and we were being hunted, and he acknowledged it, and still wouldn’t move!

“Then why didn’t you walk away, Hastur?” says Tim. “Why didn’t you just fucking leave? Open another portal and go.”

Hastur hesitates.

And suddenly, Tim knows. “That Kayne guy is pretty cruel, huh?” he says. “Isn’t he? Isn’t he?”

Yes. Softer.

“So, hey—since he’s done all the extra fuckening here, I’ve got a guess,” says Tim, spitballing and knowing he does it with accuracy. “When you got my body? You didn’t get even a fucking ounce of my magic power.”

Silence.

Tim’s cruel smirk in the mirror shocks him. Oh, it looks good; all of Tim’s expressions look good, sexy as hell, but it is cruel. He does not like it. This isn’t him. This isn’t who he wants to be.

He remembers why he fights.

No, Hastur admits. It was completely sealed from me. I was... powerless.

“So we’ve got a situation,” says Tim. “We’re both holding the same damn body hostage.”

Yes.

“Were you so fucking smug because beating up on a little guy made you feel powerful again?”

A pause. Maybe.

He doesn’t want to be this. Tim concentrates, staring at himself. Looking himself in the eye instead of Hastur. Remembering who he is and who he wants to be. Who Danny would want him to be.

His fire-gold eye has gone back to brown, and Hastur is relieved.

So is Tim. He’s still pretty pissed—but it’s his anger now, not that rage, not something that wants to hurt people. “You like hurting people smaller than you?”

A pause.

Hastur’s voice is low, and just a little strained. I’ve never been this powerless. Never. I’ve lived ten thousand upon ten thousand years, and I have never been this powerless.

It’s an admission. A confession to something that absolutely excused nothing, but exposed a struggle Hastur was having, hidden.

“Did you think I’d judge you for it?” says Tim, guessing.

I am a god, Tim. I am eternal. Compared to you, I am all-knowing. All-powerful.

Tim hears, this is my identity, and it’s all been taken away.

Tim exhales, leaning on the sink, head down. "You're a fucking idiot. You know that, right? You owe him an apology."

I will not apologize for making that wet rag of a man move. He’s a coward. He froze. We had to get out of that place and into something more public.

“You can get him to move without being monstrous. You will apologize.”

Silence.

“I mean it, Hastur. Apologize. I’ll convey it, but you’re gonna do it.”

Why?

And it is the absolute oddest thing in the world, the way Hastur says that. Tim knows with every inch of his being that Hastur is genuinely asking.

He's listening. Mister ten-thousand-upon-ten-thousand years is listening. This answer mattered.

Tim swallows. “Because he’s weaker,” he says. “That makes it our responsibility to look out for him.”

Hastur scoffs, but it’s not a big sound.

“Look. There are other big gods, right? Like Kayne. Wouldn’t it be great if one of them had that attitude and fucking helped you?”

Hastur goes dead silent.

Tim decides to let that rest and hope it takes root. “Apologize by the time we get back. I’m getting him another tea. Did you remember what kind he bought?”

Herbal. He wanted to calm down.

“Gee, I fucking wonder why.” But it lacks the venom it did. It sounds lighter.

Tim feels a little bit lighter. Like he opened the window, and let out some of that poisoned heat.

It’s still there, though. Still beckoning. Tempting. Calling. “What did you mean, avatar?” he says softly.

Someone knocks on the restroom door, and Tim jumps.

I… will explain in a bit. Hastur is shaken. Let me think up an apology for your pet first.

“Ass.” But neither of them are as pointed as they were. Tim washes his hands for the sake of whoever might be listening, and leaves.

#

Jon is in full geek-mode when Tim returns. The tip of his tongue pokes between his lips; he’s spread out—or his papers have—on him, the seat beside him, and the seat beside where Tim was residing.

“Hey,” says Tim, offering tea.

For one second, Jon looks blankly at him, as though waking from a dream. “Oh! You didn’t have to do that.” And visibly remembering manners: “Thank you.”

“Hastur’s got something to say to you,” says Tim.

Jon flinches. “He’s said plenty.”

“Not this,” says Tim. “He wants to apologize.”

Jon’s look is highly skeptical.

Tim shakes his head. “No, he’s not sorry. He wants you to know that in the scope of cosmic eternity, he has erred a few times out of emotional compromise, and that he feels this may have been one.”

“Are you serious?" says Jon.

“Believe it or not, yes. He means it. I think it’s the best we’re going to get—but I think he's not gonna hurt you anymore, if that happens again.”

Jon is so solemn. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”

“He hurt you.” Tim looks pointedly at Jon’s jaw.

Jon reddens deeper. “I wasn’t… well. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I don’t give a damn what you were doing. It wasn’t right.”

Jon won’t look at him.

Tim breathes slowly. “'Kay, let's put that can of worms away for a bit. Tea smells good.”

“It does. Thank you.”

“What are you working on, anyway?”

Jon abruptly brightens like the sun and proceeds to go off.

He’s gesturing. Pointing. Picking up paper and waving it as if to prove his point. It’s a wild and rambling tale about a weird halfway house for kids, or something like that, where people disappear, and there’s something odd about a table, and it apparently burned down, and—

Tim laughs after a while. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Elias gave me all of this on the way out, and it’s fascinating,” says Jon. “I’m going to be digging into this for weeks. Do you know the Catholic Church doesn’t even have records of the place—even though, for years, they sent children there to be rehabilitated? How about that!”

“How about that,” says Tim, grinning.

Ridiculous. Hastur sounds grumpy.

How, Tim wonders, could Hastur not like this guy? “You’re welcome to tell me anything you find.”

“Really?” Jon pushes his glasses up his nose and grins. “You may regret that.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. I love dorky stuff like this. It’s fun,” says Tim, and the train begins to slow.

Jon starts shoving papers back into his bag.

#

Penzance is not jumping this time of night, at least around this station. Tim and Jon are the only ones to disembark, and as the train pulls away, the heebie-jeebies take its place.

Tim looks left. He looks right. "Are we, ah, still being followed?"

“Yes,” says Jon.

“By what or whom? I don't see anything.”

“I can’t… explain that, but we are,” says Jon defensively.

“I believe you.”

Jon’s shoulders relax.

I still can’t detect them, either. You could use a spell. Invisibility, protection—

“Nope,” says Tim. “Little gun-shy right now, thanks. Not really keen to lose my other eye? Anyway.” He studies the address and checks it against his phone. “It looks like we’re being sent to the lighthouse. I mean, you’d think we’d be going to St. Michael’s Mount or something, but no—instead it’s some lighthouse from 1965.”

Jon clutches his bag to his side as if fearful someone will take his research.

“Let’s head out to the street. Get a rideshare.”

“Sure,” says Jon, looking around.

“Where… where are we being watched from?” says Tim.

Jon points.

Down the track, into the darkness, hidden in spite of the bright red lights on the back of the departing train.

Tim can't see anything, and that just figures. "Fuck that noise,” he says, and hurries for the exit with Jon on his heels.

#

“Gonna take a hot minute for the guy to get here,” says Tim, checking his app. "Looks like all the parties are happening on the other side of town."

“It’s too empty,” says Jon.

“I mean… I did just say the thing about the parties,” says Tim.

“No. No, it…” Jon stops.

Make him speak.

“It what?” says Tim.

“Nothing,” Jon says, firmly and a little sharp.

Make him speak.

“Hey,” says Tim, gently. “I won’t judge you. I’m inclined to believe you—you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, and you see what I can’t. Please tell me.”

Jon looks at him. “It’s unnaturally empty. And it sounds stupid when I say that out loud.”

“No, I think you’re right, though I don’t know what it means. Um. Let’s walk a little, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They do.

There’s nothing objectively wrong. It’s quiet; the lights of the city glint in perfectly normal fashion all up the coast. Occasional cars pass. The streets are empty, shops closed up for the night.

Tim. I need to teach you some protective spells.

“Hey, let’s table the magic stuff until we are, maybe, in a room somewhere, nice and safe, no stress, and we can figure it out without letting lions loose?” says Tim.

You are the one who did that.

"Details," Tim says expansively. “Speaking of lions...”

“I, er, called,” says Jon. “I left several reports with various agencies. I feel confident the lioness will be contained by morning.”

“See?” says Tim. “He’s good to have around.”

I prefer him whimpering, says Hastur.

"Excuse me?" huffs Jon.

"Yeah, I'm not repeating that," says Tim.

Jon stops dead.

Tim almost runs into him. “What? What?”

Jon is staring at an alleyway. It’s exactly the same as every other alleyway they’ve passed, with one exception; there’s a guy standing in it.

He’s swaying, clearly drunk. Tim almost expects to hear the guy mumbling to himself, or maybe singing something. 

Except Jon… has gone pale, almost gray. Unblinking. And has begun to shake.

“Can I have a cigarette?” says the guy in the alley.

Jon takes a step toward it. Then he takes a step back. His shaking is visible.

There is nothing objectively wrong. Tim knows it’s all wrong. “Um. Maybe we should…”

“Can I have a cigarette?” says the guy again, exactly the same way.

“Stop,” whispers Jon. “It’s… it’s calling.”

It is. Tim can feel it—a weird gravity toward this person, an urge to lean in, get closer, get near.

Jon’s breath has gone shaky and shallow. “No,” he whispers.

“Can I have a cigarette?”

Tim and Jon lock eyes for one second, and without any verbal communication, they run.

And was it Tim's imagination that something reached behind them, some shape from the shadows, trying to grab them like a hand in a sock?

“Can I have a cigarette?” the guy calls after them, exactly the same, no change, and Jon whimpers and somehow picks up speed.

They’re pelting up the street, which is hard, and leaves them both panting; gravity fights them, the pull of that thing fights them, and Tim does not understand what just happened, but he will never hear that question again without a frisson of genuine fear. “What the fuck is happening?” he shouts.

Headlights from behind suddenly cast their shadows in sharp distortion up the hill, and the driver honks.

Jon yips as though shot.

Tim glances over his shoulder.

It’s a big car. Black and shiny, clearly expensive. He’s not sure of the make, but it just has that look, the way the hood ornament glints, the tint of the windows, the raw size.

The driver honks again.

“Hey! Jon, I think…” Tim slows to a stop.

Jon continues for a few torturous seconds upward until he realizes Tim isn’t with him, then runs back to his side, panting, eyes enormous, glasses askew.

The car stops, too. The window rolls down. A young woman sits there—just a person, brown curly hair to her shoulders, wire frame glasses. “Tim Stoker? Jonathan Sims?”

Jon looks ready to bolt again.

“Maybe?” says Tim.

“Hello,” she says. “You weren’t outside the station—I might have gotten the times wrong. I’m Harriet Fairchild. On behalf of the Stratosphere Group, welcome. Do get in.”

Tim laughs.

He can’t help it; it’s a nervous reaction, a disbelieving reaction, because today has been making deals with Eye-priests and letting lions loose in the zoo and creepy guys in alleyways and now this. 

(And he’s lost an eye, which he will not deal with yet.)

She just looks at him, dry.

Jon is shaking so badly his teeth chatter.

“Is this the one who was following us?” says Tim to Jon.

Jon shakes his head no.

“Was the thing in the alley?”

Jon shakes his head no.

“Since when is England full of monsters?” Tim says.

Oh, Tim… the monsters never left.

“Not helping,” Tim mutters. “Who’s this person? Do you know her?”

“I don’t—wait, Fairchild?” says Jon.

“Yes,” says Harriet Fairchild. “Please get in. It’s not particularly safe on this stretch of road at night, and I’d prefer to get moving.”

“I know that name,” says Jon, frowning, evidently accessing some mental Rolodex.

“Sure, but, uh.” Tim looks back down the hill. It really seems like several of the street lamps have gone off. That, or the shadows grew in spite of them. “You know what? Let’s,” he says with cheer, and opens the door. “Go on, buddy. I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Jon stares at him with big, shiny eyes, then crawls in.

Tim crawls in after.

Harriet drives. It’s a sedate pace, hardly rushing. “Ground Control” by Bowie is playing.

It's all just so weird. “So, uh,” says Tim, dearly hoping his charming nature still works in spite of everything that went weird today. “Who sent you to get us?”

“Mister Fairchild did—on behalf of the Magnus Institute, I believe, though you’ll have to get the details from him.”

Jon is on his knees on the seat, peering out the back window. Suddenly, he spins. “Why did that work?” he demands.

“Why did what work?” says Harriet.

“We’ve been followed since London. Why did they suddenly stop?”

“Oh,” she says. “You’re guests of the Vast this evening, gentlemen. It’s just a territory thing—though I can hardly guarantee anybody’s safety if you act out, or—well—after it’s all said and done. But for this moment, you're safe.”

“The Vast?” Tim mouths at Jon.

Jon shrugs.

Deep inside Tim, Hastur trembles, but says nothing. Tim gets the impression he’s trying, somehow, to hide.

“Vast equals monster, got it,” Tim murmurs, and finally buckles in. “Guess we’re in it now.”

“I am not getting paid enough for this,” says Jon, and he is absolutely serious, and that gives Tim the first genuine laugh he’s had in hours.

#

Tim’s checking his phone as they arrive. There is definitely not a mansion listed here in any map.

Though “mansion” may be the wrong word. They’re usually sprawling things, encompassing, eating ground and spitting out unused bedrooms and too many swimming pools, but this one doesn’t do that. This one goes straight up.

Tim stares up at it, standing beside the fancy car (which Tim has still not been able to identify). It goes up fifteen stories. “Well, that can’t be up to code,” he says, because they are in the middle of nowhere, and this thing has to be a flight hazard. It’s not exactly the cliffs of Dover, but they’re high up. Unseen water crashes below, and that cliff is far closer to this heavy building than Tim thinks is perhaps wise.

Jon is still trembling. “I remembered,” he whispers.

“In we go, chop-chop,” says Harriet, who is no-nonsense, whose skirt and jacket and vicious heels brook no argument, and she leads them to the front door with imperious steps.

“He’s the subject of several statements,” Jon whispers.

“Wait,” says Tim. “Wait until we’re alone, yeah?”

Jon doesn’t look like he wants to wait. He looks like he’s ready to go cliff-dive to get away.

“Come on,” says Tim. “Think of it this way—if we’re walking into the house of some kind of momentous bad guy, at least we’ll learn some weird stuff before we die. Right?”

He’d been kidding, but that perks Jon up. “Yes. Yes, you’re right. It’s worth the risk. You’re right.”

Don’t tell them of me. Please.

Tim leans so his lips touch Jon’s ear. “Mum’s the word on astur-Hay.”

Jon's lips tighten in a line, and he nods.

The door opens into a bizarrely cavernous front room. At least three stories have to be taken up just by this—huge, high and wide, and empty.

Tim feels small. Weirdly small. It’s not something he’s used to.

Please, whispers Hastur.

Tim doesn’t know what else to do, so he takes his left hand in his right and taps the back a couple of times as if to say he’s heard.

Harriet leads them on, and on. On, and on; so far. Vast must mean magical architecture, Tim thinks, and then suddenly they take a left into a room.

It’s not quite as high, but it’s just as ridiculous; enormous, a table with dozens of empty seats stretching into the gloom, and just one small lamp by the head. It's impossible not to feel diminished in here, insignificant.

A little old man sits at the head. He’s beaming at them; if he weighs a hundred pounds, Tim will eat his shorts. “Hello!” says the little old man in the cheeriest voice Tim has ever heard. “Do take a seat, would you? Oh, we have so much to discuss tonight!” 

“You’re Simon Fairchild,” says Jon breathlessly. “You… the Daedalus, and…”

“Yes, he did say one of his little people would be alone for the ride,” says Fairchild with incredible warmth, and gestures to the seats on either side of him. “Come, now, we don’t have all night—and I’d really rather get to the afterparty, if you understand me.” 

“I don’t?” says Tim.

“You will!” chirps the old man, who sounds inviting and delightful.

And every hair on Tim’s body is standing on end.

Jon sits without blinking, staring at him. “Did you really go skydiving without a parachute?”

Fairchild laughs. “Eager, aren’t you? Oh, come, Mister Stoker, you’re the star of the evening, after all! What can I get you? We have all the good boozes, plus silly little fun drinks, fruit juices, water… the lot. We’re rather thirsty around here.” And he laughs for no reason Tim can understand.

“Think I ought to stick with water just for the moment,” says Tim. “I mean. I don’t even know what’s happening?”

“Oh, you don’t?” says Fairchild, sounding absolutely delighted. “You’re here to meet Junior!”

“To… what?”

“To meet a friend of mine,” says Fairchild, “who will help you with your… little extraction problem.”

Tim, whispers Hastur, and he is very afraid.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, chapter 21 - a TMA x Malevolent crossover staring Tim Stoker and the King in Yellow

Tim rubs his face. “Hopefully, Jon knows something, but I don’t think he does. What I want to know is why that guy went to talk to him in the hospital? How’d he even find him? And what he meant with… shit. I don’t think I can ever get his voice out of my head.” He drawls a terrible Southern accent. “‘Tastier than you were, by golly?’ ‘I think I’ll let you marinate a bit more?’ ‘A fuckin’ proper feast?’ Who talks like that?”

One who relishes his violence and the terror it brings.

That was a bad tone, inching toward hopeless. “I’ll tell you who. Foghorn Fucking Leghorn.”

Hastur chokes. It doesn’t sound like he knows what sound to make, and several tried to escape him at once.

Tim’s not done. There will be no drowning on his watch. -----

Chapter twenty-one of Corrupted, a TMA x Malevolent fic starring Tim Stoker and the King in Yellow.

AO3

--------------------------

Myrddin is true to his word, and Tim is left alone.

He sleeps better here than he has in recent memory. It’s so peaceful; probably magically so, he thinks, as he finally gets up, and it’s only now he realizes he’s not even wearing his own clothes.

It’s a simple shirt and trousers, surprisingly soft. The stitches are even, and it’s all sort of gently dyed—a beige shirt, darker trousers, thick socks. No underwear, which is wild as he has no memory of being dressed in this. “How out of it was I?” he mutters, plucking at the odd homespun. “I look like a Renfaire reject.”

Considerably more attractive than most, Hastur opines.

“Thanks. Rude. Not helping,” says Tim, and stands, stretching, cracking his back. “So, uh. Did uncle Ganduman out there dress me?”

No. I did.

Whew. “Thanks.”

Ganduman, now?

“Gandalf. Saruman. Some kind of horrible freakish hybrid.” Tim shrugs. “I don’t know if I believe him. Or this. Or if he’s good or bad.”

Hastur’s mood turns dark. He is who he says he is.

Oh, boy. Sounded like a history lesson incoming. (And it still amazes Tim that apparently not everyone can just feel how those around them are feeling. He’s always done that. Assumed it was normal.) “When did you recognize him?”

Once he drew us from the sea like fish in an invisible net. Once we were on shore, close, and I stood up in your body and saw him with your eyes.

“Spooky,” says Tim.

Hastur stays dark. I knew of him before, but reputation, and occasional witness. He fought off the Fey courts on his own, Tim, a thousand years ago, during the Unseelie and Seelie push for blood purity.

“The what?” says Tim very softly. “The what?”

They attacked the Norman city of London, determined to remove any who were not purely human or purely Fey, Hastur says. And this being—this Myrddin—whom everyone had assumed dead, said… no.

“No?” Tim squeaks.

He blew their armies away. He batted aside the unified power of the Scepter and Throne like they were nothing.

Tim decides it’s a good plan to sit back down. “So there's... Fey? Okay, hold on. Wow. I guess that stuck with you, eh?”

Not as much as the next time he resurfaced. He went under again for about five centuries; didn’t bother with anyone or anything in the magical world, until some stupid Seelie prince tried to attack him for… I still don’t know. Reputation? I don’t know. Myrddin defeated him, burned the royal orchards to ash, and took home the only remaining seeds that the Fey had cultivated for untold millennia. That’s why the apples on this island are unique, Tim, compared to any in the world. That’s why those apples are immune to blight. He disappeared again after that, and… as all the magical beings withdrew, left the human Earth to the Fears and their gluttony, I assumed he went with them.

“Nobody thought to check?” Tim blurts.

Hastur sighs. I had my own issues going on. With so few of power left, the Fears grew hungrier. I had to hide.

“And… you recognized him? How close were you?”

I’ve crossed paths with him in various human bodies in my exploration of this world, just as a matter of proximity—it would hardly do me any good to defeat him, and out myself as a god—but in all that time, I never knew he could see me. He’s an excellent liar, Tim; but… Hastur pauses. I don’t think he’s doing it now.

“Fears didn’t eat him,” Tim points out.

He’s not afraid. If you’re not afraid, they can’t even fucking see you.

Tim’s jaw falls open. “That… why didn’t you tell me that? That’s really important information!”

Do you have a way to simply switch fear off that won’t damage you irrevocably in some other way? Because I do not.

Well. Hastur has him there. “Right. Okay. Wow. Okay. I might need to journal about this, or do interpretive dance, or something, because wow. Okay. Wow.”

Softer, Hastur says, I think I know why we ended up here.

Tim pauses in his litany. “You do? How?”

You kept calling yourself baby Merlin. It had become a joke, an amusing thing; one of your little quirks that makes you so appealing.

Tim rolls his eyes. “Sure. And?”

Another pause. I’d assumed he fled this planet, in the way so many of his contemporaries and mine. The Fears drove almost everyone out, Tim, and I hadn’t heard from him or seen him in centuries. But I knew his tower would still be here.

“His… tower. On Bardsey?” Tim frowns. “There’s a lighthouse, and like… a decrepit old abbey, and that whole twenty thousand buried saints rumor—that one was fun as fuck to shock people with in school—but there’s no tower.”

Not only is it here, it’s made of glass.

“Wh… you’re joking.”

I am not. Look. I panicked. I just wanted us away from… that thing, whatever it was, but not so far that we’d have trouble getting back once your portal-making was done, and I… thought of this island. It was close, relatively. And “baby Merlin” just made it a mental connection. I thought of it as you made your portal, and it happened. It wasn’t intentional.

So much to parse all at once. Tim inhales. “Your stray thought directed my magic?”

I think so, yes. I think I might have influenced where we came down

So this is potentially fantastic. Or horrifying. Maybe dangerous. Surely frightening… but Tim doesn’t choose to view it in a bad way. “Hey! That’s what we were trying to do, right?” he says. “You were going to help me control it?”

I can’t do it the way I wanted to. Our powers are too different; oil and water.

“No emulsify for us, eh? Too bad,” says Tim. “But still, this is epic.”

Hastur makes a low sound. Epic, you say.

“Absolutely tubular,” Tim says, deadpan.

Hastur laughs weakly. Ah. I do like you.

“Flattery will get you everywhere. Look, I trust you. If we have to figure out a way to use this utterly wonky power together, we will. Especially because of… the fuck was that guy, anyway?”

Hastur balances on the edge of dark moods again. I don’t know. Tim, I don’t know. I have lived here for thousands of years and I have never seen anything like that creature which ate the Lightless Flame’s people.

Tim shivers a little and faces the window. “That really makes him something, doesn't it? That you have no idea what he is.”

You’re only beginning to grasp the scope of it.

Tim rubs his face. “Hopefully, Jon knows something, but I don’t think he does. What I want to know is why that guy went to talk to him in the hospital. How’d he even find him? And what he meant with… shit. I don’t think I can ever get his voice out of my head.” He drawls a terrible Southern accent. “‘Tastier than you were, by golly?’ ‘I think I’ll let you marinate a bit more?’ ‘A fuckin’ proper feast?’ Who talks like that?”

One who relishes his violence and the terror it brings.

That was a bad tone, inching toward hopeless. “I’ll tell you who. Foghorn Fucking Leghorn.”

Hastur chokes. It doesn’t sound like he knows what sound to make, and several tried to escape him at once.

Tim’s not done. There will be no drowning on his watch. “Maybe Sarudalf knows.”

Hastur grunts. These names. I have no idea if they’re safe. How he’ll respond.

“They are safe,” says Tim, “or he was lying about the shared humor, and I’d like to catch him out.”

Tim, I don’t know how safe that is, either.

“Well, way I figure it, I can hope for… what the fuck was that quote? Uh. Oh yeah, something like, He’s not a tame lion, but he’s good? I think I’m mixing them up.”

He could feel Hastur gawk at him. Are you quoting the fucking Narnia books?

“The benefits of working in publishing,” says Tim expansively.

Hastur laughs, and it’s real, and it’s surprised, and Tim knows he’s pulled the god from his looming funk by redirecting that god’s gaze to himself.

Tim is fine with that. “Anyway, how long was I out?”

The whole night.

Tim peers out the window. The sea is the same, and the distant shadow of England. They’re so high up; maybe Hastur’s right and they are in a tower, though it doesn’t seem like it’s made of glass. “Right. How long ago was dawn?”

Approximately an hour.

So it’s probably about eight in the morning. “Right,” he says again. “Let’s do this. Maybe Ganduman even knows who the creepy eating guy is.” He goes for the door.

#

The hall is stone and wood, sturdily built and clean. Tim’s not unfamiliar with old castles and manors, but he can’t pinpoint the specific age of this place. There don’t seem to be any obvious architectural clues.

The hall is lined with doors, and ends in another window, also open, above stars circling down. Jon’s voice travels up them. ��—completely contradicts known and established history!”

“It certainly does,” says Myrddin. “But all written history is manufactured, anyway. Written by the victors, and all.”

Jon sputters like an overheated tea kettle. “But it’s still possible to figure out through personal accounts, verifying records—”

“Sometimes,” says Myrddin. “Other times, the real truth was lost, and those who claim to know history make it up as convenient.”

“Not without proof,” Jon says. “There are standards. Evidence.”

“Oh, let’s consider pseudoarchaeology,” Myrddin says, firm and energetic. “Pyramids exist all over the world because that shape is the most stable architectural form. There was no one superior culture that built them, no matter what is claimed. Yet there are quite a few who assume that a similarity in shape—chosen by a single species dealing with the same constraints of gravity and time—is somehow proof of aliens, or some other absurdly racist thing.”

Jon makes an unhappy sound.

“No, no, none of that. You’re not insane to question, dear boy, and given your proclivities, truth is something you can find, I promise. You simply don’t know enough yet.”

“Yet.” Jon sounds so annoyed. “How could I ever know enough? I don’t have resources like this on the mainland.”

“I feel for you, truly,” says Myrddin. “Unfortunately, none of these things can leave my home. You wouldn’t even be able to physically take them. You’re going to have to do the research on your own.”

Jon sighs. “This is very upsetting,” he says.

“I know,” says Myrddin. “Worry not. It will make sense in time, should you live long enough.”

How is this conversation somehow the healthier, flipped version of how Elias strings Jon along? Tim isn’t sure, but it is; he feels it in his gut. He finally steps out of the stairwell to find a sort of dining hall. Wooden beams arch against the vaulted, white ceiling. Windows line both sides, letting in light, and good scents, and the sound of the sea.

The table is big enough to seat twelve. The table is not big enough for all the books Jon (presumably) pulled out, and he and Myrddin are smushed at one end, hunched over tomes, arguing face to face.

“Yo,” says Tim.

“Tim!” says Jon, and leaps up so fast he knocks his chair over. He colors and turns to pick it up.

“Good morning!” says Myrddin. “How are you feeling?”

“Curious,” says Tim. “Got some questions.”

Myrddin beams. “I’d hoped you might! Speak. I’m all ears.” And he winks. “Or eyes.” And he indicates Jon with a nod of his head in the strangest, most innocent, utterly nerdiest teasing Tim has ever seen.

“Wow,” says Tim, and sits down. There isn’t room at the table for him to pull up close, or his knees would bump into the others, so he leans back, legs crossed, trying to look serious. “First off, thanks for the help. I notice Jon got the old upgrade, too.”

Jon is in an outfit similar to Tim’s, only his is dyed dark green. It’s not a color Jon often wears; he should, Tim thinks. It richens his dark skin, and brings out the sharpness of his eyes.

Myrddin has gone even campier. No longer purple, his robe is a a stiff, vaguely velveteen fabric of that particular dark blue that will absolutely stain everything in the wash. Instead of the identical (if goofy) yellow stars, now there is slightly raised iron-on astronomy of a green moon, a blue star, a purple sun.

The sleeves on this thing have, for some reason, been trimmed with improbably thick, elastic ruffs at least three inches wide, sporting silver and the completely wrong green to match those unlikely stars.

Tim takes it all in. He imagines himself old, fucking around by wearing absolutely ghastly things. Recalls his own hideous Hawaiian shirt, which he sports literally when he wants to annoy some stick-in-the-mud. And what comes out of his mouth is, “Don’t suppose that comes in my size.”

Jon stares, completely lost.

Myrddin laughs. Throws back his head and laughs, his beard glinting in the morning light, and he slaps his knee. “You see that, Katie?” he calls to no one. “Chip off the old block!”

Tim looks around. “Katie?”

“Oh, she’s not here,” he says. “I’m sending a message. Sort of a magical voicemail, if you will.”

Right, well. Hopefully Katie won’t be upset by all of this. “So, hey,” says Tim. “Are you willing to answer some questions?”

“Of course,” says Myrddin, “or I’d just have sent you back to land.”

And into the literal jaws of a monster. Tim swallows. “So… maybe you’re wondering how we ended up in the ocean on a fucking Christopher Robin raft?”

“Jon told me some things,” says Myrddin. “I’d like your version.”

Tim glances at Jon, who nods his go-ahead, so. Tim talks.

He starts with his brother, showing up with a book. He explains Hastur, and Hastur’s claims of godhood (and ignores Hastur’s scoff). Explains the monsters, and his parents’ house, and the Magnus Institute, and the Hunt. Admits, wincing, to fucking up with the lion, and fighting off the Stranger that tried to eat Jon, and the winter storm.

Jon has never heard most of this, either, not in this detail. He gets that look, the unblinking one that feels like it might be peeling layers, but Tim is too used to it to care.

Tim doesn’t even realize until he reaches yesterday’s portal that he somehow skipped over Kayne completely.

That’s not right. He tries to go back and fix that, but he can’t. Great. Devil Pants did something to him. Just great.

Myrddin takes it all in without question, frowning in concentration, his eyes so keen and clear, his focus so steady, that Tim wonders if maybe he wears ridiculous costumes because it helps to soften the image.

Then Tim is done, and there’s nothing more to tell. “So there it is,” he manages.

Myrddin shifts, breathes through his nose, and his gaze goes distant.

Tim glances at Jon.

Jon is visibly bursting with questions, and visibly biting his tongue.

“I’m going to need to put some thought into this,” Myrddin. “You’ve just stepped your toe in, and I understand that; I wouldn’t want to pull you any deeper in. You’re aging like a normal human, so your life could still sort itself out; you can have the normal, excellent experience, and that is a thing you really can only have once. Every other iteration, should you live, will only be compared to it. What you’ve encountered, though, is something that could change… all of that.”

“Which part?” Tim tries to be quippy, but his voice cracks.

“Believe it or not," says Myrddin, “the most dangerous part of everything you’ve said, including the bits skipped, came at the very end.”

And Tim knows. Knows; knows, first, that Myrddin caught something of what he couldn’t say. Knows, second, Myrddin is right. Kayne is a great threat, terrible, but right now, he is holding off. The guy, though. That… that…

“Larson,” whispers Jon.

“Yes,” says Myrddin. “You know, it’s really interesting that we were just talking about the vagaries of history, and how understood "'fact' can be terrible distorted depending on who is left behind.”

Tim. Knows. “It’s all wrong, isn’t it? The Fears, the Fears eating the gods, the gods fleeing. Wrong.”

“Not all of it,” says Myrddin. “But enough. Yesterday afternoon, my child, you met the Devourer. He Who Ate the Sun. And you know the most ironic thing of all? He used to be human.”

Tim can’t move.

“Let’s say continue after some tea and toast,” says Myrddin, snapping his fingers, and out of nowhere, producing food. "You've got to be starving."

Tim understands why, and is grateful he can fill his mouth with bread and butter and incredible honey, and right now, doesn’t have to talk.

Jon’s questions (incredible honey or no) wont' wait. "I still don't understand what happened with the Land of Punt."

Myrddin’s vague answers create a comfortable background, not unlike the shush of the ocean sneaking through the windows, and Tim sits, and watches the waves, and doesn’t really think for a little while.

Hastur, just once, speaks. Fuck.

“Yeah,” Tim agrees, and goes back to eating bread.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, Chapter Two: Devil in the Details - a Malevolent x TMA crossover

Tim opened a book he shouldn't have.

When he wakes, he is no longer alone.

AO3

--------------

Tim wakes in the dark.

It’s not the first time he’s woken in the dark. The first, he was fifteen, indulging in illegal alcohol to deal with his father’s premature death, and he’d come to in a sort of… culvert. It was dark, and echoey, and scary, but he’d found his way back out.

That’s a weird thing to recall right now, but his mind feels weird—memories sifted, out of place, like somebody took the books of his brain and dumped them all on the floor.

Well, it’s dark here, wherever he is.

There’s carpet under him. He feels it with his fingers, half sits up, and groans. His head feels heavy. “Ugh,” he says, and pulls out his phone.

The screen isn’t working. 

Great. He must have broken it when he fell. So much for the military grade protection promised with this case.

At least the carpet means he’s not outside someplace, so he probably wasn’t robbed. It probably wasn’t a stroke, or something medical. Where the hell was this, anyway? He starts feeling around himself, trying to locate a wall, furniture, maybe a lamp.

Hello, friend.

Okay, so that’s… a big voice, and totally unfamiliar. Tim goes very still. “Hello?”

Take it easy. You’ve had an accident, but you’re going to be okay.

“Shit,” says Tim. “Shit. Hey, do you have a light? I can’t see anything.”

Yes, I know.

“What? What do you mean, you know?”

What’s your name, friend?

Such a voice. Resonant. Deep. One in a million deep. It’s sexy, if he’s honest—crazy smooth, and probably sounded great with an ear to its owners’ chest.

Shame its owner is being so fucking weird. “Come on, man. I need a light.”

In time. Friend, tell me your name.

Funny thing about that voice, though. Tim knows he can’t be hearing it right. 

At first, he thought he’d just misheard. Then, he’d thought he was dazed. He must have head trauma, because the voice is not in front of him, or behind, or to the side. It’s not looming above. It’s not piping in from a speaker tucked into some corner. This voice—

Tim shakes his head, smacks the side of it. “What? I’m… wait.”

It’s all right. You can give me your name when you feel safer. Now, I’m going to need you to stand up very slowly. There’s a table right in front of you that you can use to get your balance. 

This voice isn’t in his ears. It’s between them.

Tim starts breathing too fast.

There’s a book in front of you, where you dropped it on the table. I need you to open it for me.

“Wait. Wait, you…” This table. This carpet. Tim knows where he is. He fucking grew up here—but his parents’ house could never get this dark. “Wait, what’s happening?” he says, panic rising.

Take it easy, friend. I need you to pick up the book.

“Where are you?” Tim demands. “Where the fuck are you, because I can’t…” He reaches up over the small table to the wall, because he knows what this old wallpaper feels like, and yes, it’s there, and if he reaches higher, he can find the nail where one of the packed paintings was hung, and yes, it’s there, and—

This house cannot get this dark.

Friend, says the voice, just a pinch less patient. 

This voice is in his head , he has gone fucking blind, and also fucking crazy.

Tim takes out his phone. “Hey, Siri,” he says.

“Mm-hm?” Siri says, because his phone is not broken—he just can’t see it.

I need police, he thinks. An ambulance. 

A priest.

Tim starts laughing unsteadily and sinks back down to the floor.

There is a sigh in his head. Friend. I’m not going to hurt you.

“Sure! I’m just blind, and hearing voices! It’s great! This is all great.”

I need you to pick up the book. Do you remember opening it? The book is what put us both in this situation.

“Us both. In this situation. What, are you hearing voices, too?” Tim laughs again.

Well, friend... maybe I should be more clear. I’m trapped in your body. And I do mean trapped. This is not what was supposed to happen. I need to see the book and verify what occurred.

Like the voice was diagnosing a noise in an engine.

“Verify what occurred. Why? What was supposed to happen?”

Not this.

“Well, bad news for you, buddy, because if you are in this body, it’s fucking broken. I can’t see.”

I can.

Finally, that creepy little I know catches up to him, and Tim goes very still. “You’re using my eyes?”

In a sense.

“What kind of cheesy sci-fi bullshit is this? You stole my fucking eyes?”

Not precisely. I seem to have landed in them. You did use them to look at the book, after all.

“Glad you find this funny!” Tim snaps, because he damn well knows this voice finds it funny, and that is the worst, most inhuman, most weirdly cruel response to a situation of this kind that he can imagine—and it is a response that completely lacks surprise. Tim gasps. “You knew this would happen.”

Not for this to happen, no.

“This. Isn’t. Funny,” Tim says, low.

A pause. Friend. In what way have I indicated amusement? And in truth, he hasn’t, in truth, he sounds smooth and calming and warm, so why does Tim know he finds it funny? Why can he tell how this being feels?

Because it’s a fucking demon, thinks Tim, who does not believe in demons, or aliens (though he thinks they’re more probable), but a demon seems more likely to be trapped in a book than an alien would.

A whole series of thoughts land in Tim’s head like an itemized list.

One: Danny had told him not to open it.

Two: Some of Danny’s contacts had looked around Danny’s apartment and not found whatever they wanted. Maybe they were looking for the book.

Three: They’d killed Danny over it, so they probably still want it back.

Four: Now that Tim is possessed, or whatever is going on, it’s likely he’s become of great interest to the cultists, too.

He is even more afraid. “This is really happening, huh?” he whispers, sick to his stomach.

It is. I know it’s a lot, friend, but I am not your enemy. Please pick up the book.

“How were you in a book?” Tim stands again, though his legs are shaking, and feels along the table. “How does that happen to a person?”

Certainly not through any ordinary means. Open it and turn the pages for me.

“Sure. Sure.” Only as Tim opens the book does he realize he’s probably being foolish.

One (because there go the lists again): He doesn’t know what repeatedly opening the book will do.

Two: He can’t imagine any good reason why someone would be put in a book.

Three: He thinks he might be going into shock.

Please turn the pages for me. There we go. Just like that, the voice soothes, and then begins murmuring in a language Tim has never encountered, presumably reading.

Tim can’t stop breathing too fast.

This can’t be happening. It can’t. Things like this don’t happen, so therefore, it can’t.  

The voice sighs. Hm. Well, friend, I have good news and bad news for you. Are you ready?

“I n… I need to sit down,” says Tim, and does, right on the floor. He puts his head in his hands. “This is happening?”

Yes.

He tells himself there wasn’t dark eagerness in that voice, in that word. He swallows. “What’s the good news and bad news?”

The good news is, you are not going to die.

“Oh.” Tim is surprised. He doesn’t find relief in that, not like he thinks he should; it’s just a dull echo (I’m all that’s left, you know?) of how he’s felt over the past month, and it isn’t very fun.

The bad news is the book did not do what it was supposed to do; that is why you’re suffering now. That is why you are blind.

“What was it supposed to do?”

We’ll get to that.

And the voice says it patiently, but Tim knows—knows—it is not being patient at all. It’s being cagey.

Maybe it’s not a demon, after all, he thinks with rising hysteria. Maybe it’s the Devil. Don’t believe in that, either, but foxholes, or something… “Who are you, anyway?” he says, just to prove it isn’t Satan.

I think the more important question may be, who are you?

Tim has no idea what to say to that. “I’m not… anybody.” He laughs weakly. “I’m not even employed right now.”

How did you get this book, friend?

“I don’t even know what the book is,” says Tim, avoiding the question. “Or who you are. Or… fuck, what you are.”

Silence.

“Hello?” says Tim.

I’m here. Friend, take a breath. You’re safe.

“Safe! I’m blind!”

I’m not. This isn’t going to be permanent.

“Explain.”

I’d like your name, first.

“Why? Dark deeds?" says Tim, recalling the few DND campaigns he'd enjoyed while dating Oscar, and later Elizabeth. "Does it give you power, getting my name?”

Oh, this being's chuckle is wicked, absolutely wicked, and Tim would have loved to hear it in intimate, other circumstances because it would be thrilling and sexy and great—but hearing it now, blind, trapped, stuck with some cagey-ass voice in his head, it is not sexy. It is not great.

No, friend. It’s polite. We’re about to be very close for what is hopefully a short time, and it seems to me that names will make this… easier.

“Fuck it,” Tim says. “This might as well happen. Tim. All right? I'm Tim. And who the hell are you? Eldritch Barry White?”

The being chuckles, a darkly hedonist sound. You can call me John. The delivery was plain, calm, the way one says a name. The feeling is mocking, and amused, and sort of weirdly bitter. 

“That's not your name at all, is it?” says Tim.

There’s a pause. Tim thinks he may have surprised this John. It’s not. It is, however, the one I choose to use, for… personal reasons.

The voice sounds way too entertained, and weirdly enough, this is the moment Tim finally believes he is not imagining what’s happening.

He would not have imagined someone giving him a fake name that stupid and thinking it funny in this situation. Beelzebub, maybe, or something wild like Radagascar.

Tim goes quiet.

Tim, says the voice, too smooth, too innocent: Why do you have this book?

Tell him, or no? Is there a point to lying?

Blind. Tim is blind. That is honestly so frightening that he can’t fully think past it. “My brother stole it from some cultists. He told me that, anyway. Asked me to hide the book. Then he was murdered.”

Silence for a moment. Ah. I’m sorry for your loss, Tim. This is important information; I wasn’t entirely sure of your innocence, given that instead of releasing me from the book, I seem to be stuck inside you. But I believe you. You mean what you say.

Oh, that feels bad. It feels like some general or judge or ruler, used to proclaiming reality, has decided to call Tim innocent—and if he had not, some unseen axe would have fallen.

“What are you?” says Tim, voice cracking. 

Tim, is there a mirror? I’d like to see you.

“You think if we… you… can I get my sight back?”

I don’t see why not, in time. 

Tim thinks it’s a lie.

Tim does not care if it’s a lie. He needs it right now, so he walks. 

He knows where a mirror is, of course. He knows how many steps to the bathroom in this house he’s lived in most of his life. Knows how to turn on the light he cannot see, and where to stand.

Oh, Tim, says John, warm and rich and genuinely pleased now. You’re a very handsome man.

“Sure,” Tim mutters.

This is good. We can use this.

Tim can’t help blurting. “Why? Did I stumble into Whore of the Rings, or something?”

He’s definitely surprised the being this time, and surprised it into laughing. Just as evil a sound, just as deep, more toe-tingling powerful than that chuckle, but… genuine. That’s clever, Tim. And no. I do not think whoring, per se, will get us out of this. However, humans do respond well to attractiveness—and you are very attractive. We can use this to find out what we need about our situation. To find help.

“Help? How? With who? I’m not going to go to the people who killed my brother. Fuck no, I’m not doing that.”

No, I wouldn’t suggest that. Whatever human nonsense they intended here has been compromised, and you would not be safe. I do not want you to be killed in some mistaken effort to free me. No. We will find another way.

Tim swallows. “Okay, first: human? Like you’re not one. And second, which should probably be first, kill me to free you?”

There are misguided people who would do that, yes.

“Oh, but you’re on my side now, is that it what I’m supposed to believe?”

Simply put, I like you; your death would be a sad and unnecessary end, and I wish to prevent it. So, Tim: is there a wizard in your life?

Is there a—

Tim needs a moment.

The large furniture is already gone from this place, so there is nothing to sit down on beyond the floor. He leaves the bathroom, leans against the wall and slides down, knees to his chest.

At least the being isn’t pretending not to be dangerous.There has to be some security in that. Some reassurance. Tim rubs his face. “Wizard. Are you serious?”

Your brother clearly knew some.

“Well, we… we didn’t run in the same circles.”

It hardly has to be the same. Sorcerers. Worshipers. Something.

Tim laughs. “No. I worked in publishing. I don’t know anybody like that. And maybe Danny did, but he didn’t label his contacts, so fuck if I know who they were.”

A pause.

All right. We’re going to need someone versed in the esoteric, Tim. Since deciding (apparently) not to kill him, John has changed how he says Tim’s name. It’s warm. Mildly affectionate, the way one might talk to a favorite plant.

Tim takes a shaky breath. “I don’t know anybody like that.”

There must be someone.

Tim tries to think. Gods, he wishes Danny were alive. He could ask. Danny would know. Danny would have friends. “I’m thinking,” he says.

Take your time, Tim. It’s all right.

Fuck this voice. Fuck this voice’s owner. Fuck whoever had the book, and then put the voice in it, and then made it so damn easy to undo.

(What had been the intended effect, anyway? Just freeing this thing? Worse? Maybe taking more than his eyes?)

For no reason, eyes makes Tim think of a news item from a few years ago that had everybody laughing. Files had been leaked, and an academic institution found itself raked through the coals for hoarding nonsense.

Supposedly.

He'd paid no attention at the time because it obviously was nonsense. Except now, nothing is obvious, at all.

“There may be someplace we can go,” he says, softly. “I…” His voice cracks. “I’m going to do a search on my phone, but you’ll need to read the results.”

Clever boy. Go on.

It helps, that praise. Which is stupid. It shouldn’t help. But it does. Why?

Well, Tim knows why (he knows his proclivities), but this is not the time to enjoy praise from someone in control because Tim did not give that someone control, and that matters.

Also, that someone is an inhuman monster. So.

Moving right along: “Hey, Siri.”

“Yes, boss?”

“Search 'The Magnus Institute, London.'”

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, chapter eleven: Swap - a Malevolent x TMA crossover

Tim experiments.

Jon believes.

Hastur wins.

Chapter 11 of Corrupted, a Malevolent x TMA crossover.

AO3

--------------

They step outside into gloom; the sun has long set. Tim winces. “I’m not getting that report to Detective Spooky on time. Oops.”

We shouldn’t need to, if Bouchard is true to his word.

“I’m putting a lot of faith in a couple of old dudes who ignored me to my face,” says Tim.

Hastur huffs. You are putting faith in me. That is all you need to do.

Tim rolls his eyes.

“I’m… sorry, what?” says Jon.

“Pardon,” says Tim. “Talking to my resident bossy ghost.”

Bossy ghost!

“Anyway, I just realized we’re being brilliant! We’ll just go investigate whatever the Eyeball priest wants us to in the dark. This can’t possibly go wrong.”

Jon is still struggling to catch up. “Eyeball priest?”

“Elias. He’s not pretending to be anything else, is he?” Tim stares at the torn-out notebook paper. “Wait a minute, he wants us to go to Cornwall?”

“Cornwall?” says Jon. “That’s hours south.”

“Then he wants us to go to Edinburgh?” says Tim. “Edinburgh?”

“And that’s over three hundred miles north,” Jon says. 

“Am I supposed to be losing them literally instead of with evidence, or something? Jon… can you remember exactly what he said?”

“That these six locations would get the police off your tail.” And Jon visibly tries not to ask, and just as visibly loses that battle. “Why are the police after you?”

“The guy inside me,” says Tim. “Those Fear things want to eat him, and they sent monsters to my house and trashed the place trying to find us. Police know whatever happened there is distinctly off, but I’m not exactly going to tell them ‘oh, you know, madness monsters, same old, same old,’ so they’re looking to pin it on me.”

“That’s terrible.” Jon’s eyes are huge. “Wait. They want to eat the thing inside you? Do these Fears always eat their own?”

“No. He’s not the same as them. He’s apparently some kind of… god?”

‘Some kind?’ Tim. Really.

“You have a god inside you.” And this, of all things, has flipped Jon’s skepticism switch. "A god."

“Yep!” said Tim. “He says he is, anyway.”

Says?

“Hm,” says Jon, putting a word of disbelief into the sound. It’s an amazing sound, absolutely dry and intellectually dismissive and desperately lacking confidence, and Tim wants to wrap him in a blanket and give him an ice cream. 

Apparently, Hastur does not want to do that. I would cause him such pain if I could. While screaming, he would believe me.

“Oh, shit, that escalated quickly,” says Tim. “Look, Elias believes this guy’s a god.”

“Well, Elias believes all of it,” counters Jon.

“All of what?”

“All of it. Do you understand what we do here, Tim?” says Jon.

“Supernatural… stuff?” Tim posits.

“We collect knowledge. Personal testimony in the form of statements, and information on eye-witnessed esoteric events. We then research what we can, finding empirical evidence to back up or disprove any claim. We are not, however, paranormal investigators.” Jon sniffs. “You will not find our research on YouTube, no matter how excellent it is—and it is excellent. The Institute’s motto is, ‘vigilo, opperior, audio,’ which means ‘I watch, I wait, I listen.’ We are a true repository of the arcane, and together with our sister institutes in China and the United States, we preserved knowledge that would otherwise be lost for its sibylline and highly improbable nature.”

“So… supernatural stuff,” says Tim after a moment.

“Fine, yes, I suppose,” says Jon.

He’s an ass, says Hastur.

He’s adorable, Tim thinks. “And Elias believes it all, you say?”

“He insisted to me that everything in the Archives is real.”

Tim stares. “All the stuff that’s spread all over the place down there? That seems a little upsetting.”

Jon’s face twitches. “It is, isn’t it? At least I know the library isn’t all true.”

“That’s where you worked, right?” Tim says. 

“Yes. I dug up background information on the stories there. I would say at least ninety-eight percent of it was complete hogwash.”

“So two percent was true.”

Jon hesitates. Swallows hard. Nods. “Yes. Undeniably. I believe that two percent would stand up in any court of law.”

If you don’t shut him up, Tim, I am going to fucking blast him through you.

“Geez, Hastur, chill,” says Tim. 

“What?” says Jon.

“He’s being scary.” Tim rolls his eyes.

“Hastur?” says Jon.

We are wasting time. Tim, you hardly need to spend hours on a train. We can make a portal to the towns in question.

“Uh, no, we can’t,” says Tim. “I really don’t feel like going and getting all those weird tools again.”

“Did you say Hastur?” repeats Jon.

“Yeah, Hastur. And no, I can’t make a portal. I’m not going shopping again.”

It would be worth the effort, Tim. We could be in Cornwall in moments.

“Excuse me.” Jon abruptly runs back into the Institute.

Tim blinks after him. “Right, well, guess I drove him off. Oops.”

Tim. Let’s do it. Leave right now.

“We’re waiting. I’m pretty sure he’ll come back.”

We should not wait. He will be nothing but a danger to us. He’ll slow us down.

Tim stretches, pacing a little under the sodium street lights. “What is your problem with him? I like him. He’s a little nerd. And obviously, he can run really fast, at least over short distances, so I don’t think slowing us down is an issue.”

Tim. Portal. Now.

“Buy a guy dinner first, would you?” says Tim. 

Tim.

“You’re the one getting commanding. Just relax. That guy can see threats we didn’t notice, and I’m not leaving without him.”

Fine. It clearly is not fine. Have you been to Cornwall? 

“Yeah?”

Can you clearly picture a location there?

Tim has a bad feeling about this. “Yeeeah?”

If you can see it clearly, then we should be able to do this without an issue once you gather what we need. You will focus on that spot, trying to see it from all angles, if possible, and say, Y' mgahnnn nglui, which means, I open the door.

“This seems really risky, Hastur. What if—”

Jon comes banging back out again, skids to a stop, locks the door behind him, then runs down the stairs. “Ah-HA!” he says, holding up a folder.

Ugh. What’s he doing now?

“He’s got a yellow folder?” says Tim. “Sorry. Hastur can’t see you.”

“Well, this may be relevant to him,” says Jon, and hands it over.

Tim shifts so he can see it more clearly under the street light. “What’s this? It says, ‘Yang, P.: Notes and Recordings.’”

“It’s the transcription of a tape unfortunately lost, though we do have several copies dated within a week of receiving the original. This is the journal of a Peter Parker Yang, private investigator, who lived in Arkham, Massachusetts, in the United States. He experienced vivid hallucinatory dreams about a man who was taken by Hastur, the King in Yellow, and Mister Yang ended up dreaming about what happened to that poor man.”

“Fucking hell, are you serious?”

Jon adjusts his glasses. “Dead serious. I told you—we are serious researchers.”

Tim resists the urge to scratch him under the chin like a cat. “There’s a lot in here.”

“Yang dreamed all this over months of time. He recorded it; we know it’s legitimate because he described places and names he would have had no way to know about, but were confirmed via numerous other eyewitnesses both before and after his time, in multiple cultures.”

An alternate, says Hastur softly. I see. Yang received echoes via etheric resonance. 

“Alternate?” says Tim.

This was the partner of Arthur Lester in my time.

Tim is very still. “Gonna hazard a guess. Was the guy Yang dreamed about named Arthur Lester?”

Jon startles. “Yes. How did you know that? The Institute has the only copies of this.”

“He told me about Arthur. Guy’s dead.”

“Well,” Jon says, paling. “Well, he... I…” He rallies. “Of course he is! He’d be something like a hundred and ten years old by now. I just wish we’d had this Arthur’s side of it. Yang didn’t have very nice things to say about your Hastur, for the record.”

“I’ll bet he didn’t,” Tim says slowly.

Hastur rumbles. You may tell him that if he behaves, I will speak of the things he so wishes to hear. He may regret this desire afterward.

Tim feels a little like a dog-walker, trying to get growling mutts to sniff each other’s butts and get it over with. “Hastur says he’s willing to answer questions about it later.”

“Really?” Jon’s look… changes. It goes hungry, ravenous, not entirely dissimilar to the way Tonner eyed him over her desk.

Tim swallows.

“That would be truly something,” Jon says, reeling it in and adjusting his glasses.

"Sure," says Tim weakly, because what the hell was that?

If you do the portal spell, I'll answer his questions.

“Oh, it’s bribery, is it?” says Tim. “Wait a second. This is dated from the 1930s.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Right. Hastur… you’re going to have to explain the whole three thousand years gap thing.”

Simply done. It is a timeline issue.

“Doesn’t sound so simple?”

Alternate timelines converge in unusual ways. The fact that the Parker Yang of this universe picked up echoes of what happened in my universe thousands of years ago isn’t as strange as you think. When there are doubles of people—or, far rarer, people are reborn—they often pick up echoes of other versions of themselves.

Tim looks at Jon. “It’s Doctor Who rules.”

It is not Doctor Who rules. This is serious.

“Were you serious about the portal?” says Tim.

“I’m sorry,” says Jon. “But I really need to know when you’re talking to him and when you’re talking to me.”

“So you believe me now?”

“Not necessarily about him being a god, though I’m sure he thinks he is,” says Jon (and Hastur growls). “But rather that you knew a name you couldn’t possibly have known—that speaks to a source of knowledge outside the Institute, and quite specific to this case.”

“You’re really wired for this stuff, aren’t you?” says Tim.

“I love it,” says Jon quietly. “If I could do nothing but read and learn and research all day, forgoing all the annoying biological processes, that’s what I would do.”

What he is actually doing is wasting our time.

Tim sighs. “He’s demanding tonight.”

“What is he demanding?”

“He wants me to make a portal.”

“A portal? I don’t understand.”

“Like a wormhole, or something, right to Cornwall.”

“You can do that?” The hunger is back. “You can actually do that?”

“Maybe. I haven’t tried yet. I’m a little scared to. Apparently, I have magic."

Jon makes a face.

"Aw, you don’t have to make the face. I wouldn’t believe it either, except… I’ve done two spells. Successfully.”

Jon stares. “What spells?”

“I got out of some ropes I’d been tied in by exploding them. Then, I used a finding spell to locate a book—Hastur’s book—that’s been taken by… an enemy. They both worked. I didn’t expect them to.”

Jon has the most interesting look, torn between needing this to be true and needing this to be false, and it is making him seem so young. “Why were you roped—never mind that. Prove it.”

Doing some magic ought to make them both happy. “Hastur, give me a small spell. Nothing to hurt anybody. I don’t have any rope to explode, and I’m not doing the finding spell again.”

Fm'latgh, Hastur says smoothly.

“Which is?”

Fire. You can hold flame in your hand.

“Without burning myself, or setting him on fire?” Tim says. “Or anything around here on fire.”

Yes. You will literally hold flame in your hand, cupped, and nothing will burn unless you will it to. The magic responds to you, Tim. It encapsulates and enfleshes your desire. That is why you must know yourself, and be clear in head and heart. I will teach you some meditation techniques.

Tim exhales slowly. “We’re in a weird 80s movie now, I guess. Stand back a little. Gonna try something.”

Jon obediently skips five steps back.

Tim holds out his hand. He tries to imagine a tiny flame, not even match-size, in control and flickering. Focuses on this idea; refuses to let it grow, refuses to let it warm the corners of his mind. “Fm’latgh.”

Of course, the flame is big.

Not too big. It doesn't go out of control, doesn’t leap from Tim to devour Jon’s sweater vest. It is, however, not the small and subtle flame Tim imagined.

He yips and leaps backward.

Jon yips and leaps backward.

Hastur cackles like a mad old witch on testosterone.

And Tim realizes he doesn’t know how to turn it off. “Hastur! The fuck! Cancel! Stop!”

Just will it gone, Tim! You can do it. Picture it: extinguished, air gone, the flame dying out and going to black smoke above your hand, then dispersing in the wind!

Tim has always had a grand imagination, and without meaning to, he imagines snuffing it with his hand.

It goes out with a sizzle—and Tim is burned.

“Fuck!” Tim cries, shaking his hand wildly.

Easy. We can heal it.

“That… you…” Jon approaches, reaches, hesitates.

“Yeah, go ahead and look,” says Tim. “Ow. Gods, that hurts. Always forget how bad a burn hurts until you get another one. Fuck!”

Easy. Imagine your hand being healed, and say, ph'lloig. That means remember. You are telling your hand to be what it was before you burned it.

“I don’t… I mean, I guess I know my hand, but I don’t remember it exactly? Hastur, will this give me a little baby hand, or something?”

Only if you imagine yourself with one.

“Don’t think about an elephant, got it,” says Tim, mad because it hurts.

“You’re really burned,” says Jon, seriously, having apparently satisfied his need to verify a lack of wires or gadgets hidden in Tim’s skin. “Let me get the first aid kit.”

It really, really hurts. "Wait."

Use the spell. Be instantly healed.

Tim stands on a fence, balanced, unsure. 

Magic. Magic. (And his hand hurts.)

Dangerous and not yet fully controlled magic. (And his hand hurts.)

But he’s being chased by god-eaters. And gray-skinned monsters. And crazy Hunt-cops. (And his hand hurts.)

It’s risky, but it seems like learning how to control this might be the option that keeps him alive longest.

Also: magic.

“Tim?” says Jon.

Tim, says Hastur.

Tim know how it feels now: like flexing a muscle in his mind, one he was never aware of before. Except he was. He’s been using it all his life to get people to see him. Hoping they’d like him.

And he has an idea. “Hastur,” he says slowly. “Why are we using that weird language for spells?”

It is my language—the language of gods. As such, its meaning is narrowed, precise. It allows for better control of your power.

“So theoretically, I could use my own language.”

Hastur hesitates. I wouldn't. English is imprecise, relying too much on connotation and context.

“Except I’ve been doing that, haven’t I? Just by instinct,” says Tim.

It isn’t the same as what we discussed earlier. That is vague, not a precise spell; the equivalent of waving a flag, not threading a needle.

But Tim’s instinct is almost never wrong—and it’s telling him this is not what Hastur thinks. He looks at his hand (and his stomach turns because that is really burned). He remembers how his hand feels normally, just his hand, flexing and faithful and strong. Then, he whispers, “Heal.”

And he flexes that muscle.

Jon gasps.

So does Hastur.

His hand tingles, a cool wash that erases the pain, and it's repaired. He gawks at it.

“Impossible,” whispers Jon, holding Tim’s hand so close to his face that his breath tickles. “Right in front of… I saw it. I checked the wound—it was real! I still have blood on my fingertips, and—”  He touches his tongue to it.

“Ew!” says Tim.

“That’s real blood!” says Jon as if he won the lottery.

Tim starts to laugh. "I did it. I did it!"

You did, but there may be a cost.

Tim can't stop laughing. "I fucking... did you see that?"

"I saw," says Jon, and Tim realizes Jon is crying.

“Hey, uh… whoa, hey,” Tim says, eyes wide.

Jon wipes his face viciously on his shirt sleeve. “It’s real. This is real.”

“Yeah. I, uh. I’m still getting used to it,” says Tim, and laughs again. "I just did fucking magic right in the middle of London! In the year of our lord 2019!"

Jon laughs with him, weakly, and wipes his eyes again. "And I got to see it!”

Timothy, says Hastur slowly. That… means things.

“What does?” says Tim. “That I’m not what you expected?”

More than that. This isn’t gods-damned Merlin. This is something else.

“Yeah?”

“What’s he saying?” Jon is all in. “What’s he saying to you? What does he sound like? How does a god sound?”

“Hey, maybe you could hear him,” says Tim.

He can’t hear me without also hearing other disembodied beings, so I wouldn’t advise trying to perform that little feat.

“Which means you think I can do it,” says Tim.

A beat. Yes.

Jon is still leaking a little. He wipes his eyes again, then rummages and finds a handkerchief in his bag.

“So he sounds… really good, actually,” says Tim.

“Good?”

“It’s a deep voice. Resonant. You can sort of feel it, you know?”

Jon’s eyes are wide. “Feel it? But it sounds human?”

“Sort of? If I hadn’t known all of this, I’d have assumed it was some guy speaking into something. Impressive voice, good elocution—almost an American accent? Not quite? Really bossy, though.”

Tim.

“Really bossy. Like, you wouldn’t even believe.”

Tim. We need to go to Cornwall—and I think we should take the train.

Hastur sounds subdued this time, rather than bossy.

“What? After all of that? Are you feeling all right?" says Tim.

I have a lot to consider.

Jon is looking at Tim as if he glows.

Tim clears his throat. “Right. New thing. Should we, uh. Do this here on the street?”

"Do what?" says Jon.

"A portal," says Tim, because he's feeling reckless, because—

(Because he got mad when he hurt himself doing it Hastur's way, and that isn't necessarily Hastur's fault, but now, Tim's instinct is skewed.)

Tim. Tim, wait.

"He's eager. Been asking me to do it for a while now."

Jon's eyes go even wider. "We're really going to just... travel somewhere else?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Never did it before."

Tim! Don't try this without the tools.

Tim is going to try this without the tools. "Let me concentrate." And he closes his eyes.

Tim!

Nope. Eyes closed, picturing the spot in his mind. That bench, that bush, that bin, probably still overflowing with fast-food wrappers.

Tim! You don't know what you're doing.

Well, maybe Hastur doesn't, either. Tim pictures the lamppost there. The smell and sound of lions. He flexes that muscle.

This time, something in his head hurts—a sharp twinge, like maybe he's straining that unused muscle a bit.

Tim!

“Tim?” Jon squeaks.

Tim opens his eyes to find a hole in the air.

Through it comes the sounds of a zoo at night, the chittering of nocturnal things, the gentle waft of musk and hay and animals. There is no sign of people; the zoo is closed. But just as he'd imagined, there it is: the bench, the lamppost, and the overflowing bin.

“What…” whispers Jon.

“First kiss on that bench,” says Tim, staring. “Right there. Smelled like old ketchup and chips, and I didn’t care.”

Bench? What? What did you do? Tim, tell me!

“Made a portal in the zoo.”

The… the zoo?

“Incredible,” Jon whispers. “I can smell it.”

Tim,  where is this portal? What area of the zoo are you picturing?

“We were watching the lion enclosure,” Tim says.

Hastur makes a low sound. So… did you account for that before placing your portal?

“Account for… wait, what?”

And inevitably, a lion steps into view.

It is walking forward, creeping, curious; it slinks onto the walkway ahead of them as though coming through the portal Tim made, but was definitely not doing so from Chelsea.

"How does that work? Why would it... oh fuck. I made a hole in the enclosure!” Tim whispers.

The lion turns around and looks them in the eye. She's magnificent; low to the ground, muscled, her fur a tawny gold even in the half-light of a zoo closed for the night. And she growls.

Close it!

Jon makes a tiny sound and raises his bag over his head as if to throw it.

Tim wishes the portal closed with all his might, with everything in him, flexing whatever that muscle is as hard as he can.

The opening vanishes.

It's more than a sharp twinge this time. Maybe something in there popped. He doesn't know.

“Shit!” Jon says, and Tim falls down.

#

He wakes on the train.

It’s familiar; the rhythmic, gentle jostling, the sound of the track below. The rare bits of conversation that survived the solitary experience of portable media. He has no memory of getting on the train, but he has another, distinctly larger concern: his left eye has gone dead.

He sits up with a gasp.

Across from him, Jon jumps badly and spills part of his paper cup of tea. “What do you want now?” he snaps.

Tim stares at him, shaking a little. He blinks. Rubs his eyes; no, the left one is black, definitely black. “Jon,” he says. “What happened?”

And Jon’s eyes go very wide. “Tim?”

“Yes?” says Tim, because who else is he supposed to be?

Jon plops the cup into the holder (sloshing more out of it) and comes to him right away, crouching, checking his pulse, peering into his face. “It’s really you?”

“As opposed to fucking what?” says Tim, because he refuses to believe the alternative, because—

Me.

Hastur sounds the same. Not louder, or anything like that. But oh, dear gods… he sounds smug.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, Chapter One - a Magnus Archives x Malevolent Crossover

Tim opened a book he shouldn't have, and now has the last remaining god in the universe stuck in his head.

In the process of dealing with that, he will come up against invading deities, be marked by the Desolation, and turn—reluctantly—to the Magnus Institute for help.

There is a lot going on here. Tim feels out of his league. He is. And lately, he's unnervingly certain that maybe, he should just burn it all down…

(Been waiting to share this one for a while! It's ongoing, and I can work on it again now that the Big Bang stuff is done. Enjoy!)

Chapter One on AO3

------------------

He never thought Danny would get into anything dangerous. Not really.

All right, mountain climbing wasn’t great, but Danny had been careful, with equipment and partners and training and tools. It hadn’t lasted long, anyway. None of Danny’s fads did.

He wasn’t stupid, was he? Danny was not, Tim tells himself, stupid. That means there’s no excuse for this. “Danny, I don’t know about this.”

This is a book. A book Danny has evidently stolen from some cultists? Who beat him up in the process?

There is blood on Danny’s knuckles. “Just hide it,” Danny says, his face swollen, one eye completely shut, purple blooming below the other. “Don’t open it. Okay? Don’t. Don’t ever. But please, I… I can’t let them get this.”

It’s four a.m. Tim is not his best at four a.m. He might’ve functioned better an hour ago, but right now, he’s bleary, and feels like he’s trying to race while wearing socks on a grease-slicked floor. “There are cultists?” he says, a beat behind.

“Just take it.”

“But what… the hell? You need a doctor. Or the police.”

“No time.” And Danny gives him a tight, hard hug.

So that feels like a goodbye, and Tim swings from annoyed into terrified. “Danny, what—”

Danny actually kisses him on the cheek. Then he tugs his hoodie back over his face and takes off at a run.

By the time Tim’s foggy brain snaps, After him, idiot! it’s too late. Danny’s long gone. “Danny!” he shouts, trying anyway, running in his socks down the sideway, leaving his door fucking open behind him, but there is no sign.

Tim checks his phone. Danny has turned off location.

Tim goes back inside. Tim closes the door. Locks it.

It has to be a prank. Right?

He makes sure his windows are locked. He cannot go back to sleep.

Later, when the police come to ask him to identify the body, Tim knows he’s gone into shock because he can’t remember anything they said.

#

He forgets about the book.

Nigel is an asshole, but at least agrees to give him three weeks of compassionate leave. It’s publishing, for crying out loud. They can do without Tim for that long, and besides, he has a lot to do.

He has everything to do.

“I’m all that’s left, you know?” he tells the police, the morgue, the funeral director.

“I’m all that’s left, you know?” he says to friends as he arranges the burial, the shut-off of Danny’s utilities.

“I’m all that’s left, you know?” he tells Danny’s contacts who come by to take his things—folks who were friends only due to shared interests, and who, fortunately, have a use for all of Danny’s expensive toys.

Most of those toys are barely used. Danny never kept his hobbies long. Tim thinks he would have appreciated them going to folks who would use them.

He doesn’t know most of Danny’s contacts, anyway. Apart from a couple of weird, shady blokes who leave with nothing (except Tim’s severe dislike of them), most of the others at least seem nice, and sorry Danny’s gone, and they do Tim the solid of hauling stuff away.

And then it’s over, and the apartment’s emptied, and the furniture’s sold, and the funeral’s done, and Tim has two more weeks of compassionate leave to sit and cry alone.

#

He’s not okay, spinning his wheels.

He keeps thinking, I need to tell Danny what a shit week this has been, because it’s habit, because his brain won’t stop. He needs…

He needs Danny.

His parents’ house feels too big, even though he was already living in it alone. He can’t do this. Every corner reminds him of Danny. Every room carries echoes of a conversation, a laugh, a drunken joking argument. Something precious and forever lost.

“I’m all that’s left, you know?” he whispers to no one, and knows he has to move.

#

Nigel won’t give him more compassionate leave.

Well, homes in Woking go for a lot more than when mum’s parents bought the place. Once he sells the house, he'll be fine for a while. He quits.

“Five years climbing the publishing ladder, thrown away in an instant?” Nigel says as Tim signs his final paperwork. “It’s not too late. You can still choose not to ruin your life.”

My life is buried in Addlestone, he thinks, but chooses not to say.

A few people say goodbye, but most don't; Tim was too much for them, too friendly, too smart. A lot of them envied him, or resented his easy charm.

It’s odd, really: five years in the place, yet he doesn’t regret leaving it at all.

#

The house sells fast. Of course it does. An actual family home with a yard, in commuting distance of London? Yeah.

It’s while packing that Tim finds the book again.

That damned book. The book that got Danny killed.

It’s very weird. A strange black leather, and not one he recognizes; it feels thick, oddly squishy, and it’s a weird proportion, as well—too wide, uncomfortable to hold in one human hand.

It has a weird, three-hook symbol on the cover that Tim has never seen before, embedded, made of some sort of dull, yellow metal.

Danny died for this.

This thing. This… gods-damned piece of print and hide.

Should he take it to the cops? Probably. Fingerprints, or something.

He wants to fucking burn it.

“Doubt you have anything that matters in you, do you?” Tim says, and opens it on the off-chance some cultist wrote their phone number on page one.

How about that? There’s a bookplate. FROM THE LIBRARY OF JURGEN LEITNER, it says.

Well, well, well! They could do something with this! An actual name, identifiable, probably easy to match to other books in the guy’s—

There's a noise like rushing waves, like encroaching tsunami, and he only has time to think fuck, my eyes HURT before he is swallowed whole.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, Chapter Thirteen: Vertigo - A Malevolent x TMA crossover

Simon will help, for a price, though he’ll have his pound of flesh in the process.

Out of the frying pan… and into the fire.

AO3

-----

“Extraction,” says Tim, because if this guy tries to take Hastur, there will be a problem. “What do you mean by extraction?”

“Oh—I mean we’re getting you out of this situation tomorrow in a most effective manner. You’ll see.”

So they didn’t mean taking Hastur away. Which made sense, now that he took a second to think; Hastur had stated clearly how weird it was that Elias could see him. Chances were, this guy couldn’t, and Elias had hopefully not spilled the beans. “This situation?” Tim prompts.

“Well, yes! Police attention can be quite brutal,” says Fairchild, chipper as if planning a party. “Not that I know the full situation, or why they’re after you—nor do I need to!”

“You don’t need to know why?” blurted Jon, as if that were absolutely the craziest thing he’d ever heard.

“Oh, I don’t,” says Fairchild. “That’s not what I’m all about—but that’s due to the nature of my patron. And yours, too, I think,” he said to Tim.

Tim swallows once, but keeps it together. “Don't have one.”

“Certainly you do! And it rather likes you, I think. Anyway, you and I share the particular trait I was just mentioning: we aren’t subtle. It isn’t so much about watching as it is experiencing. The thrill! The moment when the axe falls… or the moment the flame catches. Can’t you feel it, Mister Stoker?

Yes. He could.

Tim stares at him, not breathing. There is a clock ticking somewhere in this place; the sound snaps through the dining room like a countdown. Jon shifts; the rustle of clothing and creak of his chair are startling. Hastur is silent, and Tim knows he is afraid.

Rein it in, big boy, he thinks at himself, trying to pull away from this draw, this shivery need that rises at the thought of a flame catching—heady, thrilling, singing through every nerve in his body. 

Fairchild knows. That look… he understands. Tim thinks of Jon asking questions, unwittingly serving his Eye-god, in the grip of this need.

Tim won’t be that. He won’t. He exhales slowly, sitting very still. “Right, so. Not to be a total drag, but discussion of adrenaline-junkie fear gods isn’t why I’m here?”

Fairchild immediately reels it in, back to chipper old man and not horrifying magic drug dealer. “Oh, of course, of course! Your little police problem. Well. We’ve all run into that once in a while—but Elias seemed to think this one was serious, though it’s normally easy to handle. Elias didn’t mention what was so special about this situation.”

“Something about the Hunt?” says Tim.

Fairchild flinches. “Ooh. That is a pickle.”

“Why?” says Jon.

“Because of the Hunt’s nature, my boy! The Hunt is entirely grown from the eternal and ubiquitous fear of being hunted. Getting got. Chased down. It’s not even about what happens after—it’s about not being able to get away.”

Jon shudders.

Tim’s brown knits. “You’re saying it can’t be escaped from?”

“That’s right—it can’t. Though it can be redirected, and I suspect that’s why you’re here.”

Jon is trembling. He rummages, takes out a notebook, and starts taking notes.

“Dedicated, this one,” observes Fairchild.

“So why are we here?” says Tim. “How are you going to redirect them?”

“Well, Junior will come into play here, I think,” says Fairchild, “though it’s a bit tricky getting him close enough to catch their eye. I think we’ll manage! But that’ll be for tomorrow.”

“We’re spending the night?” says Tim, and immediately feels like an idiot. Of course they’re spending the night. It’s already close to eleven.

“We can provide everything, so don’t worry a bit,” says Fairchild, and leans in. His skin is so pink, almost as if he’s wind-burned. “You are interesting. Elias wouldn’t tell me exactly what was going on with you, but… something is.” He leans in further, far closer than is comfortable, practically in Tim’s lap. “Something really is.”

“Um,” says Tim. “Bad touch?”

Fairchild laughs and pulls back. “Oh, relax, relax. You’re among your own kind, Mister Stoker! Though I understand if that hasn’t really sunk in yet.”

It definitely had not sunk in.

“We’ll handle this extraction problem for you,” promises Fairchild.

“He gave us six addresses,” says Tim. “You’re just the first.”

“Did he? How curious! I wonder what he’s up to. Always something, with that young fellow. Oh, well! Follow Harriet, if you would. I’ll see you bright and early!”

“How early?” says Jon, grouchily, standing.

“Mmm… let’s say, five o’clock?”

“That seems reasonable,” says Jon, who must not like sleep.

“What are we doing, though?” says Tim. “What’s happening? Who is Junior?”

“You’ll meet him tomorrow,” says Fairchild. “I assure you, explaining it now will only make things confusing. You’ll need to lay eyes on him to understand.” And he turns to Jon. “Your boss owes me a favor for this, by the way, and not a small one. He must be quite invested in Mister Stoker’s little adventure, whatever it is.”

Jon glances at Tim, deeply thoughtful. “I wouldn’t know,” he says.

“This is a lot,” says Tim, who is being herded. Harriet brooks no hesitation, and fearlessly crowds him toward another door with a stairway.

“Goodnight!” calls Fairchild. “Do your best to sleep!”

“But what is happening?” Tim calls, and gets no answer.

“Do you require a sleep aid?” says Harriet.

“What? No, like hell I’m taking something here—look, is anyone going to explain what’s going on?”

“Tomorrow, we will cause an event that will begin the redirection process for your tail, and you will be extracted from the situation, leaving the Hunt to chase after its new toy,” says Harriet. 

“But how?” says Tim.

“Tomorrow,” says Harriet. “Not to be mysterious, but answers would only cause more questions right now, and you’ve already interrupted our nightly routine.”

“Not gonna apologize for things I don’t know enough to feel bad about,” says Tim brightly.

Harriet’s lips quirk, and he knows he got her. “Amusing,” she says, dry in tone but true in meaning, and leads them up the stairs.

#

And more stairs.

Also more stairs.

Then? There are stairs.

#

Jon flags by the second floor. Tim loops an arm around him and helps. “This is what I get for skipping gym for the week,” he mutters as if trying to relate.

“Oh?” says Jon. “You do… you do gym?”

“It’s not the worst idea,” Tim hints brightly.

Jon gives him the sourest look imaginable.

Tim laughs. “I’ll start you off easy. You’ll thank me!”

“I have not agreed to any such thing.”

“I’ll set you up with books on tape. You’ll hardly notice the time passing.”

Books on tape apparently appeals, including the outdated phrasing. Jon considers it.

Stairs.

More stairs.

More, in fact, than Tim thinks might be in this building. But that can’t be right. He must have miscounted.

Jon is flagging.

Harriet is not. “She’s got to have calves like suspension cables,” Tim murmurs.

“I think mine are rice noodles,” says Jon.

Tim laughs. 

Hastur snorts.

Harriet turns her head and pauses. 

Tim freezes. Surely she didn’t hear…

“Ah,” she says. “Simon’s changed his mind. This way, please.” And she opens a door and turns right. 

“Look at that! We don’t even have to climb all the way to the top of the Chrysler Building,” says Tim. “Hey, how did you hear Fairchild?”

“I have good ears.” She stands in an enormous bedroom. It’s mostly empty; there’s a bathroom, a floor-to-ceiling window with a walk-out balcony, and a single, huge bed. “There should be something in the closets that will fit you both. We have a lot of visitors.”

“Er, thank you,” says Tim.

“But the—” Jon starts.

“This will be fine. Thank you,” says Tim, who really wants to done with weird new people.

“Are you hungry?” says Harriet.

“Sure, but we really ought to sleep,” says Tim.

“But there’s only—” Jon tries again.

“I’ll send up some sandwiches. Allergies?”

“Not for me. You, Jon?’

“Tim, there is one… no. No allergies.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you in the morning.” And off she goes.

Jon stares at the closed door. Then at Tim. Then at the bed. Then at Tim.

“You all right?” says Tim, mildly.

Aww, did he forget how to be a grownup? says Hastur.

“Fine,” says Jon. “Do you want to shower first?”

“Don’t care.”

Jon nods as though he’s been given marching orders, stalks into the bathroom, and closes the door poste-haste.

“He forgot to get clothes,” says Tim.

I don’t know what you see in him.

“Yes, you do,” says Tim, inspecting the closet. Harriet hadn’t been kidding; it has sizes and styles that even make him raise his eyebrows. 

Oh, do I?

“Yes, you do, especially after that. He’s cute.”

Keep talking like that, and he’ll hear you. I think he might just leap out the window.

Tim snorts, takes out some pajamas, and knocks on the bathroom door.

“What?” says Jon from in there as if he’d heard a gunshot.

“Clothes.”

There is a pause. “I have clothes.”

“I’ll just leave them here folded by the door if you—”

Jon opens the door, grabs what Tim offers, and shuts it. Then he opens it again and peeks through, looking awkward. “Sorry. Thank you. That was thoughtful.”

“We’re both on edge,” says Tim. “Do your thing. I’ll swap places with you when you’re done.”

And I suppose next, you’ll say you want to be a father.

“Ugh, no, I definitely do not,” says Tim, flinging himself onto the bed to see how it bounces. “That’s not fathering, anyway.”

Then what was that?

“Brothering.”

Hastur scoffs.

“He scoffs better than you. Tell the truth, now, that’s why you’re peeved about him.”

Nonsense.

The shower runs.

Tim inspects the nightstand and finds nothing. “You know, for a guy that’s ten thousand upon ten thousand years old—did you mean twenty? A hundred thousand? Vague. Anyway: for a guy who’s so damn old, you don’t read people very well.” He heads for the balcony.

I read people better than you ever could.

“Uh, huh. Tell me another one.” He’s delighted to find it unlocked. So, curious, he steps out, and… “Oh, fuck me,” Tim breathes.

Oh, says Hastur, and Tim grips the balcony railing, tight, crouching a little because his balance just went to hell.

They’re in the Milky Way. In it, surrounded by impossibly swirling stars and blackness, with neither sky nor ground to orient them. Tim stares, mouth open; he starts to lean over the balcony, but it’s too much; the stars are spinning, as if he stands where the galaxy drains out, and very carefully, he backs into the bedroom, and closes the door.

He’s panting.

Fucking Vast, says Hastur.

“What… what the fuck…” 

The Vast, Hastur manages again. It’s… insignificance. Too much space. Losing yourself; falling eternally, void, vertigo. Unfathomable creatures, too distant, too immense, to comprehend.

“Was that real out there?” says Tim, trembling a little. His head spins.

No. 

“You’re sure?”

Yes.

“Fuck.” Tim flops onto the bed and stares at the ceiling, then closes his eyes. “Fucking room won’t stop spinning.”

Easy, Tim. Breathe. Breathe with me.

Tim does. He’s still shaking, though. “Felt like I was falling on my own two feet.”

Breathe. Yes. I know. Breathe.

“Is that one of the things out to eat you?”

Yes.

“Can they hear you? See you?”

No. Hastur sounds relieved. I’d worried, after Elias, but… no. He is a one-off.

“And Gertrude.”

Perhaps I should say people connected to his Institute.

“Jon can’t see you.” Tim rolls over. That does not help, so he lies on his back again. “Fuck.”

Yet. Tim. There is a fix for this.

“Yeah, I’m a little gun-shy, remember?”

A very, very minor spell. Nothing huge like a portal. Just something to help you relax, because this is… uncomfortable. For me as well as you.

Tim swallows. “You threatened to blast Jon earlier through my body. Can you do that?”

I don’t know. An ordinary human, yes. I could. But you are far from ordinary.

Tim sighs. “What’s the spell?”

Mgephai. It means to be still, stable, steady. To calm that which moves.

“Nothing’s moving, though,” says Tim.

You’re hardly going to use the word I’m giving you. You will use your own, and infuse your own meaning into it.

Tim laughs softly. “Know me so well, eh?”

I told you. I know.

“Sure.” But the spinning room is really beginning to make him sick. “Still, you say?”

Or whatever word you wish. It’s the concept here that matters.

The shower stops.

“Right,” murmurs Tim, very delicately feeling that muscle or whatever it is in his mind. “Still. Still. Still.”

“Tim.”

He hears the voice. It sounds far away. 

“Tim. Come on. We’ve got to get going.”

And it is in the process of waking that Tim realizes he was deeply asleep.

#

It is morning. He lies, fully dressed, beneath a heavy blanket; his shoes were removed. It is very early; Jon is dressed, freshly showered, leaning over him.

Tim stares. “What?”

“It’s four-thirty. I thought you might want to get ready before we have to leave.”

Tim sits up so fast he nearly rams into Jon. He checks himself over, feeling his chest, his hands, his face. Nothing seems to be lost. “What the hell just… Hastur!”

Oh… oh, Tim, I… oh, Tim.

Hastur is out of it.

Tim can feel that, as strong as if he could smell the breath of a drunk. “What the hell happened to you?”

Something impossible. That shouldn’t… I think I was asleep? I don’t sleep. I can’t sleep. But I think  I did. Maybe I dreamed…

Tim gawks at nothing. “I roofied a god?”

“What?” says Jon, taking a step back.

Oh, Tim. It was wonderful.

Tim leaps up. His whole body seems to be his—including his stomach, which rumbles. 

“Um,” says Jon. “There’s a cart with breakfast fare. You weren’t awake for the sandwiches last night.”

Tim stares at him for a moment. “Did… you take off my shoes?”

Jon goes absolutely red. “Yes. I thought… I mean, you were obviously exhausted, so I did what I could.”

Tim finds himself absurdly moved, and has to blink away tears. “Thank you. Thanks, man.”

“It’s not any… it’s fine.” Jon doesn’t know where to look.

“I better hurry,” Tim says, and heads into the bathroom. He leans on the door, then looks in the mirror.

He seems fine. He looks fine. Still down one eye, but nothing more. “What happened?”

Oh, Tim… can we do that again?

Tim turns on the shower. “I don’t even know what that was. What happened?”

You used too much will. I think I’m figuring it out. Or maybe I dreamed about it… solved it in my dream.

“I drugged you,” says Tim. “Great. Just great.”

Jon knocks on the door.

Tim opens it, shirtless. “Yeah?”

Jon offers some clothes. He’s folded them (which means he took them off the hangers and then took the time to do that). “They may not be your size, but I… I guessed?”

“Fuck, you’re adorable,” says Tim, takes the clothes, and closes the door before Jon can finish protesting that he is not.

Oh, Tim, says Hastur again.

Tim sighs heavily and showers.

#

Hastur is no more sober when he gets out. I dreamed of a violet sky, he says, filled with stars that sang my name.

“Nothing narcissistic about that,” Tim quips.

It was beautiful. Could I use your hand, I would write it.

“Do you really not sleep? Ever?” says Tim. Jon chose well; it all fits him. Well; it fits him size-wise. Tim hasn’t worn this boring of a button-down and slacks since his job-interview days, but whatever.

(And it only now occurs to him that managers overlooking his dress-code violations probably happened because he was bespelling them, somehow, and that’s a whole kettle of fish to work through.)

I have never slept. It was glorious; I could taste the music—it was cold, and sweet, like honey dispensed from flowers that grew in snow.

“Yikes,” says Tim, and heads out to meet his fate.

Jon is pacing. “What will we be facing, do you think?” he says.

“No idea. Honestly, none of this is super-fun,” says Tim. “Not a lot we can do about it, though. Any port in a storm.”

Jon nods, grim, and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“You can go, you know,” says Tim again.

No, don’t let him go! He’s funny.

Ah-HA, Tim thinks, but does not say. 

“I… I know,” says Jon. “But I have to…” He stops. Stares. “Don’t go on the balcony.”

“Oh, shit, you went out there?” says Tim. “So did I. It was horrible.”

“It…” Jon takes a deep and stuttering breath. “It was… bad.”

He’s scarred, Tim, Hastur purrs.

Tim stiffens. “How?”

His lungs.

“I couldn’t breathe,” whispers Jon, looking away. “Falling forever. I…”

“Fuck.” Tim hurries over to him. “Are you okay? Hastur, can we heal him?”

No. It is a mark. I do not know how to remove a mark.

Tim’s jaw clenches. “That so?” he says, then focuses on what matters. “I’m so sorry, Jon.” Instinctively, he pulls Jon into a hug.

Jon is stiff for one moment, then boneless. “It’s been a day,” he mumbles into Tim’s shoulder.

“So go. Go home. Go… get treated, maybe.”

“No. I have to see where this goes. What happens. I need to understand what happened to me out there.”

“How did you… make it out?” says Tim.

“Fairchild showed up. Simon, he wants me to call him.” Jon shudders. “He brought me back inside.”

“Okay, we’re gonna talk about that,” says Tim. “Fuck, how asleep was I?”

“Oh… it was all very quiet, I assure you,” says Jon, finally standing back. “I couldn’t exactly cry out.”

Tim stares at him. “Right. When we get back to London? When. I am going to punch Bouchard in the face. You are welcome to watch it, since you like to see everything.”

Jon eyes him. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“Set in stone.” Tim shakes his hand, then pauses. “Hey, sorry for grabbing you without asking. I didn’t… think.”

“I don’t mind you doing it,” says Jon, pointedly looking at Tim’s yellow eye.

Oh noooo, I scared him, says Hastur, and laughs like the fucking devil.

Tim exhales slowly. “Junior better be worth all this. I feel awful. Come on.”

#

They are, as it turns out, exactly eighteen steps from the ground floor.

That shouldn’t be possible, but it’s the least weird of the unlikely events of the last week, and Tim isn’t in the mood to quibble. He’s trying not to get mad. To get furious. To light that flame Fairchild so casually mentioned. 

It must show on his face. Fairchild is grinning as they enter the dining room, now tinted slightly purple with the coming dawn, and for just one second, his eyes go wide.

The new, hated part of Tim loves that fear. Craves it. Tim swallows and stomps it down.

“Good morning!” says Fairchild, who is leaning on a cane. “Did you sleep well? After everything, I mean.”

“Not a wink,” says Jon.

“Well, that ought to make this quite surreal!” Fairchild says happily. “Come along—we have to hurry. I can do many things, my boy, but I cannot alter the tide.”

“Tide. Literal tide? We’re going on a boat?” says Tim.

“Why do you think we’re up so early? Goodness! You must think me arbitrarily cruel,” says Fairchild brightly. “Speaking of which, do call me Simon, would you?”

And social pressure is a thing. Tim sighs. “Call me Tim.”

“Wonderful!” Fairchild claps his hands, unbothered by lifting his cane. “On we go.”

This bizarre building has an elevator (and Tim is grateful) to a freaking hidden dock in an oceanic cave. Here floats a yacht.

It’s quite fancy. Not that Tim knows from yachts, but the one billionaire he slept with thanks to a crazy party in the West End brought him to such a ship. 

Nice guy. Tim never even learned his real name.

“Here we are!” says Simon. All aboard. Oh, I do hope you don’t get seasick.”

“Me, too,” says Jon, looking nervous, and clumsily clambered aboard.

Look at him go! Like a drugged squirrel.

“You need to shake it off,” Tim murmurs.

“Hm?” says Simon.

“Talking to myself,” Tim says. “Because what I want to do? Is not go calmly along with this.”

“You know, I do understand,” says Simon almost gently, and gestures. 

“Do you?” says Tim.

“Oh, yes. I’ve been doing this a very long time. I make your Elias look like a spring chicken, truthfully.”

Oh… OOH!

Tim doesn’t wait for Hastur to reveal his discovery and climbs aboard. Hastur forgets whatever he was going to say in favor of describing the sound of water crashing into the hull. 

#

It’s a lovely day for yachting. The breeze is bracing, salty, and cool; the sun isn’t too bright, but glimpsing between clouds. 

There are dolphins. Tim can’t believe there are dolphins.

Look! They’re beautiful!

“Oh!” Jon practically leans over the railing. “Look! Oh!”

Tim is fairly sure Hastur is faking it at this point, just riding the high of being annoying, or something. “Careful, buddy.”

Jon looks at him with wide eyes. “I’ve never been on a ship. Isn’t that shocking? I grew up in Bournemouth.”

“Bournemouth, and never went out?” says Tim.

“No, my grandmother wasn’t… oh, look!”

A spray of water flicks into the air like a paintbrush, splashed from the prow of the boat.

“Don’t go overboard, yeah?” says Tim, and leaves Jon to it.

#

Simon stands balanced on the tip of the prow like a bird. He no longer has his cane. Precarious, he stands there like some weird cartoon character, smiling blissfully into the distant horizon.

“So… professional tight-rope walker?” says Tim.

“No,” says Simon. “Merely very practiced.”

“So… what are we doing out here?”

“Elias was right, you know,” says Simon. “You’re being followed.”

Tim looks. “I don’t see anything.”

“Your partner has. But no, this is more about being aware of ripples in… well. The domain. I can’t say it’s my domain, of course, but the one I share.”

“Still haven’t answered me,” Tim points out.

Simon turns and looks at him.

Oh. OH, that is… a look. Objectively, completely normal, nothing to talk about; but his eyes…

Tim has listened to his instinct more in the last few days than ever in his life, and his instinct says he, right now, is looking at a killer. More than that: this is the most dangerous being, apart from Kayne, whom he has ever met.

Tim takes a step back, feeling himself go pale.

Simon smiles almost kindly, beneficent now that he’s caused some fear. “Junior’s entryway is out here, in the ocean. He doesn’t get to play much, of course; there simply isn’t space in the real world, but he can get a finger through, as it were. He can cause ripples. That ought to be enough to get anybody’s attention—especially things that love a challenge to hunt.”

“A f… finger… space for… what?” says Tim.

Simon crooks his finger. “Come up here. Come on; I won’t shove you off, I assure you—I’d hardly need to be in arm’s length to do that.”

Such threatening words should never be delivered in such a happy, amiable voice, but Simon manages.

Well, Tim thinks. If this is how I go, it’s a hell of an ending. He climbs up beside him.

The wind is so much stronger here; the water crashing against the prow seems shockingly violent, and every shudder of the boat so much more prominent.

“Oh, boy,” says Tim. “What the hell am I doing? Oh, boy.”

“Look,” whispers Simon, one arm around his waist, and points.

Tim looks.

So there’s something ahead. He can’t make it out.

Tim frowns. “What is that? What?”

It’s… a shadow? A shape. Too smooth to be an island; it’s a shadow rising from the sea and eclipsing the horizon. Tim turns his head to take it in, noting the edges curving smooth down into the water. One big curve, immeasurably huge; though the left side curves out more, rounded, and the right drops off more sharply.

He racks his brain. “We don’t… there’s no land out there. What is that? It’s too big to be an island, anyway.” It fills damn near the whole horizon.

Oh, Tim… breathes Hastur. How I would have enjoyed that one as a servant.

Huh? thinks Tim.

Simon holds his hand in front of Tim. Then, as if hitching a ride, he lifts his thumb.

“What are you—” Tim starts, and then stops. He stares at the shape of Simon’s raised thumb, the shape above the knuckle. Then he looks at the shadow again.

The narrowed top; the rounded left, swelling out before dipping back into the water; the right side, still slightly curved, but dropping off steeply.

“No.”

“Yes,” says Simon.

“No. That can’t—“

What I could have done with such as that under my control… Hastur murmurs.

Tim cannot picture a being so huge that the tip of its thumb covers the horizon, and he suddenly feels so dizzy.

Simon’s grip tightens around his waist. “There we go,” he says. “You’re all right. Down we go, yes?” And they’re on the deck as though Tim didn’t weigh twice this old man, with a full foot of height on him.

Tim goes down to his knees.

“That’ll get their attention, don’t you think?” chirps Simon.

“It sure got mine,” heaves Tim.

Simon laughs.

#

Jon is huddled against the bulkhead, knees to his chest, enormous eyes locked onto nothing.

Awww, says Hastur. He looks ready to eat.

“Now, you’re just being rude,” Tim murmurs, and kneels beside Jon. “Maybe this wasn’t a great idea,” he says. “Come on. You’re done.”

“I am not done,” snaps Jon. 

Heh heh heh.

“You’re looking done.”

“No. No. There’s so much more to see. Things… nobody even talks about, but they are there to be seen.” Jon trembles.

“Oh, he’ll love this part,” says Simon. “It’s time for extraction.”

Tim looks up. He swallows. There Simon stands, tiny and pink and old, and absolutely the most monstrous human he has ever met, and he knows that even though Simon has not been particularly monstrous. Simon could. That is the thing.

“How are we being extracted?” says Tim.

“We’ll send your things to the institute,” says Simon.

Oh, that is a bad thing to hear. “Excuse me?” says Tim.

And without further warning, he is in the sky.

#

Blue

Everything is blue

There isn’t even a sun to orient by 

Blue, blue, blue, and he is spinning, and helpless, and cannot even tell if he is falling up or down or sideways

Blue forever, blue eternal, bright sky blue to the end of days 

#

Tim lands on the sidewalk in Penzance, and he is so dizzy that he keels right over onto his side and stares at the brick wall.

Jon whimpers behind him, so apparently, he went for a little ride, too.

Tim! Tim… Hastur sounds relieved. I couldn’t reach you!

“What?” whispers Tim, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

I called you! I shouted. You couldn’t hear me!

“Could you feel…”

Yes. 

Jon groans again. “It won’t stop.”

Tim swallows. 

I was afraid, says Hastur, who might still be out of it because that is shockingly honest. I thought I might be trapped in spinning blue hell forever. Alone.

Tim exhales, trying to fight nausea, and pats his left shoulder. “It’s good. We’re good. I’m here.”

Hastur makes an unhappy sound. What is that? Your stomach…

“Yeah, we’re gonna barf,” Tim says.

Please, says Hastur. Don’t let us do that.

“Not a lot I can do, buddy,” says Tim, tasting bile.

There is! Magic. 

Tim sighs. “I don’t want to go to sleep on the sidewalk, thanks.”

Jon moans.

It’s will. You tried too hard. Try less hard and it’ll work, Hastur insists. Do it for him if not me!

Jealousy confirmed, Tim thinks. “Pushing some buttons there.”

Please, Tim. I don’t want to throw up.

This was utterly ridiculous. But what if he could do it? 

Too much will. That made sense; he’d been doing magic without meaning to all his life—forcing it without properly flexing that muscle.

Maybe if he made it specific.

Maybe if he tried… not to… push the wall over, but just to lean against it. No, that’s too strong an image.

He thinks of a body of water. Thinks of it as gentle, as a settling of liquid into placidity rather than flattening a pile of snow. 

“Calm,” he whispers at his stomach. “Calm.”

It works.

It works immediately.

YES, Tim! Yes!

He tries for the vertigo next. Not thinking of stopping the world spinning, or something vague like his head being still. He thinks of that pond again, rippling, then going calm.

“Easy,” he whispers, trying not to think of calming an animal, or anything too drastic. “Easy.”

The vertigo stops.

And he can feel that he’s strained that muscle (or whatever it is) with this delicate work. That he has, in fact, done something tremendous, no matter how small.

He sits up.

It’s early yet, and few people are out. Tim finds they were dropped into an alleyway, which kept them out of sight. The smell of garbage definitely hadn’t helped the nausea. 

“Jon?” he says, turning.

Turning just in time to see something dragging Jon into the shadow of a wall as though the space where it met the concrete was a portal.

It has a tendril of some kind over Jon’s mouth and another around his throat, and he couldn’t cry out. He reaches, terrified, eyes pleading, as he vanishes.

Tim lunges after him.

There is no thought involved. No planning. He feels the strain on that muscle as he wills catching Jon and casts a spell without intending to.

And the images—

Sees? feels? Stamps into his brain by an outside force? Impossible to say, but he sees (feels stamps knows) the thing dragging Jon only looks like a person, is like a monster in a puppet person, is like a damned angler fish luring persons close enough to grab.

Tim latches on to Jon’s thin wrists.

The thing holding him (swallowing gulping possessing to the waist) makes a startled sound.

Jon has tears in his eyes, tears on his face, tears on the hideous tendril of the thing that has him.

And Tim’s temper explodes.

“You can’t have him!” he roars, bellows burns, and 

Does not

Know what he did.

Fire from nowhere (but it was his and wielded like breath) sears this thing, and it released Jon with a screech and Tim’s straining pull abruptly works, and they both go flying back and hit the wall but

He barely feels  the wall. Barely feels Jon slam into him, barely feels the lingering heat from (what had he done) the fire he’d cast into some weird pocket universe.

But he does feel the pain in that muscle in his mind, and knows what’s coming.

“Don’t hurt him!” he manages, and darkness swallows him whole.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, Chapter Eight: Hunt - a Malevolent x TMA fic

A bad dream.

A scary detective.

A hard, hard choice.

Chapter eight of Corrupted, a Malevolent x TMA fic.

AO3

----------

Tim wakes with the thought that cultists killed his brother, and for a while, he is not all right.

He wants to hurt Hastur so badly. He wants to maim him, to burn him, to scar and destroy everything Hastur loves and make him weep as he watches it melt. Tim wants to seek out those fucking cultists who killed his brother and—

Tim breathes heavily, deeply, trying to count it out. He closes his eyes. He clenches the blanket, fighting the urge to dig into his own flesh because he knows Hastur can feel it.

Hastur stays quiet. It is absolutely the wise thing to do.

Finally, the storm passes. Tim feels drained; like he wrestled some guy way outside his weight class, or maybe survived a horrible fever. Muscle fatigue. Thought fatigue. “Hi,” he says, weakly.

Are you all right?

Tim exhales slowly. “I think so. But. I need to know something.”

All right.

“Who killed my brother?”

I don’t know.

It was a quick answer. Tim doesn’t feel like Hastur is lying… exactly. “But you suspect.”

I suspect. I have no proof.

It tries to rise again, like a flood he can barely tamp down by will and effort. He takes a moment to breathe. “Could it have been your cultists?”

No. My entire intention was to lay low in this world and enjoy it without making waves. Violent cults make waves. They breed fear, which would attract my predators; and they tend to need to be put down by other humans. My cultists are peaceful.

“Okay.” That helps. It’s logical. It fits with Hastur’s m.o. “Okay.” Deep breaths. He can’t seem to slow them down.

Breathe. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four, five, six. Follow my rhythm, Tim. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four, five six. In…

Tim does, breathing with him for a long moment before speaking again. “You know how to handle anxiety, do you?”

I know a lot. I’ve been here a while. For the record, leeches actually did help some people, and it’s good to see them back in medicine.

“Gross.” But that weird fact helped, provided him a stone to rest his foot on, to keep his head above water. “I think I’m okay.”

I hope so. It’s too soon to lose you. Hastur can’t touch him. There’s no physical contact; but he seems to have figured out how to be present in a way that Tim can feel.

"Last night was fun. We'll have to do that again," Tim says.

I would like that.

Good. They were still good.

Or maybe Tim is just being weird and feeling things he shouldn't. He scratches his scalp, which always helps him to wake up. The apartment still smells like curry. “Did I remember to soak the pan last night?

Yes.

“Good. I’m a grown-up. Go, me.” He staggers up and discovers he has sweated completely through his clothes. “Fuck me,” Tim whispers, pulling his pajama top away from his skin.

You grew very hot. Briefly, I worried you’d… been taken in your sleep.

“Is that a thing that can happen?”

The Power that has marked you is created from dream-logic. If you’re afraid of losing yourself in your sleep, it could happen.

“That’s nuts. They change according to what you fear?”

Yes. It’s how they were able to do the damage they did.

“Are they only in this… what did you call it? Timeline?”

Only as prevalent here. Effort has been put in to prevent their spread elsewhere.

“So the gods learned their lesson, huh?” Tim starts water for tea. “Cut that infection off before it can spread too far?”

Yes.

Tim tries to imagine how that must have felt; beings, immortal for all intents and purposes, suddenly going silent. “That must have been wild. Gods disappearing.”

Hastur sighs. Deeply. They simply… stopped communicating, one by one. As more disappeared, the fear of whatever was happening grew. It went from minor, small gods—dandelion deities, essentially—to medium, and finally major. By the time anyone figured out what was happening in this timeline, it was too late. Those who could, fled. Those who could not…

“Fed,” Tim fills in.

Clever. Also horrifying. 

“Accurate, though?” Tim starts the stovetop. “Who do you think killed my brother?”

I see no reason to tell you.

Tim breathes slowly. “Why?”

Because you might lose your reason and go after them—pointlessly, because they would simply kill you, too, sending me to Kayne.

“You’re assuming I wouldn’t just turn them over to the police.”

Yes, I am assuming that.

Tim’s jaw clenches. “You’re risking me getting mad at you to try to avoid me getting mad. Wrong choice.”

Is there a right one?

Tim’s jaw clenches harder. He tosses eggs and beans in a pan, not caring how they mix while they cook, and starts slicing a tomato. “Yes. Tell me who killed my brother.”

I think the wiser move is to reach out to my cultists.

“Oh, fuck that.”

They can even help with your parents’ house. Get it fixed up, and give whatever insurance payout there is back to you.

Tim scoffs. “I’m not going to rob your acolytes.” 

A gift given freely is not theft.

And something in Tim snaps. “Let’s just get real here, shall we? You’re not worried for me. You’re worried for you. Everything you suggest is to take care of you. You’re worried I'm going to do something that triggers whatever clause it is that sends you to Kayne, or do something that draws those god-eating freaks to you. Stop pretending it’s my welfare that concerns you, and maybe we can actually make some fucking progress!”

He stops, spatula gripped so hard that his knuckles have gone white, and takes one trembling inhale. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and leans on the counter, face in his hands. 

That was…

Horrible.

Except it wasn't horrible.

And he didn't mean any of it.

But he did. Tim swallows. His eyes are filling. “Marked, huh?” he whispers, wiping tears.

Yes.

“Fuck,” says Tim, softly. "I didn't even know it was happening.”

That’s the point. It’s in you. Part of you—and wouldn’t have ever been able to mark you if you didn’t have proclivities toward that rage, Hastur says, and his tone is gentle.

“But I’m not—” He’s getting angry over that , and keeps his tone even. “I’m not an angry person. I’ve never been.”

You never had need to be. A man may have genius talent for sculpting clay, but unless he attempts to do so, will live and die without ever knowing the skill is there.

“So we’re admitting this is a lot to deal with.”

It is.

“And I’m gonna turn into a rage monster.” It comes out more bitter than expected.

Yes.

Grief. And that feeling from Hastur is what tells Tim that Hastur believes it’s unavoidable.

“I refuse.”

Hastur sighs.

“No. No. I’m not done yet," says Tim. "There’s got to be a way.”

There may be… something we can do. You truly will not speak to my followers?

“Rather save that for a last resort.”

As you wish. In that case, I suggest returning to Bouchard.

Tim snorts. “Back to McSpooky Manor?”

As I said before, he’s watching anyway—and at this point, Tim, though I hate to say it, it’s any port in a storm. We need help. I don’t have my book, so there’s only so much I can do. And you have raw power—but it is untrained, and so ridiculously overpowered that you turned a simple seek spell into some sort of mental teleportation. 

“So even when you teach me magic shit, I’m going to make it weird,” said Tim, sliding his sloppy breakfast onto a plate.

Yes.

Tim does not hate the idea of being taught magic shit. “All right,” he says. “Well, today's pretty booked. I have to talk to cops. And insurance. And my agent.”

We will make it through.

“We.”

We. I like you, Tim.

“Then tell me what that spell was going to do. The one when all this went sideways,” he says, breathing around his hot baked beans. “With the rope.”

Hastur sounds… just a pinch guilty? It was going to open a portal.

“A portal? To where?”

Hastur hesitates.

The penny drops. “To your cultists?”

If you had magical ability beyond belief, yes. If not, it would do absolutely nothing.

Fuck. Kayne hadn’t been lying. “And you didn’t just tell me , why?”

How would you have reacted to news of my cultists?

“Not great. Might’ve assumed they were the ones who killed Danny.”

There you go.

Tim sighs and rubs his face. “Lemme get this straight. You did set a crazy high bar to avoid taking my body, but if it did work, we’d be face-to-face with Danny’s potential murderers, and you thought none of this needed to be told to me.”

At the time, it made sense, says Hastur loftily. Why cause you more distress than necessary?

“And you thought me thinking I’d die was less distress?”

Than possibly meeting people you thought killed Danny?

Tim stops. “You’re right . If those were the two options—”

I am always right.

“—but those weren’t the only two options!”

And what other option was there?

“You could have, I dunno, not done that? Tried a different spell? A different location? Or even told me a partial truth! A lie!”

Are you asking me to lie to you? Hastur says like warm honey.

Hastur thinks this is funny .

“No!”

I rather thought not. I’ve chosen not to disseminate to you, not because I couldn’t do it so well you’d never know, but out of respect.

Sure he had. “The way I see it,” Tim says, “you’re damned lucky it got interrupted. Apparently, I’d make your portal weird, and we’d have gone to Mars.”

Hastur pauses. That… is actually not unlikely. 

"Ha," says Tim, pointing with his fork. “Always right, hm?”

Certainly for the majority.

Tom rolls his eyes, knowing Hastur can feel that. Then he has to laugh. “Would you believe this isn’t the weirdest or most insulting conversation I’ve ever had after a date?”

I am not insulting . Also, you slept with a Sela, so yes, I would believe that.

“Hey, the Sela was charming as fuck. Why are you even bringing that up again? Keep it up, and you’ll make me think you’re jealous.” Tim drops his plate in the sink, at an angle thanks to the pot that’s in there and still soaking. “Later for you,” he decides at the dishes, and goes to shower.

#

Tim is conflicted about cops.

He knows they’re people, not one amorphous mass. He’s known a couple he liked; fucked a couple he liked more.

He also knows what they do to minorities and the underprivileged as if they are one amorphous mass, and it pisses him off that the individuals don’t seem to do anything to stop it.

At least this report should be easy. He’s a handsome, white male; he knows he has privilege, and intends to take advantage of right now, getting this over with as quickly as possible.

If we run into trouble, I can help you.

“More spells?” Tim mutters into his headphones.

Yes.

“No, thank you.”

We hardly have time for you to be detained. As it is, this is a waste.

“Got to do it. This stuff won’t take care of itself. Also, we don’t know what any spells I cast would do.”

I think I see the pattern. I believe I could teach you to account for your power.

Tim likes to joke. He likes to minimize terrible or frightening things so they become manageable. This… is beginning to feel unmanageable. “You’re really serious. You think I’ve got… legit crazy levels of power. Not just 'a lot,' but... unprecedented.”

I do. I have not encountered human ability as strong as I think yours may be in centuries.

Tim crosses the street and stops in front of the station. “You can't be sure. I’ve cast two spells, my guy.”

But you’ve done a million little magics, haven’t you? Including charming me. No, don’t get upset; I’m saying you are a charming man—and what you’ve done is simply ensure I feel it. I hardly mind. It’s a lovely thing 

“Wait, so… I’ve been… forcing people to like me?” says Tim with growing horror.

No. It’s more like waving a light in a darkened room. You aren’t forcing. You aren’t… raping, Hastur adds, guessing correctly that Tim is on the verge of freaking out. You merely draw attention to yourself—after which, any response is simply to you. Clever, charming, delightful young man. 

Tim isn’t fully past the freaking-out. “Swear it. Swear I’m not forcing anyone. Especially into bed.”

Did you desire to force anyone?

“No!”

At any point, was your desire to override another’s negative opinion of you?

“No, of course not!”

Then that is not what you did. You wanted to be seen, and then if anyone was inclined on their own to like you, they had that chance.

Hastur is right.

Tim can’t see how he did it, exactly, except he’s always known how to do it—and, when in a bad mood, to do the opposite, as well.

He suddenly understands why no one cared when he left his job. Since his mum died, he has not wanted to be seen.

Hasn’t wanted interaction, hasn’t wanted the usual response to him of exasperated pleasure and possible desire.

No. He’s never wanted to override anybody. That’s never been his desire. It still feels… not great, but thinking of it as waving a light helps. Attention, not force. “I should tell you, I don’t feel wonderful with that information,” he says anyway.

Would you prefer I not tell you these things? says the asshole, because of course not.

“No.” At least that answer is easy. “I… it comes down to my desire, doesn’t it? I need to be really precise, or whatever magic I do goes haywire.”

Yes!

Well, Hastur’s having a good time, anyway. “Why do I have this power?”

We will have to figure it out later, since you insist on doing all this now.

“Look, it’s not my idea of a good time, either, but it’s got to be done.”

I have people who could do this for us.

Tim snorted. “Probably illegal? Definitely immoral. You’re making me feel bad for your slavish cultists.”

Hastur laughs. You haven’t met them.

“Not helping your case.” He walks in.

Can he not use magic on people?

Should he not use magic on people?

Is it harmful? Is it violational, or is it more like... just happening to have the brightest feathers in the room?

“Hi,” he says at the welcome desk, trying to wave neither feathers nor lights. “I’m supposed to meet with Detective Tonner?”

#

It’s a busy station. 

Tim’s a little puzzled why he was sent to this one. It’s further from his home, and everyone here seems… really grim.

Cagey eyes. Wary gazes. Battle-hardened, he thinks, and isn’t sure why he does.

He is led to a tiny office papered in news articles, blurry photos, and post-it notes saying things like, POSS. V. ACTIVITY, and, BASIRA LUNCH.

It is cramped. It is uncomfortable. It feels weirdly intense, somehow, like… 

Well, he knows what it's like, but it makes no sense: it feels like being a kid again, and followed by a big scary dog, and afraid it’s going to get him.

What an odd memory to resurface.

Detective Tonner does not look happy to see him. “Stoker?”

She says it like a pejorative. “Yes. Tim.”

“Sit.”

He wants to run (recalls, for some reason, that terrifying sounds of claws on the sidewalk as that big scary dog chased him), but he sits. He has to do it slightly sideways to keep his chair fully in the office without putting his legs right on her desk.

Tonner folds her hands and just… stares at him. She’s deeply unnerving, but she shouldn’t be.  She’s a fit, strong woman (Tim likes those), her blonde hair kept short, no makeup, no smile. Her hands look… used , as if she’s recently been pummeling some poor fool.

Tim swallows. “Um. Hi?”

“So here’s the situation, Mister Stoker,” she said as if he were on trial. “Got a call from neighbors. Your house got trashed near midnight.”

“That’s what the message said,” Tim says, trying to sound neutral, feel neutral, do nothing to influence this one way or another.

“It’s all a little bit weird, isn’t it? The timing. The specificity. Just your house, nothing around or outside it.”

“I… don’t know?”

“We got you on camera walking away from your house.”

“Yeah? I’d finished packing up for the night.”

“Awfully polite of whatever it was to wait until you were done, isn't it?” she says.

Uh-oh.

That is Tim’s feeling exactly. “Detective… I don’t really get what you’re going for here. I’m really damn lucky I wasn’t there when they did whatever they did.”

“Were you, though?”

Her gaze is just… unblinking. Steady. Pinning.

That feeling of being chased, followed by a thing that could run him down and just hasn’t yet, rises, memories bubbling, telling him to flee. 

He will not. “I’m… just here because insurance asked me to come?” says Tim.

“We got some footage.”

“Footage?” Run, whispered that something, that fear, that wild terror.

Steady. I feel your heart rate rise. Steady, Tim.

Yeah, no shit, Tim thinks. 

“Footage,” she says. “Really weird stuff. Looks to me a lot more like people in costumes than an animal attack—not that we have animals that big in Surrey, anyway.”

“People in costumes? A gang?” says Tim weakly.

“I’m thinking… how many friends you might have who’d be willing to do something like that for you.”

Tim’s jaw drops. “What?”

“Seems a little more likely than a random group of human-size animals attacking one house in a street, then going away—all while the house’s owner walks the whole way home.”

“Walks the… I… Okay, wait. You know I walked home that night, which I did; it felt good. So what?”

This woman has not blinked. “There are enough CCTV cameras between your house and your apartment to establish that. And you’ve had some odd behavior lately, haven’t you? Quitting your job. Selling a house that would only appreciate in value. But you didn’t move far, did you? There’s some oddities in your records, Mister Stoker.”

Gods, this woman was made of iron and accusations, and it… was making him kind of prickly. “Excuse me? You’re really serious. I’m actually under investigation?”

“There are no large animals like the ones that purportedly wrecked that house,” says Tonner. “Not in Woking. And you are the only one who stood to benefit from a wild insurance claim.”

“I stood to benefit when it sold,” says Tim. “This mess is getting in the way of that!”

Careful. Tim, this woman… there’s something I’m sensing here. 

“Sure,” she says. “Unless you thought you could get a double payday out of it. Make some superficial damage, blame an animal that doesn’t exist, then collect on repairs you could make yourself, right?”

She is unblinking.

She is unnaturally still.

He finally realizes what she reminds him of: a documentary he’d watched once. It had been on wolves.

The Hunt, Hastur breathes, and he is very quiet, and he is very still, and Tim suddenly knows that Hastur is afraid.

And that makes Tim mad. “I think you have a damned good idea I didn’t do this. This is harassment.”

Her eyes narrow, and Tim feels abruptly pinned. Wolf, he thinks. This woman is a wolf.

Instead of answering, Tonner slides a piece of paper across to him. “Fill out this report. Be thorough. I’d be happier if it isn’t you, Mister Stoker. I’d love to have some weird beast in Woking that’s not supposed to be there—but right now, this incident is looking all too human.”

Tim takes the paper.

Don’t run.

Right. Something something predators chasing you down. “Sure. I didn’t do this, Detective. I wouldn’t wreck the place I grew up.”

“You sold it pretty fast.”

“My. Brother. Died.” The anger is rising, threatening to bubble out, and oh, it is so hard to keep it down. “I’m not okay about that? And should I fucking bring up the fact that you people haven’t found who killed him?” And without meaning to do it, Tim slams his fist on the desk.

It is a big thump. It is more than that, though; there is so much rage in it, so much fire, and he can see (is that the right word?) something like a red-orange shock wave pulse out from the point of impact.

It flashes through the room, quicker than a blink. It goes through her.

Tonner… jumps.

Her eyes widen. 

They stare at each other.

Careful! Careful. You just… your anger. You just cast magic.

Fuck. 

Tim breathes hard. He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to be this. He’s trying to rein it in.

Easy. Careful. Breathe with me. In, one, two…

He could burn her and he knows it.

Oh. Oh, he wants to.

No. He doesn’t want to. He just wants to get out of this.

Tim swallows.

She is looking at him, meanwhile, as though he’s just made all her dreams come true. “Do your eyes normally change color?” she says, so mildly.

Tim’s startlement is so bad. “What? They what?” He fumbles for his phone and flips on the selfie camera.

He is just in time to see his eyes flicker (flicker!) from gold back to brown.

“What?” he says. “What the fuck was that? What? What?”

Calm. The more afraid you are, the more you feed it. Calm.

Tim can’t be calm. He’s terrified. He looks up.

Tonner seems… puzzled. “You’re afraid. Why?”

“Why? ” Tim gestures at himself. “What was that? I need a fucking doctor!”

“Hm.” She frowns. “Go do your report. I expect it by this evening, turned in. If you can prove your whereabouts, that’d be good, too.” 

“This evening? Are you serious?”

“Dead serious, Mister Stoker.” She leans in again “I’m thinking right now you’re at the heart of all of this, whatever's going on. I’m going to be watching you very closely.”

Tim. She’s Hunt. Get out of here. Don’t run. Do not run. But go. Go. Go.

Tim has no idea what that means, but he knows it’s bad. “Right,” he says slowly. “Are you harassing me?” And because instinct says he has to redirect her intensity into something else, anything else, he slowly smiles at her, absolutely salaciously. “Are you… following my case with interest? Is that what all this is about?”

“Ugh, no!” She leans back like he shot her, grimacing.

Knowing very well it will make her hate him (and knowing somehow that it will make him less like prey), he blows Detective Daisy Tonner a kiss and takes his paper. “I’ll be sure to bring this back. Maybe with some tickets to something nice?”

“Get the fuck out of my office!” Daisy Tonner says.

He winks again and goes.

His smile drops like an old shirt the moment he’s through the door.

Walk. Don’t run. That’s it.

He’s fumbling to put in his earphones. “What was that? What the fuck was that?”

What you cast was the essence of leave me alone .

"Why did my eyes change color?"

I'm unsure. It could be magic; it could also be your mark. You cast in anger; had she been normal, she would have felt that, and backed away out of self-preservation. But she did not do that. Instead, you presented yourself as a challenge.

“A challenge? What the fuck? She… gods, that is not what I expected. What happened in there?”

That woman belongs to the Hunt. The fear of being stalked. Run down. Chased by something bigger than you. The same Power that sent those gray-skinned monsters to your parents’ house.

Tim stops dead in the street. “She’s allied with those things?”

No. They don’t… generally team up. They’d be in competition, if anything. 

“Except she’s after me and they’re after you, right? So that’s great.”

Concerning. But I have been in tighter spots.

Tim wipes his forehead on his shirt sleeve. “I haven’t. She’s…” He stops.

Yes?

“I… I get the feeling she’s…”

Say it. Hastur is eager. Listen to your instinct. Say it, Tim!

“She’s not fighting like I am,” he whispers. “She gave in. She’s become… everything that rising feeling wants her to.”

Yes.

“Don’t jizz in your pants over it,” Tim mutters. “Wanna know what else my gut says?”

Yes, Tim! says Hastur, clearly not following that advice.

“Even when I prove I didn’t do this, she’s gonna come after me.” The moment he says the words, he knows they are right. 

Yes. We are deeply unlucky. Only one out of ten people or so are affected by the Powers, and fewer still become true avatars. The chances of catching her eye so soon...

“She’s gonna hunt me. Fuck!”

Unless.

“Unless what?”

We have three options to stop this. Magic—and you have the power, but it is currently unpredictable. My cultists—

“Non-starter.”

So you say. Or, thirdly, we can give her something better to hunt.

Tim frowns. “What?”

She knows where you live. You need to lay low, anyway… and I assure you that Bouchard will be able to locate those gray-skinned beasts.

“You’re suggesting dangling more dangerous prey in front of her—which just happens to be the thing after you—to keep her off my tail.”

I am.

“I can’t decide if this is genius or Looney Tunes shenanigans.”

Perhaps both. Mel Blanc was unquestionably brilliant.

Tim snorts. “Big eldritch Cthulhu half-brother. Nerd. ”

I will not be insulted.

Except he positively purred that.

Tim wonders just how much of his desire to earn Hastur’s favor back is behind this.

He wonders if he is right or wrong to be relieved.

He crosses the street at a jog, heading for the bus. “Insurance agent next.”

You don’t have to do this, says Hastur, low. I am offering to take care of everything for you.

“You’re offering to have me pampered and petted like some celebrated courtesan so you can feel it,” says Tim without any rancor.

And what’s wrong with that?

Tim laughed. “At least you’re being honest.” Tim sighs. “How is today just fucking ordinary busywork in the middle of cosmic horror?”

I don’t think anything in your life is ordinary, Tim.

And maybe this had gone beyond right and wrong , and he’d actually enchanted a god.

Tim absolutely does not know how to feel about this at all.

#

The agent thing went fine. She was concerned about him. That was nice. Lovely.  She had really solid legal advice. He was grateful. He would have absolutely leaned into her kindness at any other time, charmed her, gotten her to laugh.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t stop thinking about Bouchard. He couldn’t stop wondering if he was wrong to avoid Hastur’s cultists. He couldn’t stop worrying about Tonner.

By the time he gets out of that, and finishes a two-hour phone call with insurance that damn near drains his phone battery, his personal battery level is also on the blink, but at least he knows what to do.

He goes back home.

He packs a bag with four days’ worth of goods. He takes his food, too, since Bouchard said there was a minimal kitchenette.

He remembers to do the dishes.

"You're out of your damn mind," he tells himself in the mirror.

Then, exhausted, he gets on a bus heading back toward Chelsea and, without meaning to, passes right the hell out.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, Chapter 15 - a TMA x Malevolent Crossover

“I’ve got a job,” says Tim, earpieces in place. “And I have zero assignments.”

That sounds dangerously like wishing not to be bored, says Hastur. That wish has never turned out well for anyone.

Chapter fifteen of Corrupted, a TMA x Malevolent crossover.

AO3

---------

Jon catches the voice out in the hall. It drifts into his dreamy state because it is aggressively American, or at least what the entertainment industry would label Southern.

Just last week, he’d gotten into an argument with Sasha about how the “south” of many nations seemed to have some kind of drawl which, for whatever bizarre reason, was not considered the “standard” accent. He hadn’t won, but could concede a draw, and so that made him wonder just what—

“Oh, he’s in here? Thank you kindly, ma’am,” says the whoever, and a man comes into his room.

Subtle as a fire alarm, Jon squints one eye open.

He doesn’t know the guy standing by his bed. Sort of inoffensively blond, unremarkable; he wears business casual, round glasses, and a warm smile that Jon immediately dislikes because he does not know this person and distrusts anyone who'd pretend affection toward him.

“Mister Sims?” says the guy.

“Present,” says Jon as if in school. 

The guy chuckles. “Name is Matthew Larson. I wondered if you had a minute to talk.”

Jon can’t figure him out. He wears no regalia to easily identify whatever he’s representing. What does he want? What’s he after? “I’m not interested in converting,” he says.

The guy chuckles again. “Nobody’s gonna ask you to do that. I had some questions about your friend’s… companion.”

Jon stares at him with both eyes. “What?”

“Obviously, this isn’t a great time,” says this Larson, and places a business card on the little side table. “When you’re feeling better, though, I’d really appreciate a call. Been looking for that guy for a long time. Your friend isn’t safe.”

Jon blinks. “What?”

“Your friend isn’t safe. We both know there’s something plum awful inside him, don’t we? A cancer—but sentient. When you’re ready, give me a call, all right?” The man touches two fingers to his forehead as though he would’ve tipped his hat if he’d had one, and leaves.

Well, that was weird.

So weird, in fact, that Jon suspects it might not have happened. He drifts off, suffering bizarre morphine dreams.

He is genuinely surprised to find the card is actually there when he wakes.

#

Even magical bullshit jobs take time and paperwork to figure out. By the time they’re done, it’s well into the afternoon, and Tim is hungry. “So,” he says. “What’s good to eat around here?”

“Oh, I do love the little cafes and such,” Elias says, putting away signed forms and document folders. “Though most of the staff, you’ll find, choose to bring their lunch, or to eat elsewhere entirely, thanks to the expense.”

“It is Chelsea,” says Tim, grim.

“Indeed.”

“So… I can just go?”

“As you wish. Jon isn’t in any shape to take on the next assignment, so for now, you’re free to do what you like. I’d suggest getting to know your coworkers.”

Tim sighs. “That’s a weird orientation, new boss. Not gonna lie.”

Elias smiles. “Do you want actual job orientation?”

“Yeah?”

“Then I will provide it.” Elias takes out his phone and taps a message. “I will warn you, however: no one here knows what’s going on.”

“No one…”

“Knows.”

Tim stares. “You mean about Hastur?”

“I mean about all of it. Most are casually agnostic.”

“Are you serious?” says Tim.

“Quite. I thought the warning might be good so you don't make the wrong comment and appear insane.”

Elias’s humor, Tim observes, is a dry but cruel one. “Shit,” says Tim.

“Professional language, please,” says Elias, looking entertained.

Tim throws his hands in the air. “What about the places on the list you gave me?”

“Detective Tonner is still focused on you, so you may need to make some more trips,” says Elias. “The department itself, however, has been neatly distracted by Simon’s gambit. It was…” He inhales, pupils going big. “Quite the sight, wasn’t it?”

Tim shudders. “Yeah. Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it. Can’t say I’d ever have thought giant thumb would be frightening, either.”

“I almost envy you,” Elias murmurs. “Well. At least you know you will see many wonderful things here.”

“Wonderful?” Tim repeats. “Terrifying, you mean.”

Elias shrugs elegantly. “That, too.”

Among other things.

Elias’ eyes lidded. “Yes. Do you have some questions, your Lordship?”

“Oh, here we go,” says Tim, and settles in for the long haul.

My first is simple: the plan you mentioned. 

“Which one?” says Elias, and he actually means it.

“Oh, gods, what is my life become?” Tim mutters.

As I recall, said Hastur, and then quoted him: “ I may—theoretically—know of some deific flesh, carefully preserved in crystal. And I may—theoretically—know someone who could potentially use it to craft you a new body.”

Elias smiles. “Exquisite memory. This particular one is still in process.”

I’m a bit more concerned who you might know who could manage such a feat, since, from my understanding, that requires an avatar of the Flesh. Am I correct?

“Flesh?” says Tim. “Flesh. What, a meat god?”

You aren’t far off. 

“Ew?” says Tim, lip curling.

“I know a fairly talented individual who doesn’t… play the game,” says Elias. “He even refused to take part in the last major attempt at a ritual. He’d be willing for a price.”

And what, pray tell, protects me from being eaten by this humanitarian after the fact?

“ Cannibal flesh god,” says Tim.

“Rather. Well, two things: one, I intend a balancing influence.”

An opposing fear?

“Yes. It’s usually possible to corral them with appropriate staffing.”

And I suppose the opposing fear won’t attack me, either?

“I will see what else I can come up with to protect you, Lord of Carcosa,” says Elias. “Spiritual capsaicin, as it were.”

“Delicious protection?” says Tim.

“A substance which, moderately successfully, does deter most predation,” says Elias. “The beings who would eat you with it were going to eat you anyway.”

Tim makes a face. “Pragmatic, I guess?”

It would be appreciated.

“Lord of Carcosa,” says Elias. “I will do anything I can to prevent your vast knowledge and experience from being lost.”

Weirdly, Tim believes that. “Do… I need to go armed, or something?” he says.

“Well, that does bring up an interesting point. You are evidently a very powerful sorcerer,” says Elias.

There is a pause.

“Woooo,” says Tim, waggling his fingers.

“I haven’t seen anyone with natural magical ability in a very long time,” says Elias. “To be frank, I thought the trait had died out a few generations ago.”

Tim swallows. “You don’t know of another?”

“Not living, no. There are some memories trapped in things you could speak to, but not a proper tutor .”

“Great,” Tim mutters.

None of this is terribly reassuring, Elias.

“Yet here you are, still asking about it,” Elias says with another smile.

Of course I am. It’s the ideal scenario—should it work.

“I know! A body of your own, but not a human one! What might you accomplish?” says Elias, leaning forward.

"Bad touch," says Tim cheerfully, and is ignored.

That all depends on my next question, said Hastur. What do you know of the thing which followed me here? The eternal creature, the being beyond gods, who scrambled your Gertrude’s memories and so pursues me?

Elias’ eyes get wider and wider by the moment. “I know absolutely nothing. I cannot see it at all , though I see its prints; it has caused… a shift.”

“What?” says Tim. “What the hell do you mean, a shift?”

“In mood. In stability, both political and geological. Wars and rumors of wars, as the expression goes. So many small imbalances, changes within previously stable situations… yes. A shift.”

Tim stares. “Are you saying Devil Pants is causing wars?”

“I… what?” says Elias.

“He said he was getting the laughing beast on some booty shorts. Seemed like a better title than, I don’t know, his name,” says Tim.

Elias looks amazed. “How… bold.”

“It's not bold. I’m charming. He’s going to hit me with a truck for it. You’re missing the point, anyway. He’s causing wars?” says Tim.

“That was literary exaggeration, but not by much. What is happening is a destabilization . It’s all just a little off-kilter, slightly imbalanced. I have watched human affairs for a long time, Tim. Nothing I see now is… good,” says Elias.

“Because of Devil Pants,” says Tim, feeling really bad, “and that’s because of Hastur, and that’s because of me.”

Elias makes a graceful gesture. “Entirely accomplished in ignorance, without malicious intent.”

But it hadn’t been. In that moment, when he’d opened the book, he’d meant harm. “Not sure that’s good enough, new boss," Tim says.

“Are you asking for comfort?” says Elias. “Because that isn’t really what I do.”

“Just complaining,” Tim mutters bitterly. “Apparently, that’s my only outlet.”

If I were to give you the being’s proper name, says Hastur slowly, I wonder what you could discover?

There is a pause.

“I’d prefer not to draw the ire of a being that scares you ,” says Elias.

Yes, you would, says Hastur. Because your own terrified experience can feed your patron.

Elias actually shudders.

“Ooh, he’s got you there,” says Tim.

“That… is a point.” Elias sits back. “At least allow me to protect myself somewhat before you share that information.”

As you wish.

“You know what I’d like,” says Tim. “I want to know who killed my brother. I want them in jail.”

“Merely jail?” Elias says, neutral.

“Of course not merely jail,” snaps Tim, and is so surprised by his anger, surging out of him like lava, that he cannot stop it. “I want them to suffer. I want to burn their faces off. I want to hurt them . But that isn’t who I choose to be, so I will settle for court cases and orange jumpsuits.”

“Technically, most prisoners here wear ordinary clothes,” says Elias.

“Pedantic,” says Tim with a single finger-gun. “Also don’t care if they’re wearing a coconut bikini as long as it’s behind bars.”

Heh, heh, heh, says Hastur.

“Any other questions?”

None that require answers right at this moment.

“Same.” Tim rubs his face. “This is all moving awfully fast.”

“Welcome to the realm of gods and monsters,” says Elias, standing and offering his hand to shake. “Time simply doesn’t matter to them at all, much to our chagrin.”

“Fuck it,” says Tim, and shakes Elias Bouchard’s hand. “Guess I’m all-in.”

“It is unwise to attempt anything else. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to determine how best to use your talents.”

“Ominous!” Tim says, and heads for the door.

#

Well, says Hastur. I’d say we are doing the best we can with these circumstances.

“I’ve got a job,” says Tim, earpieces in place. “And I have zero assignments.”

That sounds dangerously like wishing not to be bored, says Hastur. That wish has never turned out well for anyone.

Tim snorts. “And what would you be doing, on your own?”

Being worshiped.

Tim’s eye-roll is so strong it nearly hurts.

Now, Hastur purrs. You’ve never been worshiped. You don’t know what you’re missing.

“Yeah, I’m okay with not having that experience?”

I think I could convince you otherwise, he says like warmed honey.

“Yeah, while we’re being creepy-flirty,” says Tim, “I had a weird dream while we were in the hospital, before I woke up in my body. You were—”

“Can I help you?” says a voice.

Tim turns to find a young woman looking at him, and immediately thinks, Oh no, she’s hot.

Her gaze is keen, unafraid. Her hair—long and curly—is tied back in a fetchingly messy way, and her small wire-rim glasses boost her right past sexy librarian and into smokin’ academic. 

She looks smart. Tim likes smart. “Hi,” he says. “New employee. Tim Stoker, at your service!” He offers his hand.

She shakes at once (firm, soft skin, short nails but buffed, ink stain along one palm because she writes a lot, oh no, she’s hot ). “Oh! You’re the one Elias texted me about. I’m Sasha James. I think I’m supposed to give you the grand tour.”

Tim gives her his absolute most charming smile. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot. Maybe I’ll treat you to lunch after.”  Hastur does not make a sound, but Tim can feel a sort of annoyed fondness in response to this. Well, Hastur doesn’t matter right now. “Ms. James, is it?”

“You can call me Sasha. If we’re working together, we’ll drop all the formality really quickly, believe me. Let’s start at the top, yeah? Do you mind stairs, or prefer an elevator?”

“Yeah,” he says happily, and realizes that made no sense. “Either’s fine. Stairs are good.”

“Great, because you’re going to be sitting all day,” she says, grinning at him over her shoulder. “Here we go! I like to think of this place as top-down reality.”

Oh, he’s in trouble. “Yeah? What’s that mean?”

“It means the stuff at the top is the least reliable. Snacks; pointless calories. Most of it is unprovable nonsense.”

Oh, he’s in trouble. “It gets better the deeper you go, eh?” says Tim.

“Yep. By the time you get to the archive, you’re dealing with actual, real stuff. Ah—I’m going to assume he warned you about Artefact Storage.”

Say yes. She'll like that.

Wingman Hastur? “He mentioned something, but said you’d explain more fully.”

Her expression is gloriously irreverent. “Thanks, Elias. Ugh.”

“That bad, is it?”

“It’s just a whole thing? Let’s start at the top and work our way down.”

I suspect you’d like to start at the top and work your way down, wouldn’t you? says Hastur.

Wingman Hastur. Tim covers his laugh with a cough. Shut up, you sex-dream-having hypocrite, he thinks, and follows her up the stairs.

#

By the time they reach Artefact Storage, Tim is well and truly besotted. He knows it; he’s pretty sure Sasha knows it. 

Hastur definitely knows it, and has been merciless. Get her number.

“You weren’t joking,” says Tim as they head toward Storage, both ignoring Gertrude’s glare. “We went from Bram Stoker’s Dracula to actual U.F.O.s.”

“Right? It’s nuts.” 

There are warning signs all around the door: signs meaning gloves required , and goggles required , and eye-wash station. Other signs saying things like, DO NOT ENTER UNACCOMPANIED, and SIGN IN AND OUT, and, worryingly, IS IT WORTH YOUR LIFE?

“Uh,” says Tim.

Sasha came prepared. She opens the little box beside the door and hands him a pair of gloves and a set of weirdly reflective safety goggles.

“Uh?” he says.

“It’s precaution,” she says, scribbling their names on a clipboard hung by the door. “There are some things in here that’ll affect you by touch or by sight.” And she is… watching him.

Watching for his response. To see if he believes.

He swallows. “So they are real. The things in here.”

“The things in here would make Mulder and Scully cream themselves,” says Sasha in a delightful tone, and opens the door.

Get her number.

Tim is definitely going to.

#

An hour later, he sits at a cafe table alone, and keeps forgetting to finish his overpriced crepe.

Tim.

“Hm? Oh, yeah.” Another bite. It’s really yummy; some goat cheese thing, which he barely paid attention to when he ordered. Happily, it works cold.

Is your plan to stare into space the rest of the afternoon?

“She was hot, Hastur. You’re going to have to let a man fantasize a little,” says Tim, sipping some water.

Sasha had her lunch and got back to work a while ago. They laughed and spoke in geek the entire meal. Tim is happy to sit in her perfumed wake and maunder. “Her hair smells really nice.”

Tim.

“She’s so smart , Hastur. I could barely keep up with the repartee.”

Tim.

Tim considers his mostly-eaten crepe. “This was absolutely not worth eleven pounds.” He’s never been happier to finish an overpriced crepe.

Hastur sighs. Tim.

“What.”

This has been pleasant, and all, but we have work to do.

“We actually don’t,” Tim says, gesturing with his fork. “Not until Jon’s fixed up.”

We really do need to contact my cultists.

“Not doing that.” Tim finishes his water.

We do. Not only will they have resources to help you hone your power, but they also will be able to help you track down who killed your brother. They may already know.

Tim freezes, half-standing. “What.”

The book was stolen from them. I assure you, they’ve been hot on the trail.

“You mention this now?”

I mention this now.

Tim sighs and sits back down. “So you’re an asshole. Why didn’t you say this before?”

We’ve had a lot on our plate.

“I really don’t want to talk to cultists.”

I will talk to them. Tim, I haven’t forgotten that your brother took the book from some very bad people. They are still looking for it—and you. You aren’t safe.

Tim hadn’t really thought about it, but Hastur is right. They’d come looking in Danny’s stuff, he’s still pretty sure, after the funeral. in all the craziness he hadn't considered he might be the one hunted; and he steadfastly ignores the tiny part of him that hopes they come so he can burn them to death. “You’re thinking I need protection.”

Yes. More than we gained through the Archives.

Tim sighs. “Fuck me. How many threads do we have going now, anyway?”

Well, let’s go in order, shall we? Whoever stole the book from my people.

“And murdered my brother.”

Detective Tonner and her obsession with you.

“Ugh,” says Tim. “Yeah.”

Your magic—a genetic freak, which leaves you in a position of possibly doing harm without intent.

“Way to ratchet up the scare factor on that one,” says Tim.

The Outer God chasing me.

Tim swallows. “Devil Pants.”

Stop that. The dangers of a universe in which beings like me are eaten—and we have definitely caught some attention, especially since you took prey from one’s mouth.

“I am fucking never going to apologize for saving Jon, so you can just shove that one where the sun don’t shine.”

Fair. A potential body for me—

“Though at the cost of whatever Bouchard is doing with Jon, which I still haven’t figured out.”

And that odd chaplain who’s been staring at us for the past five minutes.

Tim startles. “What?”

You’ve been distracted. To your right, just behind.

“How…” Tim gets it. The reflection in the glass of the crepe shop. 

It just looks like a guy, except… not right. The glass must be old; it distorts him, sort of elongates and twists his face. His clerical collar is an unsettling white s, and his hands seem like they’re as long as the bloody table.

“Okay,” says Tim, adjusting his earbuds. “What?”

I don’t know. He hasn’t moved.

“Should we… should I just confront him? Get it over with?”

No. Get up and walk and see if he follows.

Tim’s phone dings. The text is from his contact saved as "Smokin' Smart:" Thanks for lunch! - S

He makes a happy little sigh.  Anytime, he responds.

Focus.

“Right, sure. Right.” Tim stands and starts walking, hands in his pocket, as nonchalant as he can manage.

He’s following.

“Of course he is.” Tim doesn’t rush. The guy is, he thinks, shorter than he is; that doesn’t make him less dangerous, but it leaves Tim feeling a touch more confident. The problem is, he can’t get a good look at the guy’s face. 

Every single reflection is distorted, and it’s annoying. “Maybe I should just turn and look at him. Can’t clock the guy if I don’t know what he looks like.”

I wouldn’t advise a confrontation. Something is very wrong here.

“Sure, but based on what?”

He moves… wrong.”

“Wrong.”

Wrong.

“That’s quite the description from a guy who’s thousands of years old,” Tim quips, turning a corner at regular speed. Then he ducks quickly into a flower shop and stands out of sight, peering through the window.

The man who walks by doesn’t look like anything. Just a man, middle-aged; receding hairline, clean-shaven. Even his clothing is just aggressively ordinary—a black outfit under a beige, unremarkable windbreaker. 

The man misses them and wanders right past the shop. “He’s moving normally,” Tim murmurs into his earpiece.

I’m telling you, something is very wrong with that person. 

“If this is some sort of thing about people who struggle with mental health—”

No. Tim, let’s go back to the Institute.

Tim is beginning to realize that Hastur is only afraid when things are about to hit the fan. Consistently, in fact. “Right. Let’s do that, then.”

#

It’s a good half-hour walk back to the Institute. In that time, several things happen.

One: police cars. A lot of them, heading back the way Tim came. They have sirens on.

Two: an ambulance follows, speeding down the narrow streets, which is concerning.

Three: Jon sends a text that says, We need to speak at once. I’ve had a strange visitor.

Four: Elias sends a text that says, I have your next assignment. I do hope you don’t mind prison.

Five: a woman is waiting for them on the steps of the Magnus Institute.

Tim doesn’t know her. She’s short, stocky, muscled; dressed in a plain white sleeveless tee, which seems odd for the cooler weather. And she is clearly waiting for him , smirking, arms crossed as he approaches, patient.

Between one blink and another, his vision of her changes.

She’s smoking, wisps of it rising all around her.

No, she’s not.

She’s actively on fire, flame licking along her arms and in her hair as if with love.

No, she’s not.

Tim stops to rub his eyes. 

The woman waits, and suddenly he knows she isn’t patient at all, and if he dallies, she’s going to try to hurt him.

Weird. Unpleasant. He approaches. And it’s as he comes within ten feet that he finally feels what she is.

Resonance. That is the word, and it is beautiful. If heat could respond to heat like sound between tuning forks, that would be this; because whatever is in them is the same , and Tim knows it shows on his face (the anger, the need, the ravening rage like desperate flame), and he stops just out of reach. 

She looks him up and down. “This is it? Really? Well. No accounting for taste, is there?”

He wants to burn her.

He wants to burn with her.

None of this is sexual. It’s like wanting to eat a person, but only if it hurts. “I’m… gonna go inside now,” he says, low and thick.

And feels Hastur… afraid. Trembling. Quiet.

“Not until you get your invitation,” says the woman, and holds out a letter, and her fingers have scorched it, left blackened ovals where it’s held. “Don’t spook too quickly, now. You’ll make me think you’re a virgin.”

He takes the letter because it is offered and he doesn’t know what to do. (Burn wants to burn wants to find things to burn ). “Go away?”

“Sure.” She shrugs. “Was just on my way elsewhere, anyway. Nice to meet you.” And she just walks off. Of course she does, because she knows, feels the same thing he did, recognized it (but she expected to , whereas he’s off-kilter).

He stares down at the letter in his hands in horror. “Why the fuck did I take this thing?”

Tim. Can we please go inside?

He wants to follow her (no he doesn’t). He wants to watch her burn things and burn them, too (no he doesn’t ). He won’t walk into the library feeling like this. It goes a bit beyond open ignition source when you yourself carry the fire.

Tim envisions coolness; pictures a bracing wind, the bite of snowflakes on his face. Pictures the feel of lying on his back in snow, making angels with Danny on a cold afternoon. The sound of nylon in the snow, the poke of ice crystals against his skin. Pictures dropping a lit match into a snowbank, the sizzle of it going out, the smell of sulfur dioxide. 

No, he thinks at the anger, at the weird, foreign rage that wants to claim him. Not yours. I refuse.

What the fuck did you do? Hastur cries.

The biting wind and snow on his face are quite real, and Tim opens his eyes to find himself in a blizzard.

A blizzard in February. In London.

“Oh, shit!” Tim cries, and runs up the stairs, slipping a little on built-up slush, and hurls himself through the door.

#

The weird storm lasted twenty minutes. It centered in Chelsea; caused numerous accidents, and made the news all across the world. When it was done, temperatures went right back to about 5 Celsius, well above freezing, and nobody knows what it means.

Tim sits in a small, dusty office he’d found on the second floor, door closed, really not wanting anyone to look at him for a bit.

On his phone, the news plays. They were speculating terrorism.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he moans. “How could I change weather pattern? That’s not… that’s not power , Hastur, that’s impossible. ”

I think you didn’t change weather, says Hastur. I think you opened some kind of portal to a place where that is the weather, and it spilled through.

“But I wasn’t picturing going anywhere!”

Were you picturing the steps of the Magnus Institute in Chelsea?

“No,” Tim moaned. “I was picturing the back yard where I grew up. That doesn't explain this. Fuck. Would… you really think your cultists have resources that could fix this? I don’t even know what I just did.”

Yes. They do. I promise you, they do—for thousands of years, they’ve raised my vessels to hone and control their magic, so when they were given to me, the neurological patterns would already be trained.

“So you’re saying… wait one fucking minute. You’ve never trained yourself for magic at all, have you?” Tim accuses.

There isn’t really much of a hesitation. I never had to.

“Oh, for the love of hell! And I’ve been taking your advice!”

Tim groans. “Fuck us, I guess. We’re a mess.”

Outside, more sirens. 

We’re not a mess. We’re both dealing with a new situation.

“Sure. We're both idiots. Good to know." Tim sighs.

Hastur sighs. 

Tim looks at the letter, which is now damp as well as burned. All it has is an address in Sheffield, some three plus hours north. He swallows. Checks his phone.

No new messages, but Tim feels… pressured. He needs to answer Jon. He needs to answer Elias. He doesn’t want to do either.

You’re all right, Tim.

“Sure.”

Tim’s left hand hasn’t moved all day on its own; Hastur has been good, if not respectful, but now it does. It rises—slowly, as not to startle—and cups Tim’s face. You’re all right, Tim.

“Weird, right?” says Tim softly. “I’ve got a guy sharing my body , but I really feel alone right now.”

I understand. The thumb caresses his cheekbone. You’re all right.

So stupid, that hearing that helps. Tim sighs. “If you say so. Which avenue do we take? Jon? Elias? This address? Your cultists?”

Contact my people first. Then, so you aren’t distracted, let’s go visit Jon.

“Leave Elias on 'read,' eh?”

He can handle it. He’s doing this to watch all the drama, anyway. I’m sure we’re making his day.

Tim laughs. “I can get behind that. All right.” He texts Jon: On my way.   Stands like an old man, creaky and tired. Heads back out the door. And really, really hopes that when all this washes out and is over and done, he gets to take Sasha out for lunch more often, because she was the one really good thing to happened all day long.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted: TMA x Malevolent fic in progress

Tim Stoker opened a book he shouldn't, and now he's got a new friend.

The good news is, it turns out Tim has a serious aptitude for magic.

The bad news is this universe is filled with beings made of Fear - beings with an unfortunate habit of eating gods - and Hastur, who's calling himself John, is the only god left in this universe who hasn't been chewed.

One of these beings has already marked Tim - the Desolation, a force of destruction and rage.

If they're going to make it through this, they will need some help.

It's up for debate, however, if this is the help they need.

-----

Pounding on his front door wakes him.

Tim startles awake in sour adrenaline, absolutely terrified, and is briefly unable to remember why.

New apartment - he remembers that, but why would someone at the door make him feel he needs to run?

Tim? Someone is at the door.

Oh, right. Corpses with blood that burns, chaos demons, Cthulhus named Yellow. “Yeah,” says Tim, and goes to find a weapon.

He’s bruised to hell and moving like a little old man, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is he doesn’t have any weapons. There are kitchen knives somewhere, but he doesn’t know which box.

He is reduced to gripping a broom as he creeps toward his door.

The pounding has continued.

Oh, says Yellow.

Tim stops creeping. “What do you mean, ‘oh?’”

They found me a lot faster than I expected. Heh. I suspect that’s your fault, as it were. Your power has enhanced my presence.

Bang bang bang goes the door.

“That’s got to be bad,” says Tim. “So am I taking the fire escape, or…”

No, it should be fine - however, be aware that they can hear me.

“Who can?” says Tim.

You are about to meet my followers, says Yellow, and Tim is absolutely sure he is preening.

“Followers?” says Tim. “I thought you’d been on the down-low for centuries, or whatever.”

I am a god, Tim. Did you really believe no one would worship the only god that’s left?

“You know, I don’t think I want to wrestle with that before coffee,” says Tim, and bravely opens the door.

Three men in fucking friar’s robes stand there, fully shaved, eyes a little too wide to be right in the head, and the moment they see him, they all drop to their knees right in the distinctly public hall.

“My lord!” one cries in what might be a French accent. “You have returned! Never have I thought in my lifetime I would see!”

Calm, collected, Tim closes the door.

Yellow is laughing at him. It’s all right, Tim. You can let them in.

“Right. Couple of concerns,“ says Tim. "First of all, what the fuck? Second, do I have to deal with whatever this is?”

No, but it will make things easier.

“How?” says Tim.

The knocking resumes. Bang bang bang.

They have served me for thousands of years, Tim. They have resources we need.

“What, those three guys, specifically?”

No. Their organization.

“And they won’t… you know, lead the god-eaters to you?”

Yellow pauses. By themselves, no. Do you have any idea how many cults and religions there are? Their mere existence is not enough to draw predatory attention.

“You said my power enhances yours, or whatever. We’re pinging radars, apparently.”

They have specific systems set up to recognize me when I am enfleshed. The Entities, while ravenous, do not employ such tricks. No, if my enemies find me, it will not be through these men.

Tim rubs his face. “Just tell me these aren’t the guys who killed my brother. Tell me that.”

I don’t know who had my book, Tim, but it wasn’t them - your brother would never have successfully gotten it away from them.

Bang bang bang.

“Well, someone obviously did get it away from them.”

Tim.

“You need to explain that later. All right? Fine. Here we go.” Tim opens the door.

They’re still on their knees.

Directly behind them, one of Tim’s new neighbors glances down once, glances at him, and moves on their with a distinctly spooked expression.

So that’s great.

“Come in, already,” says Tim, “before anybody else sees you. The fuck, guys?”

They crawl inside. Then each of them takes a small bag from their pockets and begins to pour what might be salt in weird symbols around them on the floor.

Tim’s vacuum is still at his parents’ house. “Oh, what the fuck,” Tim mumbles.

Yellow is laughing again.

“Yellow,” says Tim evenly. “Get them to stop being weird, or I’m not going to keep this up.”

My friends, my beloved ones, Hastur pronounces (and one of the men makes an absolutely indecent sound). Welcome. This one is my own, for I have chosen him: you will call him Lord Stoker, and you will do as he bids.

“Wait a damn minute!” Tim chokes.

“We hear and obey!” they say as one, and repeat it three fucking times.

It’s all right, Tim, says Yellow, highly amused. They will help us find what we need.

“What we need to what?” says Tim.

Protect you. Extend your life. And… maybe find something we can do to keep me out of Kayne’s hands.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say so sooner?” Tim mutters.

Because this is very funny, and I wanted to see what you’d do.

“You’re a son of a bitch, you know that?” Tim says.

Yellow just laughs.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, chapter 20 - a TMA x Malevolent crossover

“Are you saying I’m actually baby Merlin?” Tim blurts.

“Yes,” says Myrddin. “Though it is very rare nowadays. I haven’t seen one who presented so strongly in… goodness. At least a hundred years. Closer to two.”

“Hastur,” says Tim.

I heard.

"Hastur,” says Tim.

This complicates things.

Corrupted, a TMA x Malevolent crossover. Tim Stoker/King in Yellow.

AO3

------------

There is sound, like voices heard underwater.

Movement, up and down, vertiginous and sickening, confusing up and down and sideways.

The roaring, breathing surge of ocean.

More voices—including his own, and he can feel it rumble, and his tongue work. The movement stops, and distantly, vaguely, he thinks he is being carried. Jon’s voice. Someone else’s voice? Some man Tim doesn’t know.

Darkness swells again like unheard waves, and Tim goes under.

#

He wakes in a room he has definitely never seen before. It looks old, if well-kept: simple whitewash over dark beams, simple wooden bed and chair, a window swung open to invite the twilight air.

Tim stares. He can see the ocean, relentlessly rushing toward them and shushing in calm; he can see a small set of out buildings, and far, far away, over the sea, hunched dark shapes that could be land.

The air is incredible. This isn't air he’s ever known. It reminds him of the St. Elias mountains (yes, that is the name) in Canada, when he'd taken his gap year (and still believes spending his brief life's savings on that trip was the best decision he could have made).

It’s air that has never known a motor. Air that shares space with livestock and people, who make their own smells. Air that sleeps in gardens and orchards and over the unknown sea.

“Did we fall into the set of Merlin?” he blurts.

“Oh, that’s funny,” says a voice Tim knows but doesn’t. “All that boasting, and Jon didn’t say you were clever!”

What the actual hell? 

Tim turns to find an old man smiling at him. He can’t clock where this guy's from. Not that Tim profiles people generally, but something about this man is so very different that he can’t help wondering. His thick, white beard looks somehow both silky-neat and birds-nest ratty, grown so long it pools in his lap. He’s wearing a purple robe, to boot—and not some fancy cult robe, either. This one has goofy yellow stars on it, like it came from Party City.

Tim cannot help himself. “Gandalf? Is that you?”

The man smiles. “Good to see the humor’s carried through.”

Eh? “Sure.” Tim tries to sit up, and that does not feel good, so he lies back down again.

This is… peaceful. He hears no cars, no music, no news broadcasts. Just the sea, whispering peace, over and over again. Just this dark-beamed ceiling and whitewashed walls, just simple, comfortable furniture and… Gandalf, apparently.

And Hastur is silent.

Tim tenses. Hastur is never silent. That’s just not his thing. But if this guy is a threat, and Hastur is hiding, and Tim says Hastur’s name and draws attention to him…

Casually, he stretches, then places his right hand over his left, and taps his palm a little. At the same time, to distract, he speaks. “So, not Gandalf? Gonna go out on a limb and hope you aren’t actually Saruman, or this will get messy.”

The man smiles. “I should hope not. I think even Saruman doesn't want to be Saruman, eh?” He laughs.

It’s a… sort of Welsh accent, maybe from somewhere north Wales? “Sure,” says Tim. “Kinda noticed you didn’t tell me anything else, though.” He taps again.

This time, just once, Hastur’s left index finger taps back. Tim exercises every single ounce of skill he has in acting and charm to keep from showing his incredible, huge relief.

The man smiles more broadly. “Well, we can do this in a couple of ways,” he says. "Do you want the gentle, polite approach? There's the one where I break it all to you slowly, and all that. Or do you prefer the sudden shock approach, like jumping into cold water?”

Hastur’s hand tightens just a little.

Tim waits. Hastur is afraid; but he’s nowhere near as terrified as he was with that guy they just ran from, or even when facing Kayne. “All right,” Tim says. “I’ll bite. Always been good at biting—with permission, anyway. Hit me.”

“I’m Myrddin. You are my descendent," says the old man like the sky is blue. He pronounces it Mer-thin, the “th” voiced like this or that or there.

Tim stares at him. For once, in a rare moment of his life, he has absolutely nothing to say.

Myrddin wrinkles his nose. “I’ll give you a minute,” he says, and goes to the small basin by the door.

Still there? Tim whispers in his mind, so very quietly.

“In the interest of being polite,” cautions Myrddin, back to them while he futzes with who knows what, “I can hear you. Oh, and him. You can tell him not to be so afraid. I don’t have anything I particularly want to do with him.”

Well. That certainly changes things. “Hastur,” Tim says.

Shh. He can hear me.

“He knows you’re there already, dingbat,” says Tim, sounding light and playful and not at all terrified, because he knows (knows, knows) that without meaning to, Hastur will take his lead here. (And that opens a whole weird can of worms, because Tim knows he’s affecting the god, and isn’t sure why, or how, just that it’s happening, and oh, boy, if he dives into that now, he’s going to lose his shit. SO.)

I… but…

“I've got you,” says Tim. “Might as well not cower in a corner. If he was gonna eat you, he’d have done it when I was out and couldn’t do anything to stop him.”

Hastur makes the smallest noise. It’s not quite a whimper, but it’s close.

Tim holds his left hand, threading the fingers. “I’ve got you. I just wanted to be sure you’re okay. Right?”

Okay, says Hastur, soft.

“Okay,” agrees Tim, and sits up fully. There are subtle, wonderful scents; he can’t identify them, but they’re woodsy, herbal, nice. They help as he tries to figure out how to respond to this weirdo. “So… Uncle Myrddin, I guess? Sooooo... what the shiiiiiit?”

Myrddin laughs, his back still turned to them. “I was going to ask you! And I’m really more of a great-great-great…” He briefly pauses, looking up at the ceiling and revealing the neat part of his silvery hair, then shrugs and resumes futzing. “Just call me Myrddin. I think the number of generations between us makes it prohibitive to do anything else.”

“Look, sorry,” Tim starts.

“Forgiven,” says Myrddin, turning around with a small tray and a twinkle in his eye.

“Ha, clever,” says Tim. “But look: I don’t believe you?”

“I’d be disappointed if you did.” Myrddin brings over the tray and hands it to him. On it are a hunk of simple bread that looks and smells homemade, and a bowl of cawl—a hearty stew of lamb and seasonal vegetables.

Seeing food suddenly reminds Tim. “Where’s Jon?”

“Oh, he’s in my library,” says Myrddin. “I’ve tried to get him to eat, but he keeps forgetting. He’s ridden quite hard, that one.”

“Ridden?” says Tim, low.

“A borrowed word, honestly,” says Myrddin, “from numerous philosophies and religions, but I find it particularly appropriate here.”

“And I’m ridden too, probably?” says Tim.

“Nope!” Myrddin beamed. “You’ve got your hand firmly on the wheel. Not like that one. No, he's... he's made for this, if I'm honest. Practically custom-designed.”

So that was horrifying. “You know,” says Tim casually, still holding Hastur’s hand, “I feel like maybe we skipped a few vital steps on the way to Cordial Town?"

Myrddin laughed. “We did, we did. That’s because your enemies are currently circling my little enclosure like vultures, desperately hoping you’ve drowned, but not too recently, or they can’t harvest your companion.”

Oh, that took… a moment to process. “How could they be doing that? I was in Sheffield. Where are we, anyway?”

“Ynys Enlli,” says Myrddin. “Better known as Bardsey Isle.”

That is all the way north. North of England. In the freaking North Sea. Tim stares. “Oh, sure. Might as well have taken us to space, yeah?”

“Oh, I hope not,” says Myrddin. “Our kind does terribly out there. What with our magic coming from the Earth, and all.”

Tim stares harder. “Right, back to the skipping a few vital steps part?”

Myrddin sighs, and the faux cheer mostly evaporates. “I am sorry. I haven’t left this place in nearly a hundred twenty years, and I’ve barely spoken to anyone beyond family, and a curt sort of thank you to those who are still kind enough to bring me supplies. I’m botching this quite a lot.”

“You don’t sound like someone from a century ago,” Tim says. “You sound modern.”

“No, you hear modern. My dear boy, I am speaking a language that predates the Proto-Celtic.”

“Riiight,” says Tim, because this is terrifying in implication. “So. How the hell do we prove this literally insane assertion?”

“Oh! Silly me,” says the man who looks nothing like Tim, and does—

Something?

Power. Resonance? Recognition, says Tim’s gut, but he doesn’t know what that means. All he knows is how this feels, in his core, through his soul, and a strange, strange sight it is. He and this Myrddin are the same. Some deep, glowing red ribbon weaves through both of them, touching the little threads that seem to be holding him in his body, matching in color and shifting crimson hue. It is the same. It is unarguably the same—except for the dark blotch, like a bite, that seem to have taken a chunk out of Tim’s side.

He looks down. He’s uninjured, but…

“Ah, yes,” says Myrddin sort of sadly. “Not so much ridden, but I fear you are quite infected.”

The vision fades. Tim releases the breath he was holding.

Myrddin kindly gives him a moment, contentedly chewing a piece of bread.

It's all landing now, all of it, implications, outright statements, weird factoids and details, and Tim can no longer avoid the simple truth. “Are you saying I’m actually baby Merlin?” he blurts.

“Yes,” says Myrddin. “Though it is very rare nowadays. I haven’t seen one who presented so strongly in… goodness. At least a hundred years. Closer to two.”

Oh. Oh. OH.

“Hastur,” says Tim.

I heard.

“Hastur,” says Tim.

This complicates things.

“Hastur,” says Tim.

“Do you need a moment?” says Myrddin. “There are things we really have to discuss, and soon, but we’ll be safe here until you're ready. The only issue, of course, is time does pass in the outside world, so if you have anything you need to be doing, this could quite get in the way.”

Tim suddenly remembers. “Shit. The… in Sheffield, there was this… this man, and he ate everybody.”

“Everybody?”

The cult of the Lightless Flame, Hastur says. They could do nothing to stop him. I counted fifteen heads.

Myrddin frowns. “You go on and ponder. I’ll be back.” And he simply leaves, chewing on the last of his bread as he goes.

“Hastur,” says Tim.

This is very serious, says Hastur. Though it does explain… some things.

“Why were you so afraid?” Tim says.

Because he could see and hear me, and knew I was piloting your body. I… was startled.

Tim sighs. Guilt is heavy. “You really were practically invisible until I came along, huh?”

Yes. But the point is this: it isn’t just that you’re a remarkable magic user. You are descended from the magic user.

“Welsh Gandalf is the magic user?” says Tim.

Yes. He’s so old that he was already old when I arrived.

Oh, fuck that.

Tim chokes on some bread.

Hastur beats his chest a little, helping him get it out. Easy.

“That’s… that’s fucked…” But he knows. The facial structure, something about the proportions…

This was not a modern homo sapien.

A shudder runs from Tim's head to his toes, shattering his breath, and he grips his own arms briefly, feeling things he has no words for. “Right,” he finally says, and has nothing to follow that up with, so he circles back. “Right.”

It explains why your magic isn’t responding as expected, he says. His isn’t like anyone else’s. I never could identify it. No magic user I’ve ever known has had anything exactly like his.

“But what’s that mean?” says Tim, and hates how shaky he still sounds. “I don’t fucking know what that means!”

It means you are with someone who can teach you what to do, and we are incredibly lucky.

“This can’t be luck,” says Tim. “Mine has always only been average, and I wasn’t thinking, Take me to the living Merlin, please, when I did the portal.”

You thought what? Ocean?

“Yeah.”

No particular ocean.

“No.”

So like when you caused the storm. All right. I see a pattern. It makes sense.

"It really doesn't."

It does, and we need his help.

“How is his magic different from everyone else’s?” Tim says in a small voice.

Most magical beings produce their own. It's like breathing out carbon monoxide, and just as natural. His—and therefore, yours—has something to do with a direct connection to the planet as a living thing.

Tim hesitates for the space of a breath. “Bullshit.”

Hastur is amused. After all of this, that’s what triggers your suspension of disbelief?

“The planet’s not alive,” Tim explains.

And gods aren’t real, and magic doesn’t exist. Mmmmm?

It is absolutely not the right time for that long, hummed sound go straight to Tim’s libido, but it does. He takes a moment. “I don’t like that?”

Too bad.

“Nice beside manner,” Tim mumbles, and concentrates on his soup. It’s really good soup.

I’ve got you, says Hastur, and may or may not know he’s repeating what Tim said before. I’ve got you.

Absurdly, Tim finds himself on the edge of tears. It’s all so stupid; it’s all so much. “Just how many times does a guy have to lose his entire understanding of the world, eh?” he mutters around tender lamb and salty celeriac.

I can’t answer that, says Hastur. But I can tell you I’ll be with that guy as many times as he does.

Wow. That was like some kind of... vow.

“Might as well put a ring on it,” Tim mumbles, nose slightly stuffed.

Ha, Hastur says, and Tim’s not sure what that means. Hastur isn’t fully sure, either; it’s muddled, and Tim can’t suss it out.

A soft knock raps on the door, a light shave-and-a-haircut.

“Two bits,” Tim calls weakly, unable to avoid being a little shit.

Myrddin is chuckling as he enters. “Definitely got the humor.”

“Hi,” says Tim. “Um. Great grandpa.”

“Just Myrddin,” says Myrddin again. “So. Do you want the update?”

Tim takes a deep breath, lets it go. “Yes.”

“I don’t really leave this island much anymore,” Myrddin says, “and I’m really content not to, but… I still have contacts.”

Tim knows, somehow, that if he asks who or what those contacts are, more of his world-view will be shattered, so he does not. “What’d they say?”

“They’re calling it a freak incident,” says Myrddin. “News outlets are, of course, claiming a wild animal.”

“In… Sheffield,” says Tim.

“Well, it’s certainly caught the police’s attention. Part of the problem is all the CCTV cameras shorted out shortly before whatever it was happened. Just long enough that they can’t explain it.”

“Sh… shorted out? All of them?” Tim stares. “That’s just more suspicious!”

Myrddin shrugged. "Humans are adept at explaining anything away. Spirits, demons, glitches in the matrix. They're quite creative."

And that statement firmly places everyone in this room outside of human, and Tim isn't sure how much more he can take. "Oh, gods." He sighs and rubs his face. “So... my phone’s dead, I imagine.”

“Oh! I fixed it for you,” says Myrddin, and produces it from thin air.

It is objectively not the same phone.

Tim eyes it. And eyes him.

“Well,” Myrddin says. “I replaced it? I have a niece who’s really into technology, so I had a few spares lying around.”

“This belongs to your niece?”

“No, no, I got it for her, but she didn’t want it. You have dibs!”

Tim decides this isn’t really worth fighting, and takes it. It's the model after his, anyway, so it's a nice upgrade—though he does find it unnerving that the thing responds to his passcode, and upon opening, it seems to be exactly how he’d set up his own phone. “Um,” he says.

Wizard, says Hastur with surprising respect. I request that you teach your offspring.

“Just a minute,” says Tim.

“Offspring? Not quite!” says Myrddin. "Bit of a distance there."

Please, says the King in Yellow.

“An official request from a Great Old One! Well, I never,” says Myrddin.

There is a pause.

I am… less, now.

“Nonsense,” says Myrddin. “You do not change what you are. While who you are might, because that tends to be in response to other people, what you are remains, no matter what people think.”

This conversation has swept neatly past Tim’s experience. He knows to be silent, and pretends to be checking his new (?) phone.

No, says Hastur, evenly, pretending patience. I am not what I was.

“You are. Just because you’ve been living in less than ideal circumstances, and not stretching yourself, did you think it lessened your essence?” says Myrddin.

I…

Tim is not listening (but hearing every word), aggressively scrolling photos, trying to be so still that they have this moment.

Myrddin waits.

I… am not what I once was. I am not even fully what I once was.

“You still are who you are,” says Myrddin, and it’s almost gentle. “And you can fulfill that again, should you so choose.”

If I do that, I'll die!

Tim’s shoulders tense.

“Everyone dies, great one,” says Myrddin gently. “Even I will, someday, though I think I can safely say I have no idea when it’s coming. The universe itself will slow and end, crushing itself with the weight of its own importance. Death is hardly a condemnation, or a judgment—it’s simply a thing that happens.”

Tim finds a picture he forgot he took.

He’d done it with the timer on his phone. He remembers it clearly now: mom’s fiftieth birthday. There they all are: him, Danny, mom, and a picture representing their father. They look happy; it’s in the house he no longer owns (and suddenly, deeply regrets selling), a moment caught in time while candles drip wax onto her cake.

Tim can’t breathe.

I suppose… perhaps that’s true, Hastur concedes. We are not meant to die, my kind, or… so I understood. But we would die, anyway, when our universe met its end.

“There, you see? And it hardly invalidates anything that came before,” says Myrddin. “If anything, it makes it more important. You have a time limit to act, to matter. So. What will you do?”

Hastur falls silent.

Tim scrolls on, but he can’t see more photos. His eyes are just blurry, and blinking only makes them spill. He wipes them.

Myrddin sighs. “I am sorry, Tim.”

“What?” Tim says, looking up.

Myrddin takes a deep, slow breath. “In the rare times when my power resurfaces as it has with you, it tends to show up in tragedy,” says Myrddin. “I have no idea why that is. I haven't figured out if it triggers tragedy, or is triggered by it, or what particular esoteric process is going on. You don’t gain anything from it; there’s no mysterious balance involved. It’s just… a pattern I don’t know how to interpret.”

Tim’s face is numb. “Are you saying my family died because of me?”

“No. It's nothing you did,” says Myrddin. “It isn’t your fault. But tragedy does tend to follow my line.”

Right. That helps. Sure.

Tim? says Hastur.

Tim makes himself speak. “I think I need another… I dunno. Hour, or something? Jon’s really okay?”

“Quite engrossed in my library,” says Myrddin. "I don't know about okay. He's a nervous little Chihuahua, isn't he?"

Jon is, but Tim doesn't want to admit it. "I... I’ll talk again soon, I just…”

“Of course.” Myrddin rises. “I’m sorry, Tim. There is clearly much happening with you, and I'm quite willing to help—you’re family—but not until you’re in a place to request it. I’m not going to force you to do anything. All right?”

And that, weirdly, helps. It helps a lot. So many things have been happening outside his control, outside any choice he might have, and this helps. “All right,” Tim says, exhaling slowly.

“Just wander out whenever you want me,” says Myrddin. “The whole tower is open to you. I won’t bother you again.” And he leaves, taking the empty bowl and tray with him.

Tim is silent.

Tim? says Hastur. I clearly missed something. What is it?

“They died because of me,” Tim says, hollow.

That isn’t what he said.

“Survivor’s guilt, right?” says Tim, and lies back down, facing that window and its incredible, perfect view. He wishes he could just… stop. Be here, unmoving, until the end of days. Let the rest of everything slide past him and away, not have to fight anymore, to strive.

Hastur gasps.

“What?” says Tim quietly.

It cannot touch you here, whispers Hastur. The Desolation. You’re… at peace.

Sure. He is. Right now, it is hard to see why that matters. “I’m also very sad,” Tim says.

His left arm slides around to hold him, tucked under his chin, cupping his face. I would help you, if I could.

And maybe it’s because of Peter Lukas, or maybe just because Tim’s never had anyone he could confide in like this before, but suddenly, he’s so damned grateful for this piece of a fucked-up god in his head. “Thanks for being here,” he whispers.

Hastur hesitates, clearly unsure how to reply. Of course.

Tim decides further words would ruin the moment. He stays on his side, and lets the tears wet his pillow, and watches the darkening sky and steel sea until he falls asleep.

-----------

Notes:

So I absolutely used my version of Merlin from my book, Half-Shell Prophecies, and I have zero regrets. No one can stop me. (music sting)