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that-one-girl-behind-you · 1 year

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Illicio 26/40

Part 25

TWs for this chapter: Fire Grief Gore (implied) Insecurity/jealousy, but the second part is mostly lighthearted and discussed almost immediately

"You got any plans?" Martin asks. The fire in the middle of their 'camp' -are they really stopping for the night if there's no night anymore?- gives off little in terms of heat, but it pushes the illusion of normalcy, which Martin is grateful for. "After we fix this?"

"If we fix this," Tim shrugs by the other side of the pit.

"When we fix this," Martin remarks a bit more firmly. He feels a lot more like himself today, 'camping' with his friend and with his boyfriend stuck to his side, still clad in Martin's green hoodie that clashes so much against the rest of his outfit.

It's easier to believe it like this, that Gerry doesn't want him just because of Jon.

Oliver isn't home.

Of course he isn't, he left months ago after another row of fighting. It hadn't even been the worst by far, but they just- Graham was tired, and Oliver was always busy.

Graham looks at the table again, running a finger over one of the curved edges of the spiderweb.

Perhaps that's why he's thinking of Oliver after all this time.

Despite his collected, professional looks, Oliver's got a very endearing weakness for "the occult", as he likes to call it. Somewhat of a guilty pleasure, he often says.

Said.

Anyways, Oliver would've been all over the table, with its web design that if you look at juuuust close enough, turns out to have hundreds and hundreds of names written into the canal-like grooves, in a font so tiny it reminds Graham of that carved rice grain at the Ripley's museum.

Perhaps- perhaps he'll give him a call.

They didn't end in the best of terms but it doesn't mean they can't build a relationship again, right? Doesn't mean they can't be friends. He once loved Oliver, that can't be gone just because he's no longer in love with him, which is something Graham often tells himself despite being very much sure of the opposite.

Maybe just lunch, and then a visit to the flat so he can fawn over the table. Run a finger along the edge like Graham likes to do when things are overwhelming, only to look up and find it's been hours since the last time he did so.

Only if Oliver isn't busy, though.

"And you were," Sasha says. Her voice feels- it doesn't feel like her voice, and there's a pang of panic in her stomach. If it's not hers, whose is it then? "I- you never picked up the phone."

The man looks a bit pale still, looking at her like he's seen a ghost.

"I'm- no. I think I might have- Jon?" He turns to give him a questioning look, and Jon shrugs.

"Hm. I didn't think you'd recognize Graham's real appearance," Jon hums casually, almost to himself. "Maybe because you were dead when she was taken. Anyways, you were on the ship at the time. Bad reception, and then the satellite killed you."

"Excuse me, the what?" Sasha blinks. None of this makes any sense, why is Oliver here and why was he dead? Who is this Oliver person, what-

"Graham-"

"My name is Sasha," she shakes her head. That's the main thing she has to be sure of. She's Sasha. She may have been Graham once, but now Graham is Sasha and that's all there is to it. "Jon, care to explain what's going on?"

Jon gives her a worried look, the corner of his lips turned down in a concerned gesture.

"Back when you were only Graham," he starts slowly after a moment, "you knew Oliver. I think you were-"

"A couple," Sasha nods abruptly. She remembers, intimately. But this makes no sense... was- how did she never notice Oliver was an avatar? He was always a terrible liar, she would've- "How- how did you end up like this?"

Oliver's eyes -they're light gray now, she realizes, like the color has bled out from them- slide to Jon somewhat nervously, like this encounter isn't going as neatly as he wanted.

It's very Oliver of him to have planned the whole thing, Sasha thinks with a spark of fond amusement. They must cut an appalling picture smack in the middle of his no doubt carefully orchestrated dramatic encounter, the Distortion and the Them dogpiled up on the Archivist.

"Oliver," she says, her voice firm. "Jon is alright, with some luck he's not going anywhere while we talk. But now, I think you owe me an explanation."

"I owe- what happened to you?" Oliver asks back, still looking for all in the world like he did all those years ago when Sasha asked him what his plan was if Barclays didn't work out, bewilderment and confusion warring on his usually calm, handsome face. "You were safe! I- why are you not Graha-"

"Don't call me that," Sasha snaps. "Don't ever call me that."

Ollie's face clears up all of a sudden, the way Sasha remembers it doing whenever he caught onto the plot twist of a movie. His eyes soften, and he looks at her gently, sadly.

"Stranger?" Is all he asks. His voice is careful, almost apologetic, and it makes Sasha want to cry. It's- this new existence is confusing at the best of times, and there are so many things she didn't get to tell Oliver, so many things she only thought about after he left.

Is this the constant in all of her lives? Loved ones left behind none the wiser, unsaid words that weigh her tongue down?

"...There was a table," she says after a moment. A table, popping up in her life again and again, to rip her away and fill her absence with poison. To hurt those she loved wearing a face that isn't hers, killing her a little more every day. "I got it at an antiques sale, you know I liked- you would've liked it. It was black shiny wood with a spiderweb design. Very on-brand for your aesthetic," she adds with a wet-sounding snort.

"...That's why I couldn't see your root," Oliver says after a long, tired silence. "It wasn't you anymore."

"I'm going to pretend I know what that means."

"It's- Jon can explain later, I'm sure," Oliver sighs. "I- Jon? Was it because of me?"

Sasha feels Jon move under her, partly to shrug, partly because of the Web urging him to escape. She readjusts her position to hold him down, and he gives her ankle a grateful squeeze.

"At this point I'd say it's just as likely that it was because of her past association with you as it is that it was because of her future association with me," he says in the end. "I'm not too keen on figuring out the Mother's mess anymore."

"I'd say that's wise." Oliver runs a hand down his face, and Sasha's stomach contracts with a sudden, fierce rush of fondness, as she knows with unerring certainty what words will come out his mouth next. "This is not going how I expected."

"Always glad to rain down on your plans," she grins.

Oliver snorts at the familiar exchange, shaking his head softly as his lips stretch into a smile. The dimple forms on his left cheek still, Sasha notices with muted amusement.

She loved him so much. Those should've been her parting words, instead of a scathing remark and a sarcastic 'wish-you-well'. And now they're quite literally two different people -many different people, in her case-, and whatever bridge still connects them to the past is now weak and crumbling.

Will it feel this way with Tim too? With her daughter, her wife, her cousin? Though she's back after so long, she's not the person any of them lost, just enough of it to hurt them.

"Sasha..." She can hear Jon under her starting to speak, and she shakes her head.

"I'm fine. Just- I'm fine." She turns to Oliver again. He's still giving her that pained, sorrowful look, and Sasha looks away. "Tell him what you need to tell him."

Oliver sighs, and moves around them to crouch by Jon's head.

"I'm sure you've noticed by now, but-"

"Humans are dying here," Jon interrupts. "It makes sense, but it's still unexpected."

"Do you know what that means?"

She feels Jon nod.

"It's not a big leap," he says, and Helen snorts.

"You don't need to be Martin to figure it out?" She asks.

"Exactly," Jon says, and the smugness in his tone makes Sasha smile. "The Watcher isn't loving the revelation, I must say."

"I didn't think it would," Oliver agrees. "There's plenty still here, but mine isn't the only End domain."

"Not by a mile. And other avatars are not as into the passive observer style as you are," Jon says. "Which is a bit surprising from you, by the way."

"Is it really? t's not like trying to help ever did me or anyone any good." Oliver shrugs.

"It did me a lot of good, I'd say," Jon's voice has turned almost contemplative.

It feels like an eternity, before Oliver responds with another question.

"What about everyone else?" he asks in a careful, measured tone.

And then another one, before Jon speaks again.

"I... can't speak for anyone else, but- but Oliver, I'm grateful I woke up. For many reasons," he says thoughtfully. "Even if I shouldn't be."

Out the corner of her eye, Sasha sees Oliver nod slowly.

"What will you do about this?"

Jon sighs. "I don't really know. The Mother and the Watcher are both trying to take me to the panopticon, but I suspect they each have a different goal once they get me there, and I can't say I care much for either of their plans, whatever they are."

"That'll make them happy," Oliver observes. Then, after a moment, "you know what's funny?"

"Historically, I don't," Jon says in a dry, monotone voice that makes Sasha snort. "What is?"

"I could feel you, back at the hospital. You were halfway into my patron by the time I opened the door for you to leave if you wanted," Oliver says. "You weren't afraid of dying back then. You felt mostly... irritated."

Jon sighs. "I didn't want to- I couldn't stand not knowing what had happened with the others. Or why this had happened to me."

"I figured. But yes, you weren't afraid." Oliver shrugs. "You are now, though."

There is silence, as Jon contemplates how to respond to that.

"Didn't have much to leave behind back then," Jon shrugs. "Sasha? I think it's time we get going. Helen left."

"Oh?" Sasha turns around, only to find that Helen and the door are nowhere to be seen, and she's already halfway through getting off Jon. "Well, that sucks."

"It's okay, it worked for a lot longer than the last time," Jon smiles up at her as he gets up, his eyes already turning the poisonous neon green of the Beholding. "I'll see you soon, and... thank you, Oliver."

"It was nothing. Really," Oliver says quietly, watching Jon walk away. "So... so you cut him off from the Eye?"

"Both of us," Sasha corrects him. "One of us can weaken the call so he's conscious, but both of us can make him stop."

"That must be useful."

"It is." Sasha shrugs. She should say something else, but she can't for the life of her figure out what. She's no longer the Graham he knew and loved a lifetime ago. "I better get going. I have to keep up with him."

It's only about a dozen or so steps, that Oliver speaks again.

"Sasha?" He asks, and it's the same tone he used for her old name before, despite the word itself being different.

"Yes?" She half turns to look at him, keeping an eye on Jon even as her heart hammers in her chest.

"It was- it's nice to know you're back," he says. His lips are curled in the gentle smile that not once failed to make Sasha respond in kind, not even now.

"You too," she says. Then, because she has to, because it wouldn't be fair otherwise, "I'm different- I'm not the one you knew. Not really."

Oliver seems to mull this over for a couple seconds, before looking back up at her with those uncanny pale eyes.

"I'm not, either." He shrugs. "But... those two didn't end up well anyways, did they?"

Sasha snorts; it feels like a weight is dissolving off her stomach, and she gives him another smile before she goes to turn again.

"Don't be a stranger, Ollie."

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

The Eye feasts and feasts and feasts, gorging gluttonously on its brethren themselves feeding.

The other entities have ever resented it for that, but there's little they can say when it was the Beholding and its avatars that brought for the world they've been crawling towards for millennia. Feeding it with the suffering they cause is the least they can do.

And still, the feeding isn't quite as satisfactory as it should, not after the Archive's continual revelations, which the Eye is increasingly peeved about, were overlooked by the Pupil in his search for triumph.

More humans have to be being created now, despite the world's new state. Even the Lonely bred its own stock. Surely they won't all end up waltzing into Terminus' cold, impassive embrace.

The eye feasts, but what before felt a scrumptious banquet tastes like ash, and scatters just as fast.

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

"If we fix this," Tim shrugs by the other side of the pit.

It's easier to believe it like this, that Gerry doesn't want him just because of Jon.

"Hm. I don't know. Traveling, maybe. I liked that before. And now I don't have to stay at the Institute, so..." Tim shrugs brusquely. "You?"

"Well... we have to stay up north until Gerry's carrots are ready to harvest-"

"Stop that," Gerry smacks a hand against his thigh, his face coloring charmingly in the light of the fire.

"I'm serious! I've got plans for those carrots," Martin snorts. "But yeah, after that... I don't know? I don't want my flat back, and Jon probably lost his already..."

They- maybe the cottage? If they get Daisy back, they could purchase it from her. If they don't- well, she won't be asking for it back anyways.

The three months they spent there were nothing short of heavenly, and Martin remembers even the awkwardness of learning to move around each other with undeniable fondness, boundaries and tastes learned slow and carefully, like they had all the time in the world.

They'd been very naïve, in hindsight.

"The bookstore and my mother's house above it are still standing," Gerry pipes up. "We'd have to find out if Gertrude did something with the papers; hopefully it won't matter that the owner was dead for a while."

"It's still sad though," Martin boops him on the nose. It's hard to feel down when faced against Gerry's absurd sense of humour.

"Oh, tragic. I hear he left behind two grieving boyfriends, he was apparently supernaturally handsome and charismatic."

"Bit of a big head, though. But hey, there's no accounting for taste," Martin shrugs, then smiles when Gerry places a kiss on his shoulder. "But yeah... I guess it's an option. I just didn't expect you'd want to live th-"

"We can raze it to the ground, sell the plot and use the money to purchase something," Gerry cuts in, his voice casual and light.

Tim's eyes flash orange across the campfire though, so Martin guesses there's a lot more feeling in the remark than what Gerry meant to put into words.

They sit in silence for a moment, until Martin softly squeezes Gerry's shoulders.

"I wouldn't be opposed to a little flat, I suppose. Granted that there are no wet towels left on the bathroom floor."

"What kind of unconditional love is this?" Gerry laughs.

"If Jon loves us less because of improperly dusted surfaces, I can love you less for having to step on a towel at three in the morning." Marin smiles. This feels good. They will fix this. They will.

"I still can't believe you two tried cleaning in front of Jon," Tim snorts. "Did you learn nothing from the first three months down at the archives, Martin?"

Martin shrugs. "I learned he liked his tea with two sugars, he was less of an ass when I made it that way."

"Your taste in men sucks," Tim says for the umpteenth time, rolling his eyes to the sound of Martin's laughter.

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

"We'll need to stop him soon," the Dist- Helen says. Her voice reaches the Archive as if through water, the call of the Spider adding to the natural muddying of the Spiral.

"So soon?" Sasha- yes, it's Sasha, the real one. "He said we shouldn't do it too often, didn't he? Or they'd get impatient."

"It will be a short one," Helen reassures. Just like everything else Helen does, it's not too reassuring. "I've been keeping something for him, and he's going to need it before you go into that one."

"...You know? That was also very annoying back when you were Michael."

The Archive feels its lips curl into something resembling a smile. With all the overlap between Stranger and Spiral, it's not too surprising that they bounce off each other so easily.

"You still went to the cemetery, didn't you?"

"That says more about my lack of self preservation than it does about your powers of persuasion, if you ask me," Sasha says dryly. "Should I sit on him again?"

"Oh, for sure. She's not going to like it one bit." Helen's sharp, angled smile is all too easy to picture.

"Wonder why she hasn't stopped you yet, then."

"Can't reach me in here," Helen responds, and the Archive hears a loud creak, like old hinges and wood. "Dear Tim did quite an exhaustive cleaning last time he was in me."

"...You're just saying stuff to make me curious on purpose aren't you?"

Helen chuckles. "There's just enough Beholding in there."

"Real funny," Sasha says, and then there's a pair of slender arms wrapping themselves around its torso, and then a long hand does the same around its wrist, and the call fades off into the background.

Jon blinks owlishly up at the sky, a bit disoriented as he always is whenever Sasha and Helen call him back.

The sky blinks back, and Jon rolls his eyes before focusing on his captors.

Sasha's barely older than a teenager today, he realises with a pang of sadness. It's- not having known them personally, it's easy to ignore the many victims the Not Them took, the many lives it cut short far too early.

Young Lisbeth Ackerman had meant only to squeeze in a last minute rehearsal for their acting club's performance, even willing to ignore the prop table that had unnerved them so much the whole week.

Still, this body's strong and heavy enough that it will take Jon some effort to break free when he inevitably starts trying.

"Hi. Want me to sit on your stomach?" Sasha asks, leaning her head on his shoulder as she tangles her fingers behind his waist. "Your lap?

"Hi... My- my lap I think. I should be able to see- Helen said she had something for me?" He turns to look as they lower themselves to the ground, and finds that the hand on his wrist extends into a forearm and then an arm clad in a pristine purple suit jacket that disappears behind a bright yellow door.

'That doesn't bode too well for Martin,' says Helen's voice behind the wood, and Jon's heart skips a beat.

"H- Helen?" He asks, his voice hoarse with anticipation.

'-oesn't. But I'm- I wonder if you'd be this far gone, if I hadn't turned you away when you first came to me.'

"It's time," Helen says; Jon can only barely catch a glimpse of her mischievous grin through the cracked door.

And then a lone tape recorder pokes through the threshold.

'Is that what this is, then? Making amends?' A tired sigh. Has he always sounded this exhausted?

'Not really. I- we were always going to change, I think. Our only choice is how we do it.' The sound of something being pushed across a flat surface, and Jon remembers the eerie stillness of the office, the hopelessness after Anabelle's revelation. 'I hear you collect them?'

'Only until it's time.'

'Time for what?'

'I don't know.' An amused huff that is echoed from behind the door, even as Helen's hand convulses around his wrist. 'Doesn't it frustrate you, Jon?'

A little, choked up laugh that has Sasha giving him a little squeeze in her arms. 'You'll have to be a bit more specific.'

'All these rules about what should and shouldn't be done. We are power. Why should we be contained?'

Helen's hand flinches and spasms, and Jon reaches out almost desperately to grab on to her jacket. There's- this feels like Eric Delano's tape, and even back then the Spider never did factor avatars helping each other into her plans. There's something here that he needs to hear, and she will not stop him.

'I think... Because I want to be contained.' Jon says so many months ago. A man not yet broken but starting to crack, held together only by the flimsy promise of hope. 'If I'm going to be a monster, I'm going to be one on my own terms.'

Jon feels his breath catch on his throat, as the feelings that back then accompanied the words rush back into him.

'How noble of you.' Helen says, and Sasha snorts on his lap.

'Selfish, really. It's the only thing I have left.'

'Didn't she say it wouldn't matter, in the end? The grand scheme of things, and all that?'

'It matters to me.'

'So you'll spend the entire journey there being miserable, just for the sake of some moral high ground?'

'If I weren't miserable in this situation, I wouldn't be Jon. I- maybe the Spider dropped me gift-wrapped at the Eye's front door, yes. But it can't take that from me-'

"...It can't take who I am," Jon speaks over his own voice.

There's- Sasha's weighing him down, and Helen is still trying to cling to him, and the Eye and the Web are pulling him forward while his pained heart pulls him back, and it's just- it's just too much.

He earned his happy ending, and they tore it from him. Just like his life, his loved ones, his home, his hope for a future.

His hands clench -the burnt one with a spasm of mind-clearing pain- in Helen's jacket, in Sasha's sweater.

"Jon?" Sasha whispers against his shoulder, her breath hot through the fabric; a reminder that she's alive because of him. Because of his actions, not the Eye's, not the Spider's.

"Let me up," he says, and when Sasha leans back in surprise her face is illuminated in an eerie green glow that makes her skin look pale and greyish. "I need to be up."

Helen's hand spasms so violently it releases its hold on his wrist, and a moment later Jon feels the sharp sting of her knife-like fingers in the flesh of his forearm, trying to anchor herself by whatever means possible.

And Jon looks up.

At the panopticon so far away, at the empty expanse before them where he Knows the Mother of Puppets waits patiently for her little toys to return, dancing to the tune she plays so cheerfully.

The glow of his eyes Illuminates the way ahead, and for a moment Jon fancies himself a beacon, a lighthouse standing impassively while the storm rages around it.

The world around him trembles, rises up to meet the one who created it, who gave it a new purpose.

"I think," he says, his voice deep and laden with power, just like he remembers it being when he brought the world down. "I'm quite done being told what to do."

And the call breaks.

It feels like coming up from a deep dive and breaking the surface to take a deep breath, like he can see the world around him clearly for the first time since his time at the cottage.

The pain of Helen's fingers digging into his flesh is sharp in a way it wasn't before, like it's Jon who's feeling it rather than the Archives, which he guesses is just the thing.

"...Are you okay?" Sasha asks, and Jon nods a bit shakily, grateful for her arms around him as he doesn't feel too steady on his feet at the moment.

"I just- I'm going to need a moment," he says, squeezing back at Sasha's chubby frame.

And so they stand there, their silhouettes profiled by the bright, angry orange light of the burning city waiting ahead of them.

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

This new domain feels... odd, is the best way Gerry can describe it.

Familiar but not quite right, like visiting your childhood home after a few decades, and finding you no longer fit in it, if you ever really did.

All around them hundreds, maybe thousands of people walk towards their own death, dragging their feet along the bright, pulsating red root that marks their individual ends.

"This one feels worse than the Stranger," Martin grumbles by his side.

"You think so?" Gerry hums absentmindedly.

There's something almost peaceful to the victims' journey, a sort of poetic acceptance to their long-awaited rest. Like-

"Gerry?" Martin's hand lands on his bicep, pulling him to a stop.

"Hm?" Gerry blinks, looking up at him with a lazy smile.

"...No." Martin frowns, snapping his fingers an inch from his eyes. "Cut it out, I'll pinch you."

"Cut what- oh, fuck!" Gerry flinches away at the sudden jab of pain, his mind coming back into focus. It feels a little like waking up from the dormant, pseudo-conscious state he remembers from the book and-

Ah. Of course.

"Are you with me?" Martin asks, his hand still heavy on his arm.

"Let's revisit that later, but yes," he blinks a couple more times, careful to keep his eyes on Martin instead of focusing on any of the victims. "Where's Tim?"

"We were having a conversation before you went Walking Dead on us," Tim's voice behind him sounds decidedly grumpy.

"What happened?" Martin's hand moves from his arm to cup his cheek, and Gerry feels his face warm up at the tenderness in the gesture. It's not- despite being so liberal with his own touch, he's not too used to others reciprocating in kind. "I thought the Eye-"

"The book," Gerry's voice sounds a bit hoarse when he forces it out again. "I'm- I did spend a good chunk of time wishing for an End of my own, I suppose."

"...Ah."

"I'm fine now, it's- it just felt familiar," Gerry says as reassuring as he can even as he still hears the siren call of Terminus all around him. "I'm sorry for scaring you."

It takes a few more moments, but Martin eventually huffs with what could pass as amusement. "Just warning you, if you do it again I'm just going to drag you out."

"You know what? That sounds perfectly fair, you deserve your own 'dragging a stubborn mule of a man away from a fear entity's grip' experience, it's life-changing." The smile comes to Gerry's lips a lot easier now, and he scrunches his nose at Martin just to make him snort and shake his head in fond exasperation.

"So funny, mister Keay..."

"This is very sweet and all," Tim grunts behind them, "but could we please get going? This place is not even scary, it's just depressing."

"I'm sorry it's not up to your standards," says a new voice, and Gerry whips around with Martin in tow.

The newcomer is a slender, young black man with short cropped dark hair, giving them an unimpressed stare with his eerie grey-white eyes.

"We don't want any trouble," Gerry says, slowly and carefully. There are three of them, but End avatars are different. He's not too sure any of them can even be killed anymore, but all they need is to pass through; better to do it without any fanfare. "We'll just be on our way."

"Everyone is, it seems," the man rolls his eyes, before pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, ignore that. Sorry, I'm not having a great time."

Gerry risks a look at the travelling corpses in lieu of voicing his retort, and the man shakes his head.

"Yes, I know. It's not like I can do anything about that, though, so-"

"It's- you're him," Tim's voice cuts through like a knife, and Gerry's surprised to see his brow furrowed in thought. He hasn't heard of this particular avatar, and he can't imagine why Tim would've either. "With the- Martin, the veins."

"The- what?" Martin scowls in confusion.

The newcomer seems collected and peaceful, but Gerry keeps his gaze trained on him; he's met kind monsters before.

"You came by the Archives to warn Gertrude she would die," Tim says, and Gerry has to rip his eyes from the man then. "Jon asked me to look for him," he says, and the tiniest pinprick of orange glow alights in the depths of his dark eyes when he turns to look at them. "He said the Web kept me from finding him. His name is Oliver Banks."

Gerry feels Martin's hand twitch in his arm, as the man nods in response to Tim's words.

"Apparently I’ve made of trying to help archivists somewhat of a hobby," Oliver shrugs, before his gaze settles on Gerry. "You feel like the End."

"Books fear me, the Entities want me," he says with a shrug as Martin's hand flinches on his arm again, and Tim snorts. "Are you going to let us through?"

"Ah. Gerard Keay, then." Oliver's gaze is a bit unnerving still, but Gerry holds it as steadily as he can, with the certainty that he's simply not going to die until- "You're going after Jon, aren't you?"

Huh.

"How'd you know?"

"Your root ends with him," Oliver half-shrugs, tilting his head to the side as his gaze intensifies. "Or... starts. I've never seen anything quite like you."

"He gets that a lot," Martin cuts in dryly. "Now if you excuse us, we ought to get going," he adds, when Oliver doesn't immediately look at him.

"Yes, I suppose you should," Oliver nods in the end. "They aren't too far ahead."

"Got it, thank you, bye."

Gerry arches an eyebrow as Martin marches on, pulling him along by his grip on his arm.

"They?" Tim asks behind them, but Martin is channelling a draft horse and they're out of earshot by the time Oliver responds, if he even does.

They stop when they reach the end of the territory, which is as any other liminal stretch between domains; just empty, barren land with little to no defining features other than a rock or two.

Martin very tellingly doesn't let go of his arm.

"So. Are we going to talk about that?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.

"About the dead people walking, or you wanting to join them?" Martin huffs, going to sit on a boulder a few feet away.

Gerry snorts fondly, walking calmly up to him.

"I told you why I wanted to walk with them," he shrugs. "Are you going to tell me why you were jealous of that man?"

Martin's head whips up to look at him like a deer in the headlights, and Gerry feels a burst of triumph in his chest. Getting one over Martin doesn't happen often, and he doesn't think he'll ever stop enjoying it.

"I wasn't- where on earth did you get the idea that I was jealous?!"

"Martin, not six months ago you were looking at me like that," Gerry rolls his eyes. "So either you're jealous, or you have a very curious way of showing me you don't like me."

"You know what, I'm starting to question it myself," Martin grumbles, his face colouring a little when Gerry laughs. "Stop that. Come here."

"Coming, coming," Gerry says consolingly, taking a seat next to Martin and throwing an arm over his hunched shoulders. "What is it?"

"...Jon was in a coma for about three months," he says in the end.

Gerry nods. "Melanie did mention something like that when I woke up and she was threatening him with a knife, yes."

Martin's lips twitch, but they don't quite smile, and his eyes are still downcast and, when Gerry leans in a bit closer, going somewhat grey.

"I went in to see him every day," Martin says, his voice not white sullen anymore, just... defeated. "Every day for three months. I talked to him, I asked him to come back, but- and this Oliver guy went in once, gave him a state- it wasn't even a statement, he just spoke to him! And-"

"And Jon woke up?" Gerry completes the thought when Martin abandons it. Then, after a weak nod from the man, he adds. "He's an avatar of the End, Martin."

"It doesn't matter," Martin remarks sullenly. "All I know is he pulled Jon back. I couldn't bring him back from the End, I couldn't bring him back from the Buried, and I wasn't even there when you called him out from the Dark. I keep failing him when he needs me the most and-"

"If it helps somewhat, you didn't even try to pull him out of the Buried, I'm still convinced you could've reached him."

"...Gerry, how on earth would that help?" Martin deadpans, and Gerry holds his hands up in surrender.

"I said if. All I'm saying is I just know you went straight for the tapes idea because of the Lonely. It worked just fine in the end, but if you'd called him, he would've heard."

"But then-"

"The End is different, Martin." Gerry's arm goes back to its place on Martin's shoulders, his free hand coming to tangle their fingers together. "Terminus doesn't give up its victims so easily. I doubt anyone but one of its avatars could've opened the way back for Jon, especially if the Web was involved."

"...It's very stupid, isn't it?" Martin mutters after a few minutes.

"You can't help how you feel." Gerry squeezes his hand. "As long as you understand it's not something you need to be worried about."

Martin snorts softly, before pressing a kiss to Gerry's cheek. "I should learn from you, then?"

"Oh no, I'm not possessive but I'm very jealous," Gerry shrugs with a sheepish smile, "I just dealt with it in a completely different way, apparently."

He squeezes Martin's hand again when he breaks down laughing, satisfied with his efforts. Gerard Keay, paragon of emotional maturity and healthy communication.

"Am I interrupting?" Tim's voice breaks him from his reverie, and Gerry looks up to find him standing a few feet away, arching an eyebrow at the tableau they cut.

"We were just done," Martin responds, somewhat breathless still. "Did he tell you who Jon was with?"

Tim shakes his head, his brow furrowed. "He just said some other avatars. Helen, I guess."

"Maybe he found Daisy?" Martin asks, his amusement fading into intrigue.

"Maybe..." Tim mutters.

Gerry arches an eyebrow. "You don't sound too happy about that."

Tim gives a half-hearted shrug, and a tired sigh.

"I saw her change, down at the tunnels. It was- I never said it because Basira had been running herself ragged, but... at this point, I wouldn't want anyone to find Daisy, not even him."

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

All around her it smells like fire and burnt hair and cooked meat. The smoke tastes of salt, like evaporated tears, and she can hear anguished cries coming from countless ragged throats.

These aren't prey, she decides. The hunter feeds on panic and adrenaline fueled by the eons-old instinct to escape or be killed. She despises the taste of sorrow, of hopeless desolation. Of those that have given up and lost all the fight they could give.

The fire licks at her sides, at her paws. It singes off patches of raggedy sand-coloured fur, and makes every step on her already misshapen legs even more agonising. Her form, which is only suited for giving chase and taking prey down, is all but encumbering as she tries to make her way through the burning buildings.

What was she looking for here?

Was it- retribution?

She came here to settle debts, to pay harm with harm. To find-

"And to what do I owe the honour? The great and powerful Archivist, and his pet monsters?" says a voice, up, up, up in one of the burning buildings, and the hunter's chest swells with a snarl that crackles louder than the fire around her, before she jumps.

The building's wall cracks under her weight, her claws digging deep into crumbling concrete to pull the hunter up. The smoke chokes and blinds her, but the sting barely registers in her mind. All she has to do is go up, up, up.

"I'll be honest, we could've taken the long way. I was just curious," says another voice, and the hunter flinches, her torn, leathery ears perking up in recognition. Is this the prey she's looking for?

"-were already a little nosy prick back then. Sometimes I still regret not having killed you, your pain was so tasty," a voice says. It's hoarse, like the speaker has spent years inhaling smoke, and bitter. It sounds like mean laughter and pained cries, and the hunter's hackles raise.

"It's a very popular opinion, I've found," says the other voice, quieter, tired. Unamused.

The Hunter's brain flares up with alarm as recognition finally hits. This is the voice in the deep, the one that spoke of home, and he shouldn't be here- or- or should he?

The hunter stops her climb for a moment as her smoke-addled mind snaps and chases at itself. Which one has the blood that sings to her? Which is the one she's hunting?

"But then again, I wouldn't have this sweet, sweet little corner of hell to myself would I?"

"Ideally, no. I suppose you've enjoyed it so far?"

"Who was this again?" asks a third voice, one that sounds like confusion, like lies. It makes the Hunter angry, she doesn't like its kind. It was voices like it that took her into the deep and tight and crushing, where her will broke along with her mind and body.

"No one, really."

"Oh, is that so?" the first voice cackles. "Look at that, becomes an eminence and forgets about the ones who made him. You wouldn't be here without my mark, Archivist."

"You say that like it's a bad thing, though I can see why you would be under the impression that I ought to be grateful for that."

"Jon- the fire is-"

"Of course you'd be one of those," the voice laughs again, "all holier-than-thou and pretending you're above the rest of us. Pretending you're not the worst of us. Does it make it easier for you to sleep at night, after what you did?"

"I don't sleep much," says the voice. Then calmly, quietly. "I'm going to kill you, Jude."

"Jon?!" the lying voice asks. "You said-"

"You're bluffing," the first voice barks. "You're feeling their pain aren't you? Feeding off of it, like the parasite you are. Are you enjoying it?"

There's a pause, during which the hunter crawls higher up towards the smoking window the voices are coming from. She's so close, so close to being done.

"I am."

"Why would you shut down an easy meal?"

"That's just who I am, I suppose." The response doesn't wait this time, and the voice in the deep is firm and calm, before it adds almost sheepishly, "that, and I really don't like you."

The steel frame of the window is partially melted, soft and malleable under the hunter's claws, and she can finally see inside the room, preparing her hind legs for a jump. The woman reeks of wax and smoke, facing away from the hunter and towards-

The hunter freezes.

And she knows all of a sudden, with the sort of instinct all great predators are born with, that she's no longer the biggest danger in the room.

The creature on the woman's other side pulls at her as much as his presence terrifies her, soothes her and agitates her in equal measure.

Apex, whispers some tiny, primal voice at the back of her mind, and a low, anxious growl leaves her throat.

She should leave. She should turn tail and run and make sure to never again cross paths with this being, to never-

"You can't be angry at me still, Jon. You shook my hand didn't you? It was your fault, like everything else," the woman laughs, and the hunter sees red.

The woman crumbles like sand under her weight, and her claws dig into soft, pliant flesh that tears so easily, that bleeds out choking rivulets of thick black smoke that swirls up into the hunter's nose and eyes.

Boiling wax sticks to her teeth and sears her gums and tongue as the hunter bites and tears and chews. The woman is not so much afraid as she's shocked at the pain, at finding herself a victim. Prey.

Swallowing her bit by bit satisfies a deep, old hunger seated deep within the hunter's stomach, and she feels herself relax at last.

It took her a lifetime but she did right by her pack, which is what matters, she thinks as she plops down on the hot floor to lick the wax off her paws.

"Jon, what the hell is that thing?!" The hunter whips her face up at the voice. She's on the shorter side, plump-faced and with a large, soft belly, and she reeks of the Stranger.

The hunter hates her immediately.

She climbs to her feet again; her humped back bumps against the burning ceiling, searing some more fur off.

"Uh, you- you may want to go into Helen," the man says as the hunter takes the first step towards them. He's small in size, and were it nor for the power the hunter feels contained within his frame, she could swallow him in a single bite.

"I really don't," the stranger says. She takes a step back, and the man steps before her. "Jon-"

"It's- she can't hurt me," the man says, though he doesn't sound so sure. There is a certain hint of fear to his scent, a dubious, sad sort of terror. What scares this monster, the hunter realises, is not knowing if he should be afraid of her. "I- do you remember me?"

The hunter snarls.

He smells of old paper, of shiny plastic and blood. Of suffering, so much suffering that the hunter wonders for a moment how it is that he's still walking around.

He smells of- of everything.

Darkness, lies, pain, deep, fog and all the others, they swirl around inside him like he's containing them all, like he's made out of them all.

Another step. She cannot kill him, but she can kill the stranger.

"Y- you said you'd kill the other one, maybe you want to redirect that murderous energy?"

"I- no!" The man's face pales. He takes a step back as the hunter advances towards him. "No, she- Daisy?"

"This is the cop?!" The woman retreats all the way back to the crumbling, smoking door. "The one that tried to kill you?!'

"Daisy, can you hear me?" the man asks again, and the hunter responds with another snarl. She doesn't want to fight this being, but she will if he stands in the way of her prey. "We've- we were worried about you, all of us."

There's a thin, pale scar in the man's throat, and something aches in the hunter's chest.

"Please," says the man. His voice is soft, and it reaches the hunter as if through many miles of rock. "Please, Daisy. I don't want to hurt you."

"I don't think she'll do you the same courtesy, Jon." The stranger has managed to open the door behind him. "Come on."

"Sasha, I can't- I need to at least try to-"

"She's clearly not recognizing you, let's get out of here!"

"We can't."

"What?!"

"Don't- Sasha, listen to me," the man gives the stranger a worried, anxious look that sends a pang of recognition through the hunter's mind. "Don't try to run, she wants to chase you."

"I- why me?!"

The man's eyes, large and dark and sad, turn towards the hunter again.

"She's not too fond of the Stranger."

"Well- well, that makes two of us," the woman stutters, but she lets go of the door. "Jon..."

"She's in there," Jon- the man says. "Daisy, I found you once-"

The hunter snarls, but he trudges on, unimpeded. He's always been so stubborn.

"No, listen! I've been looking for you! Basira's looking for you!"

The name feels like a whip across the face, and the hunter recoils. It's a name of- of coconut and yellow, a name whispered with a last, dying breath.

'Will you find me?'

It pulls at her like a hot-red hook through her entrails, the name, the man's voice.

'Always.'

There's dirt closing off all around her, sharp stones digging into her flesh, and try as she may she simply cannot draw a breath that doesn't smell of rotting old wood and rain. Her ears are ringing with thousands of agonised screams, and the hunter can't tell if it's the Desolation's prey or her own, or if there's any difference at all.

"Jon, I- fuck!"

"Daisy- !"

The man's blood on her tongue tastes familiar, and his fear is delicious and filling and wrong. It burns her tongue and makes her choke like she just bit into something foul, but her jaws are locked around him and she feels-

She feels defenseless.

She was so afraid of this, of losing control, of losing herself.

But she did it for him, for- for her. It was worth it, to give herself away one last time. Why does this hurt? What is she missing?!

"Daisy!" The man is screaming in pain, and it hurts, the word jabs at her blood-lusted mind like a knife, and the concern in the man's voice is the cruel hand twisting the weapon in the wound. "Daisy, please!"

"Daisy, the quiet!"

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

"You know... I still stand by my opinion that the carousel was far too on the nose, but this isn't a much better look," Tim sighs.

The heat of the fire all around them feels like a pleasant, almost familiar warmth, and the victims' pained cries taste absolutely scrumptious with sorrow. It serves to remind him of what he is, and he hates it.

The flames nearby flare up, fed by his resignation.

"I don't know where you got the idea that these things know how to be subtle," Gerry says, pulling him out of his mind. When he looks over, the man is almost done putting his hair into a messy bun, which he ties with a hair tie Martin pulls from his own wrist before pulling the hood over his head and tug on the drawstrings, presumably to keep the ash out. "If it makes you feel better though, you're as far removed from an avatar of the Desolation as you could be. I think the reason it brought you back-"

"Was to make me miserable, I know," Tim grunts, as they resume their trip across the burning city. "I just- I hate it here."

Or more accurately, he hates that he doesn't hate it. That knowing everyone around him is for once in as much pain as he constantly is in gives him a sense of vindication he hasn't experienced in years.

He could stay here, he thinks.

They pass the remnants of a burning hospital, and Tim breathes in the hopeless cries of those who will just never find peace again, not in this place. He could make it so that each and every one of them suffers what he suffered- what's the saying?

Misery loves company.

"Are we going to run into someone here too?" he asks after a while. "I don't think I ever met anyone from the Desolation."

"I don't think so," Gerry says carefully. "This place is....recently unoccupied."

"What's that even mean?" Martin turns to look at them with an arched eyebrow. "How would you know?"

Gerry shoots a look at the infinite, unblinking eyes that cover the sky.

"Right-" Martin nods, "dumb question."

"Was it Jon? Like he did with the- with the thing that took Sasha?" Tim asks.

"I... Think? I only get vague knowledge, nothing too specific. Right now all I know is this place is looking for someone to sit on the big chair." Gerry looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and Tim keeps his gaze fixed firmly on him. "How are you doing?"

"I don't like what you're implying," is all he says, sending the closest flames flaring up into the sky.

"That's good. I don't like it too much either." Gerry looks on ahead. "But here we are."

"Here we are? What- oh." Martin says before following Gerry's gaze. He seems to deflate, but his colour surprisingly doesn't wane when he turns to look at him. "Tim?"

"I'm not going to stay here," Tim says so shortly it sounds strained even to his ears, like he's trying to convince himself more than he's trying to reassure Martin. "I won't. I-"

"Tim," Martin repeats, gentler this time.

"What?" Tim clenches a fist in the fabric of his jacket.

"I'm- I know you wouldn't do this-"

"I wouldn't." But he would, wouldn't he? Hasn't his entire existence been about causing pain, ever since he woke up? To Jon, to Martin, to himself- hasn't he fed on it, fueling his fire with their loss? "Martin-"

"I know. But- but I think you need to look up," Martin's hand feels warm for once, the chill of the Lonely chased away by the fire's heat.

"I don't want to," Tim shakes his head. "Just- just guide me out."

"...I get the feeling that won't get us anywhere," Martin says gently. "Gerry? Am I wrong?"

"It would be too easy, I think. We've established the Desolation will gladly feed on him, and- and the Watcher wants to see him choose."

Tim shuts his eyes tight, resenting in a way he never did when he was human the bright orange spots that explode behind his eyelids as he does. He- he doesn't want it.

Not the pain blossoming at his chest, nor the power he can feel at his fingertips, or the voice -his own voice- that tells him this is justice, that he deserves this.

Who knows pain if not him? Who knows better how to rip these humans to pieces, how to show them just how insignificant and hopeless their lives are, until all they are is an agonising longing for that all that they have lost, all they have destroyed?

Who-

"Tim. You have to look." Martin's voice is still gentle, but firmer this time.

"I really don't want to," Tim says.

I really don't think I can.

"You're not alone this time." Martin's hand on his shoulder squeezes a little, and surprisingly doesn't flinch when Tim lets out a dry bark of laughter.

"That's rich, coming from you." There he goes again, striking where he knows it'll hurt the most, where-

"It is, isn't it?" Martin's voice sounds like- Tim opens his eyes to see the sad, gentle smile spread across his features. "I think it makes sense, though."

"It does."

"I would know."

"You would."

Martin doesn't react to the jabs, doesn't retaliate with the pointed, barbed remarks Tim knows he's capable of dealing.

"I don't think you want to be here anymore," he goes on casually, like they're talking about leaving the office early. "I don't care much for it either."

The crackling of the fire calls him, the screams of those that are like him, that decided to take out their hurt on the world, to strike first, lest it strikes them down.

"Martin-" it feels like the smoke is choking him, even though that shouldn't be possible anymore. "I don't think I can say no."

"I think you need to try." Martin squeezes his shoulder again, and his voice is so calm, so casual that Tim clings to it to try and anchor his own whirlwind of emotions, before looking up.

The House of Wax museum looks just like he remembers. Just like he dreamed it would look like burning to the ground.

It smells of burnt plastic and wax, and through the smoke-blackened windows he sees silhouettes, so many silhouettes. Some are human of course, clawing at the walls and at themselves and each other and screaming through tear-hoarse throats.

Some others move far more gracefully than they should, trapped in a haunting dance even wreathed in flames as they are.

He- this is for him.

This is the little tailor-made corner of hell afforded to him by the grief and the spite that simmer at his core.

In here, it doesn't matter how much he lost, how much he hurts, because he can make sure everyone else hurts more. Isn't this what the Desolation means for him, a way to pay back the world for how much it took from him?

"Tim?" Martin asks gently. "Are we going?"

Tim wants to say yes, he knows he should. He doesn't want to stay, he's relieved to realise; his feelings about that haven't changed and the burning wax museum is not as much a lure as it is a sad reminder.

Where is he going to go?

Walking away from this doesn't mean he doesn't take it with him everywhere he goes. Not contributing to torture the people trapped in this domain doesn't mean he will not do the same to the people out there, he doesn't think he knows how to do anything else anymore.

"I- Martin, what for?" They don't really need him, do they?

"What? We're looking for Jon-"

"Well, you can keep doing that. Gerry's the one that can find him, not me," Tim sighs. "Just... just fix this mess."

Make everything right so that Tim can go back to sitting in the dark in Martin's old flat thinking about everything he lost.

"That's exactly what we're doing," Martin says firmly. "All three of us. You said you didn't want to stay."

"I don't." Tim shrugs, his eyes still glued to the blazing building, and it almost hurts to tear them from it to look at the other two. "But Martin- this is what I am. It's always going to be what I am."

"Don't be-"

"Martin, just- stop," Tim interrupts, punctuated by a loud crack from one of the museum's windows. "I've tried to fix it. It doesn't work. Maybe it's time to accept that. Maybe there was something else in there at some point, but it's gone. This is all that's left."

Martin's face crumpling down just accentuates his point, he feels like. Dealing with Tim is like trying to handle broken glass, you're bound to slice your hand open at some point, no matter how careful you are.

"Tim-"

"Hey. I'll say something too," Gerry cuts in, leaning around Martin to look at him. His eyes are Watcher-green and he has no doubt the man is seeing more than what Tim means to let out. "First off, I think you're an asshole."

What.

"...This is your pep talk?" Martin gives his man a very unimpressed look, but Gerry merely shrugs.

"It's true. You get under my nerves, but they love you, so I'll deal with you," he goes on. "You hurt people when they try to help you, because you're hurt. It sucks, sometimes we get dealt a shitty hand."

The flames covering the building flare up in response to Tim's irritation, but he pays them no mind in favour of glaring back at the man. "You would-"

"I would know, that one's not going to stick with me." Gerry clicks his tongue. "But I digress. What I mean to say is I'm impartial here. You can't try to rationalise this as Martin being Martin and trying to cheer you up because he likes you, like you were doing just now."

"You're making a real good case to get me to come." Tim's eye twitches. He sees Martin's eyebrows raise, and his lips twitch like he's holding back a smile. "It's not like I think Martin's a doormat or-"

"Good! He isn't, but he and Jon are willing to let you get away with a lot of crap I don't particularly care about." His eyes are fixed on him with laser-like focus, yet he speaks casually enough that Tim gets the feeling he isn't even interested in the conversation, which is- Tim no longer feels too guilty about melting his hand by the carousel. "I only met you after the Desolation brought you back, so I have to imagine you weren't always an insufferable prick, just most of the time. But I did notice something about you."

"Oh?" Tim grunts, annoyed. "Really? Aside from that charming diagnosis of my psyche, you had time to notice something about me?"

"I'm observant like that," he says, and his neon-green eyes flare up a little. "I've only seen you use what the Desolation gave you one time, you know? Which is quite tame for avatars with your particular alignment, like I told you."

"I- what?"

"Come on, Tim." Gerry smirks. "I'm sure you remember lighting up Manuela Domínguez like a summer bonfire."

Tim clenches his fists by his sides. "Don't- it's not like I enjoyed it, I had to do that!"

"Oh you had to?" The asshole has the gall to fake shock. "Why?"

"Because-" Tim starts then stops, his indignant snarl stuck in his throat.

Because Jon was in danger.

Gerry's smirk grows more pronounced the longer he stays quiet, and Tim- Tim hates him for that-

"What about-"

"Stop."

"-the tunnels? With Julia and Trevor?" Gerry steamrolls over his objections, like he doesn't know the answer, like he doesn't know it's because he was trying to buy Jon time to get to Martin, to help.

"What's your point?!" he bites out. The asshole is still just standing there, looking like a particularly smug turtle with the hood of Martin's hoodie pulled tight around his face.

"My point is you're trying, Tim, whether you think it's enough or not." Gerry shrugs, and the animosity melts off of his face. "It's really the only thing we can do, any of us. It's what Martin and I will do. Now, are you coming with us, or not?"

Tim blinks. And then he blinks again. And then a third time.

The building still burns behind him -inside him-, but it's no longer the only thing in his mind. He saved Jon, that time up north. He helped save Martin, helped protect Basira. The Desolation never meant for him to do anything other than cause more pain either to himself or others, but he did it still.

He takes a step forward, and then another, and Martin and Gerry fall into step beside him, all three of them in silence.

He can only guess they did what they had to here, because they come to the end of the burning city not long after- or rather, the end of the burning city comes to them, marked by a tall, blackened building with claw marks up its side.

"Jon was here not too long ago," Gerry's eyes flare green again as he looks at the building. "We're closing the gap."

"Is that how he pulled you out of the Lonely?" Tim grunts as they watch him walk further on, looking at the ground like a hound sniffing for a trail.

"It's very frustrating, isn't it?" Martin snorts by his side. "But very effective, I'm afraid."

"I suppose," he says. Martin is smiling at him when he looks up. "What?"

"I knew you'd come."

"...I have to try, I guess," he sighs. "Is that a house up ahead?"

It looks far too normal than it has any right to be, just an old manor with a large garden, and moth-eaten curtains billowing out every open window.

"I... guess?" Martin arches an eyebrow. "Doesn't look too bad compared to the others we've seen, does it?"

"It doesn't, and I don't like it," Tim scowls. It feels... familiar. Like it's sapping warmth away, like even the Watcher averts its gaze from it. "I think we'd better take the long-"

"We have to go through the house!" Gerry's faint voice reaches them, the man merely a point of bright green profiled against the building's silhouette, waving his arms at them.

Martin winces. "...Looks like we have to go through the house."

"We have to go through the house," Tim sighs.

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

"Doesn't that feel weird?" Sasha asks, because she's mostly sure she's not in mortal danger anymore but also because that has historically never stopped her before anyways.

"I figure it feels better than going naked through the apocalypse," Helen says, sticking her head out her door a few steps away. "Besides, she's done worse."

The other woman doesn't answer.

She's clinging to Jon's hand like a kindergartner about to cross a busy street, and hasn't said a word other than his name from the moment she climbed out of the bloody, misshapen hide naked and covered in gore, and now she walks behind him in silence, dressed in the ill-fitting, torn garments of the woman she mauled to death.

She looks- frail, is the only word Sasha can think of.

Despite her lean frame being lined with muscle, despite her height and her teeth sharpened to a point, she seems lost and confused, like Jon is the only thing she's sure of anymore.

Bit of a surprising look, for someone who made him dig his own grave before she decided not to execute him.

A few steps ahead, Jon sighs.

"I- please don't bring that up. Out loud, I mean," he says.

Sasha arches an eyebrow. "First off, if you keep looking into my head, you'll see things you don't want to see-"

"That's very ironic, coming from you."

"-and second off, why? Is it a bit too R-rated for her?"

"Sasha," Jon sighs again, and she bristles.

It still irks her, to think of all that happened, all that she couldn't help with because of her stupid detour to Artifacts Storage.

"It wasn't your fault," Jon says, a lot more patiently than Sasha would've thought him capable of. "And Daisy- she's different than she was back then."

"Must've been one hell of an apology." She crosses her arms over her chest.

"Not really..." Jon looks away, his gaze fixed at some point by Sasha's shoes. "... it's not like I can forgive her for that. She knows that."

"Then? What changed?"

"She did." Jon shrugs. "It's never going to make it right, but- but she's no longer the person that could justify those things. That would do them on the first place."

"Hm," she huffs, and Jon gives her a tired smile.

"We may not be humans anymore, but we're still just... people. It's always going to be messy." He looks forward then, before squeezing at Daisy's hand and gesturing at Sasha to keep moving. "We should go on; I'm getting cold."

#vit writes #jongerrymartin #jgm #illicio

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 2 years

Text

Illicio 25/40

Part 24

CW for -Thoughts of mortality (the End domain) -Verbal abuse and guilt tripping of one Timothy Stoker

"Wait. The house?" She asks, and Jon blinks back at her a little owlishly.

"Our- well, not ours I suppose, it's Daisy's. But I don't think she's in any state to ask for it, and Gerry's garden is-"

"Jon?"

"Yes?"

"Why does Martin live with you and your boyfriend?"

"Uhm-" Jon's skin is dark enough that it's always a bit hard to tell when he's blushing, but Sasha knows him, and her suspicions are only confirmed when Helen chuckles behind him.

"I think that story will need a few more stops to tell, but it's pretty amusing if you ask me."

XXV

The Eye is not dissatisfied.

How could it be, with the world remade in its image, able to witness the terror of every sentient being trapped in a taylor-made nightmare, fed a steady influx of the victim's horrified thoughts through the Pupil's gaze, and even more substantious recollections of fear through its beloved Archive.

No, the Watcher is not dissatisfied. It is far too large for such menial emotion.

It does not at all resent how the Web has such a strong thrall on its Archive, or the fact that it can't risk burning it away even with all its power, because it's currently the only thing spurring the Archive towards its rightful place.

It does not, of course, resent the figments of Stranger and Spiral that drag stubbornly after its Archive, halting its process, delaying the assimilation, or how its Archive seems to relish these interruptions in its pilgrimage.

It is certainly puzzling, the Archive's reluctance. What else could it want, if it's so close to achieving its full potential?

Truly, out of all the Servatoris that the Eye has had over the course of millenia, the Archive that used to be Jonathan Sims is by far the most vexing one. For all that it's given in to its true nature, absorbing knowledge everywhere it goes with no purpose other than to know , it still clings to its humanity with a zealous fervour that not even Gertrude Robinson, so desperate to not become a monster, possessed.

And for the first time in centuries, ever since a young avatar started toying with the idea of a ritual to join all rituals under his patron's inevitable gaze, the Watcher feels the inklings of the familiar, dangerous impulse that birthed it in the hearts of all creatures millions of years ago.

Curiosity.

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

It's weird being like this, Sasha thinks as she looks down at her reflection on a foul smelling oil puddle.

This time she's a bit shorter, with wavy reddish hair and light brown skin dotted with freckles here and there, and bright hazel eyes that look back inquisitively.

Is this how she looked before? Was this her face?

"Did you meet me? Before I changed, I mean," she asks out loud. There's no one in sight at the moment, but it's not like Jon will think she's ridiculous for talking to herself, not when he's doing the zombie tour back to his creepy tower.

"It wouldn't really matter, would it?" Helen's voice comes through the bright yellow door of a broken down barn. "Do you remember me?"

"Not really. But I don't- there's a lot of things that are blurry. I don't know which memory comes from which life." Sasha sighs. "I'm so stupid."

Helen tilts- no, she rotates her head to the side. Sasha shrugs.

"It's not like I didn't know the sort of things that were in Artifact Storage, you know? Part of- I always knew these things were real, at least a little. But I still went in there."

"I feel like I can't give you too much flack about going into places where you shouldn't." Helen shrugs.

"I don't know that I can blame you either, Michael was very convincing," Sasha chuckles to herself. "Should we give him a break? Maybe if we try sitting with him she'll have a harder time breaking us apart from him?"

Helen's smile is the mischievous, malevolent gesture she remembers from her predecessor. "If it'll bother the spider."

Jon comes to slowly, when Sasha wraps her arms around his torso. He slows down first, his eyes still bright green and focused on the tower, before Helen layers a large hand on his head, and he turns his face to look at her.

"Who- oh. Sasha?" He asks.

"That's me. Wanna sit down?" She smiles fondly at his relieved expression. It's- whoever she is, she's someone who brings comfort, who brings safety.

"Yes, that- thank you, both of you. That would be good," he says, blinking hard as they pull him down to the ground. He folds like a piece of paper, wrapping his arms around his knees; Sasha sits sideways on his feet, and hooks an arm behind his calf before grabbing her own wrist with her other hand. This should work at keeping them linked for a bit.

"That was faster than before," Helen comments. Her knees bend at three or four places as she sits down next to them, and it makes Sasha feel a little dizzy, so she looks away.

"I could sort of hear your conversation." Jon's voice is thick and raspy, like he's nursing a hangover. He blinks once more, before aiming a serious look at her with determination burning in his dark eyes. "What happened wasn't your fault, Sasha."

She doesn't really answer that. Maybe one day she'll forgive herself for falling first, for not being there -would she have made any difference?-, but the hurt is still a bit too fresh. Instead, she leans on her side to rest her cheek on Jon's knees.

"Talk to me." She can feel her arm trying to snake away from under him, and she clamps down even more stubbornly on her wrist. They'll have this, goddammit, they deserve it.

"What do you want to know?" He asks quietly.

"Everything," Sasha responds. Off to their side, Helen chuckles. "What?"

"Very on-brand," says the Distortion. Like Michael before her, it feels like Helen is reacting to the punchline of a joke that hasn't even been set-up yet, and Sasha finds it very frustrating.

"Fine, then." She rolls her eyes. "You've told me about the fourteen. About Elias and Gertrude," she lists off, like she doesn't know exactly what she wants to ask about. "About Leitner. We haven't talked about the elephant in the room, but I figure explaining how you came to be the apocalyptic MVP would take far longer than we-"

"Sasha," Jon interjects quietly and almost politely, and Sasha deflates like a balloon.

"Well? Will you tell me?" She asks, moving to sit on Jon's feet again as she's almost slid completely off.

Jon's hand comes to wrap around her wrist and gives it a sympathetic squeeze.

"We- it was mostly my fault," he begins. It's a starter he uses often, Sasha has noticed. "When you- I was- I pushed him away. Him and Martin, but I think it hurt him the most, you know? Martin was probably used to it by then," he adds bitterly.

Sasha nods, the scratch of the rough denim of Jon's jeans a welcome distraction from the thoughts beginning to swirl in her head. Of course it hurt him; he always did put too much faith in the people he loved.

"It was too late by the time I realised the truth. We- did he tell you about-"

"Danny?" She whispers. "Not all of it. Just that he... went missing. That he was looking for him."

Above her, Jon nods slowly.

"It was him," Jon says. His voice is almost defiant as he declares it, almost proud. "The Watcher likes to think it was me who stopped the Unknowing, that it was the reason the Stranger didn't succeed. But it was all Tim."

Something inside her rears up its ugly head at his declaration, angry and spiteful and filling her mind with thoughts of fire and pain and melted wax.

"You... blew it up. The whole place," she says. The memory feels as foreign as remembering her mother's voice, and it comes with the empty sadness of knowing nothing is truly hers anymore.

Jon nods again. "We both- we died there. Or we should have but we both..."

"Chose to come back," Helen says pointedly, and Jon merely sighs as she brings her hand up to wrap it around his shoulders again.

"Why did you?" Sasha asks. It's a bit morbid maybe, but...

"I was afraid of dying," Jon responds in a voice almost too low to be heard. "I couldn't- I didn't want to die without-"

"I don't think you have to apologise for wanting to survive," Sasha says in what she hopes is a soothing voice.

"Sasha, I knew what I would become. I knew, and I still chose-"

"Jon, you're human," is all Sasha says, but it's pretty effective at stopping Jon on his tracks.

He snorts, and he only sounds the slightest bit hysterical. "No I'm not. We're not, I don't think."

"Why do you think Tim chose to come back?"

"To...kill me, probably?" Jon smiles fondly. "He would have, if Gerry hadn't been there I think."

Sasha blinks. "Who's this Gerry person? You've been mentioning them, but I don't think I ever knew them. Any of me," she adds, combing through all of her memories for the name.

"I- uh. You didn't- or you did, but not- not in person." Jon starts squirming away from her, but moves back a moment after realising the pull. "He's Gerard Keay, remember the statements he was in?"

"...The guy with the bad dye job? Casually shells out five thousand quid for a book? Shows up burned to a crisp at a hospital to tell the nurse cryptic shit?"

Jon snorts, and Sasha smiles. It's always been hard to make him outright laugh, so especially with the current circumstances it's a bit of a victory.

"Give him a break, he was trying his best," Jon says fondly after he sobers up. His smile turns a bit sad then, after his words. "He always is."

Sasha arches an eyebrow. There's a lot to unpack in that look, but first things first.

"So he came back?" She asks. "I remember he was supposed to be dead, did he fake it, or is he like us?"

"Like you and me, dear," Helen answers before Jon can.

"...What's the difference?"

"Helen is not exactly an avatar," Jon sighs. "She- the Distortion is a creature of the Spiral. Like- like the Not Them were to the Stranger. It was never meant to have a physical form, it was only by Gertrude's doing that it became tied to Michael, and later Helen. She didn't choose to become an avatar, she was just... made by the entity. Like you, or Gerry."

"So I'm even more monster-y than you, got it." Sasha gives him a dry stare that Jon responds with a small sheepish grin, and she huffs. "So which one remade him?"

"Beholding," Jon says, and his eyes flash green briefly as if in recognition.

Sasha gives him a long, searching look. His face is... his whole expression is a bittersweet tableau, his lips curled in the same sad smile from a bit ago.

She nudges his knee with her cheek. "What's the story there?"

Jon sighs, deflating like a balloon under the sun.

"It's- Gerry's kind. Good," he starts, giving her a firm' look like he's daring her to disagree. "I- I didn't ask for him to be- if I'd been given the choice, I would've chosen to let him have his rest, because he deserves it."

"But?" Sasha asks, because this all sounds like Jon is trying to convince himself rather than her.

He gives her a look then, a little bit lost, a little bit guilty. "But I don't regret that he was brought back, Sasha. I don't regret him, or anything that has happened since then. I know the kind of person that makes me, but-"

"Hey," Sasha interrupts him, looking up at him from the uncomfortable, well-loved cradle of his bony knees. "What happened to you, Jon?"

The sad, sheepish smile comes back with a vengeance, making Sasha's chest ache for him.

"Fell in love. Ended the world."

"Well, that escalated quickly. Anyways, I can't wait for you to introduce me to your cryptic mall goth boyfriend." She smiles back at Jon's little snort. "Okay. So... so Tim came back from the dead. You came back from the dead. You brought someone else back from the dead-"

"Technically it was the Beholding-"

"Yes yes yes," Sasha waves the correction away. "What about Martin? Is he alright?"

"As alright as he can be," Jon sighs. "he was... Pretty angry at me when I left them, I think."

"Them?" Sasha arches an eyebrow.

"Him and Gerry. I- they were still at the house. I don't know if-"

"Wait. The house?" She asks, and Jon blinks back at her a little owlishly.

"Our- well, not ours I suppose, it's Daisy's. But I don't think she's in any state to ask for it, and Gerry's garden is-"

"Jon?"

"Yes?"

"Why does Martin live with you and your boyfriend?"

"Uhm-" Jon's skin is dark enough that it's always a bit hard to tell when he's blushing, but Sasha knows him, and her suspicions are only confirmed when Helen chuckles behind him.

"I think that story will need a few more stops to tell, but it's pretty amusing if you ask me."

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

"This is- what is this?" Martin asks. Nestled down innocently at the bottom of an unassuming valley, the construction spins and spins, and faint pipe music echoes around, eerie and alluring in equal measure.

"Don't try to make sense of it." Gerry shrugs, giving his hand a squeeze.

"On the nose, is what it is," Tim grumbles on Martin's other side, and Martin snorts.

"Is it really? Technically, carousels are more of a carnival thing, not necessarily circus-y, are they?"

"Wow," Tim deadpans, "I didn't know Jon was contagious."

Martin feels his lips curl into a sad smile. Jon is a sensitive topic with Tim at the best of times, and this is far from it. Of all the territories they could've come across this is definitely the worst one, and Martin knows too much by now to even consider the thought that it's a coincidence.

"We don't have to get close to it," Gerry is saying now, pulling Martin out of his reverie. "We'll just cross, move on to the next, right Martin?"

Tim remains quiet, his wax skin rippling like water about to boil, his bright orange gaze fixed on the carousel where faceless figures chase after one another with no rhyme or reason as to who's prey or predator anymore.

This feeling isn't new, comes the sad realisation. Time and time again, the Stranger has torn Tim's life apart right when he's managed to piece it together again. This is what's worst about the entities, isn't it? It was the Desolation that claimed Tim's humanity, but the unknown will never stop haunting him.

Gerry's hand squeezes his again, a bit more insistently this time. Martin blinks, and looks sideways to find Gerry's seafoam gaze focused on him.

"Martin?"

"I- yep. Just walk right past it, I never did like carousels anyways. Never got what the fun was in just spinning around with all the folks staring at you."

That startles a laugh out of Tim at least, rips his eyes away from the spinning behemoth for an instant.

"You don't like rollercoasters, you don't like carousels... you'd be a pretty lousy carnival date, huh?" Tim's attempt at a joke is weak, but it's there; it's a lot better than the haunted look from a moment ago.

"The ferris wheel at sunset sounds pretty nice," Martin shrugs, before adding pointedly, "you know, in case anyone wants to keep it in mind."

It has the desired effect of making both men snort, and Gerry squeezes his hand a third time, slowly and fondly like he doesn't even care Martin's skin is only barely tangible.

"Subtle."

And Martin, with the Lonely condensed in his stomach like an empty void, would love nothing more than to shake himself free and disappear, when faced with the brunt of these emotions aimed at him. Instead, he squeezes back a bit tighter, because some things are worth the hurt.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he grins. "Let's go then."

The walk down the valley is a lot shorter than it looked; distances are not really a thing anymore, always just the right length to be frustrating.

True to their word, they try to stay as far from the carousel as the domain will allow them, which is to say, not far enough. The figures -he victims , Martin reminds himself- reach out to them with begging hands, never longer than an instant before the slow spin of the gargantuan machine takes them away.

"Do you remember that time-" Martin starts, before letting his voice fade. What would he even bring up? Not the little tidbits Tim mentioned about Danny, their childhood games, the excursions that would lead to his loss. Not the memories of the four of them during the early archives days, before Sasha was taken and Jon was sent down a road he could neither see nor escape. Not the days at his flat during the past year, after Tim's mockery of a resuscitation, when his hatred and sorrow forced his tired heart to beat again. He doesn't know anything about Tim that wouldn't cause him much more pain, he realises with a start. Just enough familiarity to hurt, never to heal.

It's infuriating, to think he's all that Tim has anymore.

"You kept my flat after I left, didn't you?" Martin asks instead. "Be careful; I had a couple break-ins when I was living there," he adds. The attempt at humour tastes somewhat bitter on his tongue, but Tim's mouth twitches a little at the remark.

"That happened to a friend once," Tim says after a moment, trying to drown the sound of the victims. "Sod always had terrible taste, ended up moving in with the intruder."

"Well, who knows? Maybe the intruder was surprisingly charismatic," Martin says. Gerry nudges his shoulder with his own.

"I can guarantee he isn't," Tim snorts this time, and Martin smiles.

"I don't know Tim, I think you may be biassed." The carousel extends for many yards still, but it's- it's fine. They don't have to walk around it, their path is just a tangent to this circle of lies, and they'll leave it behind soon enough. "I find that he makes really good conversation."

"I don't think I've ever been on one of these, you know?" Gerry takes the cue flawlessly, albeit... weirdly.

"Never?" Martin arches an eyebrow. "They're fairly common."

"My mom wasn't really the fun carnival day type," Gerry shrugs, "maybe my dad took me on one, but I would've been too young to remember."

"And you never wanted to take a day trip on your own?" Martin asks, and Gerry snorts.

"Bit too old for that then, I think dear."

"Your boyfriend was riding carousels at twenty three, I doubt anyone would've judged you," Tim cuts in dryly, and both of them turn to look at him in surprise.

"Jon?" Martin asks, at the same time Gerry asks "He was?"

"Once, after he and Georgie broke up." Tim's shoulders jump in a sharp shrug; he looks uncomfortable rather than angry though, and it doesn't escape Martin that this is the first time Tim's brought up Jon on his own. "He told me back in research, before- before Sasha transferred."

Oh.

The next few steps go by in silence, and Martin reflects on that statement, and all the things contained in it.

A time where these two trusted each other, when the biggest problem between them was a misplaced folder, and both of them were healing. Hoping to heal. None of them with the slightest inkling of the storm brewing over their heads from the moment they signed their name on the dotted line of the contract.

"...I wonder what animal he rode. Did he tell you?" Gerry's voice breaks the silence, and Martin snorts.

It's... it's very Gerry, to focus on the little details of the people he loves, instead of the past gone by. It makes a lot of sense considering the life he's lived.

"I- don't think he did?" Tim blinks. "I'd bet on the-"

"Cat," Martin says along with him, smiling. "If you ask me, that sounds like the healthiest coping mechanism he's tried."

"I don't know," Gerry leans over, hooking his chin on Martin's shoulder. "There was this really good period when he was moping about you ignoring him, I made him coffee and he read me definitions off the dictionary."

Martin laughs. It catches on his chest a bit; he's- he's laughed so little, since the world changed. It burns the Lonely inside him, but it's worth the effort to turn his head and lay a soft kiss on Gerry's cheekbone. "Very romantic."

"Jon doesn't even like coffee," Tim groans from his other side. "You know? I think this might be my personal tor-"

"Nice of you to visit, big bro," says a voice to their left, and Tim freeze s.

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

The man that now traverses the Corpse Routes does it with a single, firm certainty.

He will die.

Like everyone else that came before him, and everyone else that will come after, he's not exempt from mortality, and he doesn't shy away from the fact, though that doesn't mean he isn't terrified by it.

He wouldn't be here otherwise.

He fears not the inevitability of the deed itself, but the thick veil of the unknown draped over it like a shroud.

The man was implacable before the change, month after month he visited a new specialist, tolerating the pinching and the pricking and the judging in an attempt to find what would it be. What would take him? Would it be his lungs, his heart, his brain? Or would it come from the outside, he'd think as he clicked on yet another news website to see just what tragedy had taken many like it would surely one day take him.

This quest was never guided by the burning determination of those who desire to live, but rather the desperation of those who wish to be rid of uncertainty, those for whom the wait is a lot more painful than the blow.

In a similar vein, the man poured years of his life into trying to resolve the question that has plagued humanity since the first time a loved one was checked with worry, and found stiff and cold to the touch.

What is it that comes after the End?

He's been to endless places of worship, listened to wise words from all paths of life, swallowed truth after truth after truth, despairing a little more every time that believing didn't bring forth an Answer. Needless to say, the man never really grasped the true meaning of faith, but then again it was never spiritual peace that he was after, was it? The man sought the answer not in order to avoid a grim fate, or to score himself a few extra points before that unknown assailant inevitably drags him away from everything he knows.

He fought sleep off every night, trying to remain alert until his tired eyes gave up and fell closed, and his last thought was without fail dedicated to whether or not he'd ever open them again. Whether or not he'd ever discover what lays beyond in time to prepared, or if his mind, his life, his very being would just blink out like a lightbulb, never to experience a single thought again, no more idea of what happened to him than he does now.

The route this man follows is a long one, longer than anyone who marches by his side. Terminus feeds on each and every one of the fearful theories the man spins even in this scenario in which When, How and Why are especially useless.

The Coroner watches him -and others- from his post overlooking the domain, though he does not know either how or when the man's route will end. The End hasn't decided yet, and the uncertainty of the man in the face of inevitability is the most delicious feast.

The Archive watches as well, and he- it quietly contemplates the blurred distinctions between the entities that now rule the world in deference to its patron. The man's desperate search for knowledge, for truth, didn't do anything to endear him to the Beholding. His fear of the unknown didn't bring the Stranger or the Spiral running to sink their claws into him. Instead, the man's fixation with his own end, was what dragged him here, to the one path in this new reality that may in time grant him relief from his torment.

Terminus has always been far gentler than its peers...

The Archive- n- no. Not- not the Archive, is it? Is he?

He- he has a name, sometimes. Thoughts of his own, like just now. Questions that go unanswered, or that did, before all this.

It- he has them more often, lately. Murky, unfocused things that barely scratch the surface and can never leave his lips, until the Distortion and the Them place their hands on him.

Or their entire mass, like the- like Sasha's doing right now, clearly taking advantage of the larger body she has today, with a round face and short black hair, pretty much covering Jon as she lays on top of him.

"Was this really necessary?" Jon asks. Then, when he recognizes the throbbing pain at his knee, "did you trip me to the ground?"

"Technically, Helen did." Sasha shrugs, "I want to test how long it takes like this. I think I have to notice if she makes me move my entire body."

"I hardly tripped you too, it was bound to happen when you're going around reciting your little statements as you walk," Helen grins, resting the tip of a sharp finger on his forehead to clear the last remnants of the Web's pull away. "This one feels different, doesn't it?"

"It... does." Jon feels his brow furrow. "There's- I can feel the edges of this domain."

"And?" Sasha asks, squirming to slip an arm under hers and Jon's bodies for extra safety.

"And there's-" the realisation hits him so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that it's all he can do to turn his wide eyes towards Sasha. "Sa- there's- there's less people by the end of the domain, than there is by the beginning."

Sasha blinks and gives him a flat stare, and Jon kind of remembers that expression; it's nice to know that was real, even if the Not Them stole it. "That's not as telling as you think it is, Jon."

Jon smiles sheepishly as the dryness in her tone. "Sorry. It's just- Sasha, people are not supposed to die anymore. They're supposed to suffer forever, this is how this works-"

"Lovely."

"-but if there's less humans once this domain ends... that means they're-"

"Dying," interrupts a voice that is most definitely not any of Sasha's. A voice that, perhaps very tellingly, Jon remembers in a dreamy, confused haze. "And that is exactly what I wished to talk to you about, Jon. If I can still call you that, I mean."

Sasha's gone stiff over him, and Jon stretches his neck to look over her shoulder. "Oliver Banks," he says in lieu of greeting as he crosses glances with the other avatar.

Oliver arches a thick eyebrow, pointedly looking down at Jon's current situation. "I- should I ask?"

"I'd rather you didn't," Jon huffs, "but if you're still in Anabelle Cane's good graces, I'd appreciate you telling her I can walk on my own."

The man snorts at that. "I find that she very rarely is satisfied with the pace one chooses to move at. Will- can you get up, or will we have to talk with them holding you down all the time? I don't think I've ever seen you on your feet."

"Please don't say it like tha-"

Sasha shifts and twists on top of Jon, pulling him this way and that until she's sat behind him, her arms criss-crossed over Jon's chest as she holds him in front of her like a barrier, and Jon sees Oliver's frame stiffen as Sasha looks up at him in the body that once belonged to Graham Folger.

"I know you."

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

The hunter snarls softly in irritation as it drops its latest kill, a small woman that tastes of running at full speed across an open field.

It's not the first of her kind the hunter has killed, though the last one was a long time ago. Back when it hid its claws and fangs, and it had a name and a pack.

The thought -the hunter is not too used to those anymore- leaves behind a sharp pang of hurt in its stomach, and it shakes its head trying to rid it again of the scent of coconut, the muted buttery yellow of a soft headscarf. She who hunts them isn't pack, or she would stand by the hunter's side and soothe the deep-seated rage that smolders inside its stomach.

There's smoke in the hunter's nostrils, and it huffs and puffs to clear it away too. The mere thought of fire makes it angrier, and it can't pin the reason why.

It remembers it feels personal, an injury close to its heart. A burn-smooth hand clinging to it in the depths of the pit, and the bitter understanding of its own stupidity, its own hypocrisy.

They weren't pack back when it happened, but the hunter should've made it right when it had the chance.

If the one that hunts them isn't pack because she does not stand by them, what does that make of the hunter, that let her own get hurt and then didn't avenge their pain?

Smoke and suffering prickles and burns in her nose, and the hunter's snarl deepens.

The great Eye in the sky follows the hunter's movements, as she changes directions abruptly to finally follow the scent of fire.

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

The man that stands before them is wrong .

His dark hair reflects the light like a cheap plastic wig, his skin is just the slightest bit too tight, his full lips pulled into a sneer like someone who's heard what a smile is supposed to look like, but didn't understand it well enough.

Coupled with the fact that he looks like an off version of Tim, it's not hard for Gerry to figure out his identity- or rather who he's supposed to be.

"I don't- you're- you're not him," Tim says.

"Oh?" says the skin of Danny Stoker, stretched thin over its plastic frame. "And whose fault is that, big brother?"

"Don't listen to it Tim," Martin cuts in firmly when Tim flinches. "You know what this is. What it want-"

"All I wanted was for you to come with me that night, Tim. But you were... what was it? Too tired? Too worried about getting caught?"

The mannequin takes a step towards them, and Gerry moves to stand on Tim's other side, feeling the Eye bristle and come to life under his skin. The Ceaseless Watcher holds no love for the Stranger, and they once fought over Tim.

"Fuck off," Tim snarls. His shoulders are stiff, a muscle on his jaw twitching with stress. "Get back to the carousel, or I'll-"

"You'll kill me?" Danny smiles again, even more unsettling than last time. "A bit too involved for you, isn't it? I'm honoured, at least this time I wouldn't die alone."

Tim's skin is starting to bubble at his temples and the edges of his mouth, and every deep breath he takes in seems to make the air around them hotter.

"What are you even doing here?" He tries. "I thought- I thought Grimaldi ate you just like that."

"It's easier to believe that, isn't it?" the puppet grins. Like the smile before, it's meant to be unsettling and it delivers on that front. "Just a quick flash of pain, and sweet little Danny's gone forever... Did that help you sleep at night?"

"Can you do something?" Martin leans forward to look at him, and Gerry grimaces.

He... could.

The Eye has made it no secret that it's pleased with him for serving his purpos e, and that in this new world Gerry's firmly under its protection and patronage. He could do something, he thinks as he looks at the puppet passing for Danny. The Beholding thinks it's some sort of poetic justice, that Gerry suffered so much in life, and now he gets to not only See his victim's past pain, but force them to relive it too, to feel it all over again until it destroys them.

Gerry mostly thinks it's a bit patronising, and entirely useless in a situation where he doesn't want Tim to watch his brother's lookalike bending under the weight of all the regrets and wrongs Daniel Stoker ever had or made in life.

"It- not here. It wouldn't work."

"What do you me-"

"Oh, we fed on him for days , you know?" The thing keeps saying. "Stripped him of everything bit by bit, skin and memories and secrets, and you know what the best part is?" Danny grins. "He didn't ask for you at all.'

"Stop."

"He knew how you were, poor dear Danny, his big brother too much of a selfish coward for him to have any hope of you saving him even as he lay dying, as we ate him-"

"It's not the thing that took your brother, Tim," Gerry says as calmly as he can, taking a short step away from the searing heat Tim's emitting as the Eye provides the information. "It just looks like it. It's how this works; it's showing you the ones the Stranger took from you, it's trying to get a rise out of-"

"Well, it's working !" Tim snaps, whipping around to face him.

It's objectively a good thing, because at least that means he's not paying attention to the puppet, but it also serves to confirm just how out of it Tim is, his eyes glowing like burning coals, his skin bubbling and melting off his frame at the corners of eyes and mouth.

Gerry's abruptly reminded that he doesn't know Tim nearly well enough to help calm him down, and he Knows with the certainty given to him by his status, that if Tim loses control now they're never getting him back; he just can't let that happen, can't let him lose himself to his patron now that they're en-route to fix this whole mess.

Gerry grits his teeth. "Hey, try to think of-"

"I'm actually surprised it was so effective," the puppet smirks.

"On me," he tries again, reaching out to yank on Tim's shoulder when he makes to turn back, and regretting it pretty much immediately as the boiling wax sticks to his skin, and fuck , he'd forgotten how much it hurt. "It's not worth-!"

"I would've gone for Sasha, but then I remembered you don't even know what she looked-"

And then his voice is gone, just like that.

The only thing breaking the silence left behind is thEir heavy breathing, and the eerie music of the carousel and the strange, fading echo of what might've been a scream.

The two of them whip around to face the empty space where the puppet used to be, only to find a swirling of mist and a mostly transparent-

"Mar- what did you do?!"

"Don't," Gerry grunts out through the pain when Tim makes to move again. "Breathe."

"Let go of me," Tim grumbles. He sounds- hurt. Agitated. Through his connection with the Eye, Gerry can sense just how much of it is humiliation at once again having the Stranger drag out what he thinks are his biggest failures. Wrong as it may be, he can't bring himself to care too much, not now that he's not in immediate danger. Tim has those who can comfort him, and he's not one of them.

"I can't. Maybe once you cool down a little."

Tim bristles, his eyes glowing just the slightest bit brighter and a new wave of pain flares through his hand. "Was that a fucking jo-"

"It really wasn't," Gerry has the presence of mind to notice how even when he's in excruciating pain, he mostly sounds tired. He should talk to someone about that. "In fact, I don't think I'll be doing anything with this hand in a bit, let alone letting you go."

"I- what- oh, fuck !" Tim flinches, when he looks down to see his arm mostly melted around Gerry's throbbing, bright-red hand. "Shit, I-"

"It's fine. I'm already losing feeling on it. Just calm down." Gerry shrugs. Now to deal with more pressing matters. "Martin? Are you with us?"

It takes a while, but Martin's faint voice thankfully reaches them, though his silhouette is still hard to see amongst the mist.

"Turns out the Lonely's still a thing. Or at least something I can do, it seems like," he says, quiet and far-off like a whisper over water. "I'm sorry, Tim. It was the only thing I could think of."

"Worked like a charm," Gerry responds after it becomes evident that Tim won't. His hand lost all feeling minutes ago, but the heat emanating from the man's body is starting to subside, so with some luck they may be able to unstick soon. "You held up good, considering everything," he turns to Tim.

"I... I know it was lying. I want it to be a lie." Tim's voice is hoarse with emotion, and Gerry aches for him a little.

"The Stranger lies," he says simply, and that is all he will say on the matter. The true extent of Danny Stoker's suffering is a secret he'll keep to himself, as is the fact that he did, in fact, call for his brother with his dying breath.

Some knowledge must be kept secret, despite his patron's convictions.

"It will not hurt you again," Martin's echoing voice reaches them again. Gerry doesn't know if he means the specific puppet Martin sent into the Lonely or the Stranger as a whole, but he doesn't doubt the declaration anyways. Martin's eyes are visible through the mist, and they're cold .

"Don't leave?" Gerry asks; the slight pleading in his voice may be somewhat underhanded, but he'll do whatever it takes.

"...I'm not planning to," Martin responds after another long moment. "Will your hand be okay?"

"I suppose it'll heal? I may not be Jon, but I'm still a monster of the Eye, I'm bound to have some special privileges."

"Don't say that," Martin huffs, and his form becomes a bit clearer. "You're not a monster of anything."

Gerry feels his lips curl softly into a smile. With the remaining nerves in his hand, he feels Tim pull away slowly until his skin peels off of Gerry's melted palm.

"Sorry," he mutters, his gaze glued to the ground.

"At least you only did the one hand. Molina went for a full hug." Gerry looks down at his burned hand curiously. The skin is already trying to regenerate, and he hopes it will finish healing before the nerves grow back. He also hopes the nerves will grow back, of course. "We should keep moving; now that this place has messed with us, it should be about ready to let us out."

"Is that how it works?" Martin asks as he takes a step closer -but not too close- to them. "If we hadn't feared the Stranger, we would've been trapped here forever?"

"I doubt it, because we're not afraid of the Stranger," Gerry answers as he starts walking again. Getting Tim away from this thing can only be beneficial.

"...so we can only be trapped here if we fear the Stranger, but we can also only cross this place if we fear the Stranger?" Martin's dry voice brings Gerry's smile to a full grin.

"Makes perfect sense if you ask me."

"I was going to thank Tim for not burning you to a crisp, but I'm not so sure anymore," Martin's silhouette grows a little more visible, and then some more when Gerry blows him a teasing kiss. "You stop that."

"What is that?" Asks Tim's exhausted voice.

"What- oh," Gerry stops short a few feet of the... Formation? Three stones of decreasing size, piled one on top of the other, and between the second and third-

"Gerry-"

"Shit." He launches forward before Martin can get another word out; he doesn't- the Eye didn't give him a heart when it brought him back, but Gerry's chest still feels impossibly heavy and tight as he shoves the smallest stone off the pile. Below it is a soft green hoodie, folded neatly in a square with the off-white, slightly chewed-up zipper on the front. It's not his, but Gerry has worn it his fair share of times since moving into the cottage, and the last time he saw it- "Martin."

Martin's still translucent hand comes to rest on the hoodie, his fingertips passing straight through the soft green fabric before he pulls back. "W- do you think he left this for us?" He asks, and the hope in his voice is almost painful to hear.

Gerry lets out a slow exhale, crouching before the makeshift cairn. Is- if Jon left this, if Jon is trying to communicate... then he's still fighting. He's still trying .

"... I'll go on ahead," Tim says, and it's only then that Gerry notices how long the silence has stretched for. "Won't go too far."

Martin waits until Tim's steps have faded, before sitting down next to him.

"We'll get him back," he says. His fingertips pass through Gerry's knee like they did through the hoodie, and it's a bit startling how it feels like nothing , Gerry decides.

"I know we will."

Silence.

"It's been different, hasn't it?" Martin says.

"It hasn't. It's the Lonely speaking," Gerry responds perhaps a bit too quickly. It is the Lonely, it-

"It's not bad to admit it." Martin's echo-y voice cuts into his thoughts. "Like I said, we'll get him back."

But Gerry can read between the lines of what Martin is saying, has grown to know Martin enough in the past few months, and he doesn't like what he's hearing.

"I don't know about you," Gerry starts slowly. It feels like that night so long ago at Jon's flat, trying to phrase things in a way that wouldn't send him sprinting like a spooked horse. "But I don't think different is bad. We're... adjusting. But I don't need Jon here to want you. I was hoping you'd know that by now."

"I did. I do." Martin sighs, and out of the corner of his eye Gerry sees him get more and more solid, and feels the weight of his hand on his knee. "It's still a bit hard to forget this only started because of him."

"Things rarely start and end the same way, don't they?" Gerry shrugs before awkwardly unfolding the hoodie single-handed, and pinning it under the burnt hand's elbow to pull the zipper down. It may be a bit on the nose, but it's still worth it to see Martin come back to his full colours -and then some-, when he starts slipping the garment on. "I'm going to need some help with the other sleeve, if you could?"

"You're ridiculous," Martin's voice is soft, when he goes to gently stretch the cuff open so Gerry can slide the damaged hand through without scraping it against the cloth.

"Like I keep telling Jon, it's far too late to send me back," Gerry grins.

Martin doesn't say anything else, but he zips up the hoodie to just below his chest, before leaning in to press a kiss on his forehead, and Gerry's pleased to notice his lips are far from cold on his skin.

#vit writes #jongerrymartin #illicio #jgm

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